#* ── dealing in your secrets. : inbox.
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munday questions !! accepting.
@radiokill sent ── What people make you happy when you see them on the dash?
all of my mutuals ::) no but there's so many !! here's a bunch that i love & this is also a rec to follow them if you aren't already :
YOU ( @radiokill ) , @jizzlords , @nokia56 , @r-adio , @koccodrillo , @maruchmyuzu , @k1ttyb0t , @chthonicrage , @g1utton , @xluciifer , @lilithisms , @an7el , @voxistem , @diistortion , @helhime , @vanaglcria , @cttncndi , @videoaux , @origiinis , @redemptsin & @pridefell + plenty more !! if i follow you , i love seeing you on my dash. ♡
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Hi! 🩷
Welcome to my blog! You can call me Lovi/Lovifie or any nickname 🩷🩷
Request are closed at the moment, but my inbox is always open for asks and chats 🩷
Also on AO3 (working on uploading)
Add you username if you would like to be added to the tag list - Please check this before writing your name
I post mostly NSFW stuff, and I don't feel comfortable with minors interacting with it. Please, put your age on your bio or something so I can check you are in fact old enough to read it.
My dear anons 🫠, 🍰, 🫀 and 🦝
Hope you enjoy it!
❤️🔥Smut❤️🔥 🌸Fluff🌸 🤔Suggestive🤔💡Interactive💡
✨One-Shot✨ 📖Series📖 🎭Crack🎭 💧Angst💧
No One Needs to Know... Right? ❤️🔥✨
Nasty Young Price ✨❤️🔥
Price meeting your parents for the firt time ✨🎭
Him with a wheelchair user partner ✨🌸
Mr. & Mrs. Price ✨🌸❤️🔥
Price and his lovely caddy girl ✨❤️🔥
Accidentally Kidnaping Mafia Boss Price ✨🌸
Her Royal Highness 📖💧🌸❤️🔥
Hormones Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 🤔❤️🔥📖
Spidey 📖💡
Switch Bodies 📖🌸 First Morning 🌸 Meeting Soap 🌸💧
Simon Riley is a Good Man ❤️🔥✨+ Soap is a good man in the reblogs
Boyfriend!Simon learning about himself 🎭🤔✨
Immortal!Ghost x Reader that always comes back 💧✨🤔
Simon Riley always loved your hair ✨🤔🌸
"Simon" 💧✨
Simon with a big titties and tiny titties girlfriend ✨🤔
Insecure about their hands reader ✨🌸
Simon learning about your childhood - Extra bit - Extra x2 ✨🌸
New dad Simon ✨🌸
A Village Apart ✨❤️🔥
Simon “I Will Never Be A Father” Riley ✨🌸❤️🔥
Simon and his lipstick ✨🌸❤️🔥 alterative ending ✨🌸
A Ghost Of The Past ✨🌸❤️🔥
Gaz finding his soulmate ✨🎭🌸
Manipulative Gaz ❤️🔥✨💧
Break Up 💧✨/📖
Competitive Gaz ❤️🔥✨
Back Home ✨❤️🔥🌸
Valeria's different approach to interrogation ❤️🔥✨
Little Red Riding Hood ❤️🔥✨
Soap's Diary (mumbling)
Him with a wheelchair user partner ✨🌸
Johnny's work out routine ✨❤️🔥
Soap, who steals something more than your heart (darkishh)✨
Price's secret weapon ✨🤔
¿Hambre, mi niña? ✨❤️🔥
Poly 141 x Reader
Shitposting and Jokes I have Proudly Posted 🎭
Lift Me Off My Feet (Poly 141 x Reader) 📖❤️🔥🌸💧
COD Boys Try Sexy Roleplay ✨❤️🔥🎭
What kind of nasty each man is? ✨❤️🔥
141TF Men and what piece of clothing they would steal ✨🌸
Little comforting bit (Poly 141 x Reader) ✨🌸
Soap x Ghost x Reader
Well, I Wasn't On That Tunnel (Ghoap x Reader) 📖❤️🔥💧
Ghost finding out about you and Soap's little deal ✨❤️🔥
Other
1K Event Choices
Price x Gaz
An Offer You Won't Refuse ✨❤️🔥
#call of duty#call of duty smut#masterlist#ghost x reader#captain price#john soap mactavish#kyle garrick#call of duty imagine#cod imagine#poly 141 x reader#poly tf141#cod#modern warfare#call of duty modern warfare
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Hii !! From the smut prompts (stop rolling your eyes, I know Im predicatable!) could I request "Accidentally Sending Nudes", "Sexting" and... a secret third thing (the choice is yours, go hogwild) for Jason x Fat Fem Reader? I'm leaning more towards sub!reader but shes def a little shit about it :3
Thank you in advance if you write it !! 🌼
See, this is why it pays to send in a request with me, because even if I don't answer it right away, I keep requests in my inbox for months and come back to them later!!! (This is from December 2023)
(Also this request is just plain fun) (because Star knows exactly what buttons to push to get me lmao)
DC Titans Requests - OPEN
How would Jason react to you accidentally sending him a nude?
(Jason Todd x Fem!Thick!Reader)
Warnings: set specifically in the Titans!verse - set during season 3/mentions of season 3 plot points; spoilers for major plot points of Titans (including character deaths on the show); this is kind of enemies to lovers? (enemies to fwb, I guess); the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; the reader is described as being fat/plus sized; passing mentions of Gar x reader (I couldn't help myself); dubious consent - because of the nature of the trope, Jason sees the reader naked without her explicit consent, and he decides to keep the picture without her consent - but it does spark a consensual sexual relationship between them; passing mention of using nudes for blackmail (that does not happen); this isn't really proofread; (generally, I consider this post to be a fucking mess because it was written in Tumblr but I was still trying to have fun with it lmao.)
...
Jason is minding his own business when it happens.
(For once in life, he is fully, completely, minding his own business.)
He's back in Gotham and he hasn't seen you in months - and if asked, he would say that he hasn't thought about you. He doesn't have time to think about you because he's been too busy with this therapy bullshit, training, trying to get back his title of Robin. Trying to get back in the cape. (And trying to get back in Bruce's good graces.)
But that's not exactly true. He's thought about you a lot.
(Most of those times have been with his hand around his cock, but again - he won't admit that.)
There is an occasional time that you cross his mind and it's because he's wondering genuinely how you're doing - wondering if you're well, how your training is going, wondering if you're doing okay under the Dickhead's reign. But he can't ever pluck up the courage to text you and simply ask. Because that would be admitting that he cares, and that would make him look like a weak little prick.
And that's why he's so damn surprised when you text him first.
He hasn't heard from you since he left the Tower (well, since he stormed away from Donna's funeral in what you called a 'toddler fit' - something that ended in a rather vicious text argument between the two of you). In fact, the last thing in the text history between the two of you is you calling him a 'giant, petty, whiny baby who can't deal with his own emotions'.
(You had no clue what had happened between him and Rose, so that did inform a lot of your opinion on the matter.) (And that was probably the reason why Rose still had all of her teeth after you had seen her at the funeral.)
But all of that was aside from the point.
The point being - Jason found himself smiling when your contact name popped up on his phone.
He has you in his phone as 'Pretty Girl' - along with a contact picture of you sticking your tongue out at him in response to having his phone shoved in your face with the knowledge that he was taking a picture of you. (That tongue always makes him think certain things, so even though you intended for it to be some rude thing to ruin the picture, it makes it so much better for him.)
(1) new photo
That instantly catches Jason's attention.
Perhaps you were sending him a picture just to flip him off, or sending him a picture of a dumpster to ask him if it reminded him of home - a common joke you used to make when he still lived at the Tower.
Jason grabbed his phone and opened the message, expecting another tired joke, and-
Holy fuck.
The last thing he was expecting - your naked body. Your gorgeous naked body.
(He likely would have expected a nuclear blast or for the Joker to clean up his act and actually become a decent, sane citizen before he expected this to happen.)
Jason brought his phone closer to his face, making the picture full screen in order to examine it better - he needed to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating, or that this wasn't some weird dream. But fuck, he definitely wouldn't be able to dream up this.
You were so perfect - so fucking perfect in a way that was so very real.
The picture was a fucking stunning side profile of your body - rolling curves, lacy underwear that could clearly barely contain your impressive hips with sweet little stretch marks jutting out from the fabric (jagged little marks across the softness of your skin that made Jason want to act up) - soft fat for him to grab onto, and the perfect teardrop shape of your breast, now bared to his eye in a way that he had only dreamt of before. Something that he had stared at through the oversized tee shirts you wore to bed without a bra, just wondering what you looked like underneath.
And fuck, this was so much better than anything he could have dreamt up.
Jason's cock began to harden almost instantly, and laying in bed, he reached over to his nightstand for some lube, ready to milk that picture for all it was worth, when-
His phone buzzed again.
Pretty Girl: 'Delete that.'
Jason hadn't even considered that you had sent it to him by mistake. He had been far too busy enjoying to even consider the intention or the psychology behind it.
So, he took his hand off the waistband of his sweats and texted back the first thing that came to mind.
'No.'
(He didn't hear your annoyed growl on the other end, frustrated at his downright typical Jason behaviour.)
'It's not my fault you made a dumbass mistake. Besides, it's the least I get after all the nagging from you.'
Then, something else came to mind as the bubbles popped up, meaning you were busy formulating a reply - an annoyed one, no doubt.
'Who did you mean to send it to anyway? Who are you fucking whose name starts with J that's not me?'
(You hesitated.)
Pretty Girl: 'I didn't type in J.'
'???'
Pretty Girl: 'I typed in G. And it turns out the first contact that popped up was Giant Baby. That's you.'
Jason felt annoyed and insulted on all levels. The fact that you were going to Tiger Boy for dick instead of him, and the fact that you had used such a mocking contact name for him. But when he realised that such a pathetic string of events had caused him to accidentally see you naked, he couldn't be too upset.
'I'm still keeping the picture 😈'
Pretty Girl: 'You're such an asshole'
Pretty Girl: ...
Pretty Girl: 'You owe me one'
'Fine, I'll owe you one'
Jason shrugged it off, thinking he had won, until -
Pretty Girl: 'No, you owe me a cock.'
This made Jason's stomach jump. You couldn't possibly mean-?
Pretty Girl: ...
Pretty Girl: 'You owe me a picture of your dick. You know - an eye for an eye type stuff.'
Jason wanted to ask questions - what did you plan to do with the picture? Should he shave his balls first? Did you want more than one?
But his cock got even harder at you asking for a picture, at you demanding to see his cock, and he couldn't properly think - he couldn't even reason that you might later blackmail him with the picture.
No, instead, he found himself ripping down his pants and turning on the bedside lamp for good lighting, pumping himself up to peak rigid hardness and grasping the base of his cock in hand. And then, without hesitation, he snapped a picture for you. He made sure to get his abs in the photo - a collection of his best assets, with his pants pulled down to mid-thigh, showing off his tight stomach, the deep V leading down to his dick, and his thick seven inch cock in hand surrounded by some well-kept dark pubic hair.
(He was proud of it - and that ego was one of the things that annoyed you most about him.)
He sent it without hesitation and then you began typing several times and stopped once again. Jason's stomach churned with nerves until -
Pretty Girl: 'Fuck you'
Pretty Girl: 'I thought it would be smaller'
Jason had no clue how to respond to that, and he was busy racking his brain for some clever reply, when -
Oh. Oh fuck.
(1) new photo
You had sent him another picture. And this time it was definitely on purpose.
It was a view between the plump, beautiful thickness of your thighs - your hand was inside the pretty lace of those panties, and your fingers were visible working on your clit while your needy hole dripped wetness onto the fabric.
So you had liked what you had seen.
Pretty Girl: 'What would you do if you were here right now?'
Jason's brain short-circuited then. He thought of so many things - eating your pussy until you screamed, flipping you onto your stomach and fucking you until you begged him to stop, gripping onto those gorgeous thighs, pinning them to your chest and pounding into your cunt until you finally surrendered and said that you had liked him all along, fucking your smart little mouth to finally shut you up-
Pretty Girl: 'Come on, Jay. Don't disappoint me.'
Oh, he won't.
(Another thing Jason won't admit - he came back to the Tower just for you.)
...
DC Titans Masterlist
#star-mum#my lovely moots#requests#requested#sundrop writes#jason todd#jason todd x reader#jason todd x you#jason todd x plus sized reader#jason todd x y/n#jason todd smut#red hood x reader#red hood x you#red hood x y/n#dc titans#titans#dc titans fanfiction#titans fanfiction#titans x reader
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୨୧┊ 𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇. ( lando norris )
ꖛ ─ you’re reading part two ∿ part one
✧.* pairings ─ lando norris x model! piastri! reader
✧.* genre ─ one-shot ⨾ slight angst & fluff
✧.* summary ─ in which Lando has to deal with the consequences of his indirect confession from a few weeks ago, and then finds out that you seem to have a boyfriend. after a crash with your brother and an annoying interaction with your boyfriend, frustration gets ahold of him and he ends up angrily confessing to you…
✧.* warnings ─ mention of crash, jealousy
✧.* mily’s thoughts ─ i got really lazy towards the end lmao but i still hope you guys enjoy <3
it's been weeks since the lie detector challenge where Lando confessed his crush on a mysterious girl, you, and he can't deny that he feels a tinge of regret. the aftermath has been overwhelming. his inbox has been flooded with messages from curious fans asking who his crush is. his friends haven't let him live it down either, teasing him relentlessly. it reached a point where he was even trending on twitter for hours, and the entire formula one community went wild. he’s been avoiding twitter and the comments section of his instagram posts ever since.
he has come across various wild fan theories, some of which are uncomfortably close to the truth. at one point, he stumbled across tweets that suggested you might be his secret crush. they even provided "evidence" in the form of photos capturing moments where he couldn't hide his interest, gazing at you as if you were the stars, no, the center of his entire universe. the sight of those tweets made him feel sick to his stomach. he didn't even realize there were photos of him talking to you, let alone ones that exposed his feelings so blatantly.
he’s incredibly grateful for these two weeks without any races, not having to face you and constantly worrying that you might have seen those tweets. the fear of your potential reaction has been haunting him throughout this entire period. would you feel flattered? no, that’s highly unlikely. you would most likely feel embarrassed. Lando has come across several pictures on Instagram where fans had taken photos of you and some random guy, and it appears that you two are quite close. he has found himself staring at those pictures for minutes on end, his eyes always drawn to the guy's arm, which seems to be permanently wrapped around your waist in those snapshots.
is he jealous? absolutely.
does he have a right to be? absolutely not.
but that doesn't stop him from constantly overthinking. is that blond man in the photos your boyfriend? you've never mentioned him, nor has Lando ever seen him by your side at the paddock before.
Lando lets out a heavy sigh, feeling a mix of anxiety and embarrassment. the last thing he wants to think about is Oscar, his teammate and your brother. the mere thought of Oscar accidentally stumbling upon those fan theories about you being Lando's crush makes him cringe inwardly. it would be beyond embarrassing for Oscar to find out through twitter that his own sister is Lando's crush, especially considering that Oscar had been encouraging him to confess his feelings.
the world of racing can be a whirlwind of emotions and drama, and Lando never expected his personal life to become such a public spectacle. the pressure to live up to fan expectations and media attention can be overwhelming. Lando wishes he could turn back time and undo the confession to save himself and Oscar from this potentially awkward situation.
but for now, all he can do is hope that Oscar hasn't stumbled upon those fan theories or the photos. the embarrassment and tension that would follow such a discovery is the last thing Lando wants to experience. he prays that this situation can somehow be resolved without straining his relationship with Oscar or, more importantly, with you.
but it seems impossible to avoid the strain on their relationship when Lando loses control during the race in austria and accidentally crashes into Oscar's car, causing a double dnf for both of them. fortunately, neither of them is physically injured, but the emotional toll weighs heavily on Lando. as he steps out of his wrecked car, he sees Oscar walking right past him with a tight smile his way. it feels like a punch in the gut, as guilt and anger wash over him like an unstoppable wave.
he can't help but feel ashamed of his stupid mistake, and the weight of it all is magnified when he sees you burst into the room after the interviews and immediately lock Oscar in a worried embrace. the sight of your worried and anxious expression hits Lando hard. it’s a painful reminder that he’s the one who caused this turmoil. he can only watch as you anxiously inquire about Oscar's well-being, and each time Oscar reassures you, telling you that he’s fine.
Lando feels a pang of stupidity as he longs for the day when you will seek comfort in his arms.
a faint smile creeps onto Lando's face as your gaze briefly meets his, and he stands there, seemingly pathetic and alone beside you both. Lando watches you break away from Oscar's embrace, concern painting itself on your features. it's as if you can sense his inner turmoil, even from a distance. he wishes he could find comfort in your arms, but the reality of the situation keeps him trapped in his own self-blame. how could he expect anything else when he is the one who caused this unfortunate turn of events? with a heavy heart, Lando takes a deep breath and tries to regain his composure.
"are you okay?" you ask hesitantly as you try to gauge Lando's well-being. you don't want to seem rude, but you sense that something is wrong. Lando, however, only manages a weak nod and is unable to return your gaze. awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck and replies, "yeah, i'm fine."
but deep down, you both know that's not the truth. the tension in the air is palpable, and Lando's hollow assurances only underscore his underlying turmoil. the weight of guilt, regret, and unspoken emotion weighs heavily on him, and it's obvious he's struggling with it.
as the seconds pass, the unspoken words hang in the air, their presence undeniable. at this vulnerable moment, a part of you longs to reach out to Lando, to be there for him, and to create a space where he can share his problems. the genuine concern in your eyes reflects the care you have for him, and is a silent invitation for him to overcome his defenses and confide in you.
the truth is, however, that the two of you don't know each other well, exchanging only fleeting glances and making small talk from time to time. yet despite the limited interactions, there has always been an inexplicable attraction between you, an invisible thread that seems to bind your hearts.
the moment is abruptly interrupted as the door to the room swings open with a loud bang. Lando's eyes snap to the source of the noise, widening in surprise when he sees the blond guy from the photos entering the room. the guy has a smug grin on his face as he casually walks over to you, trying to lean towards you but you take a step to the side. Lando's stomach churns, and a feeling of nausea washes over him.
his gaze shifts from the already annoying guest to your expression, noticing your discomfort. Before he can even process the situation, the blond guy speaks up again, his tone dripping with arrogance. "that move you pulled back there was really risky, buddy. i thought you were a professional. be careful, or i'll end up taking your seat." the guy's laughter grates on Lando's nerves, and he clenches his teeth, unable to comprehend why you would be with such a jerk. the use of the word "buddy" only intensifies his disdain.
Lando has had enough. all he wants is to escape this unpleasant encounter, forget about this terrible day, and put the image of you with your obnoxious boyfriend out of his mind.
"well, since you seem so confident about replacing me, you should know that taking risks is an inherent part of racing, right?" Lando raises an eyebrow, waiting for a response that doesn’t come. "exactly. there are multiple reasons why i'm the one sitting in the car, not you, buddy."
his voice carries a sharp edge, perfectly matching the forced smile plastered on his face as he brushes past the guy, giving his shoulder a patronizing pat. without saying another word, Lando storms out of the room and, seconds later, out of the McLaren facility. as he steps outside, he curses under his breath. it’s raining and he doesn’t have an umbrella with him. this day can't possibly get any worse, can it?
suddenly, a voice interrupts his frustrated thoughts. "do you need a helping hand?" you're standing there, slightly out of breath, holding an umbrella. it's evident that you must have run after him, but why? Lando stammers, caught off guard by your unexpected appearance and bewildered by the fact that you followed him. "i... no, it's fine." the truth is, it's far from fine, but he's too upset and overwhelmed by everything happening around him to be in your presence right now.
you smile softly, seeing through Lando's attempt to brush off his emotions. "stop lying, i know it's not fine," you assert gently. you find yourself unsure of how to handle an upset Lando since you've never seen him like this before. it feels like he's on the verge of exploding at any moment. "come on, don't be so stubborn. you don't want to get sick, do you? i can walk you to your car with my umbrella protecting the both of us."
Lando scoffs, lightly shaking his head. "i'll pass. your boyfriend is probably waiting for you." he cringes inwardly at the bitterness and extreme jealousy that seeps into his words. there's a brief moment of silence, only the sound of rain filling the air. "why are you jealous?" you ask, genuinely curious. Lando immediately turns red, feeling caught off guard. "tch, i'm not jealous. and now, leave me be. i want to be alone after what happened."
"absolutely not. I'm helping you to your car, and now shut up," you insist firmly, your voice displaying determination. Lando groans, eventually giving in after a few seconds spent in the cold rain. you two walk closely together, somehow managing to fit under your small umbrella. there's silence for a few seconds before you break it again. "why are you jealous?"
Lando rolls his eyes, feeling overwhelmed and increasingly frustrated with the situation, thanks to your lovely boyfriend. "i'm not jealous! i'm just so confused—like, why him!?" he can feel his control slipping away, the frustration and jealousy pouring out along with the rain.
"what do you mean, 'why him'?"
"are you fucking kidding me?!" Lando laughs dryly, shaking his head. "he's an asshole. why would you be with someone like him when you could literally have anyone in the entire world?! i mean, look at you! you deserve so much better than him!"
Lando gets carried away, his voice growing louder and louder as he vents his pent-up frustration and jealousy. as you continue walking towards his car, you remain silent, listening attentively. you realize that he's finally opening up, and it's clear that this is what he needs to do to feel better. so you let him get it all out.
"why do you care so much?" you finally ask, genuinely surprised by the intensity of his emotions, your cheeks reddening. Lando stops in his tracks, searching for the right words as he gazes down at you. "are you serious? why? because... because i like you, i really like you. i've wanted to tell you in a better way, well, that was until i found out that you have this idiot as your boyfriend!"
your mouth hangs open, and you can only stare at him, speechless. "he," you finally manage to say, "he isn't my boyfriend, not anymore." you confess, and now it's Lando's turn to have his mouth hang open.
"but... but i saw so many pictures of you two being together," his voice trails off as realization dawns on him. that blond guy must be the annoying ex that Oscar always complains about, the one who wouldn't leave you alone. "those are most likely old pictures," you give him a small smile. "he's my ex."
"but why was he here, then?" Lando asks, perplexed. you shrug. "i don't know. he probably knew i would come and watch the race. he's still not over me and often tries to win me back, which tends to get really awkward." Lando's mouth forms a small 'o'.
there's a brief pause, and then you break the silence. "so, you like me, huh?" you ask, a playful smirk forming on your face. Lando's cheeks flush, and he scratches the back of his head while looking away, a bashful smile on his lips. "well, yeah, i like you."
a mischievous glint sparkles in your eyes as you continue teasing him. "so, i'm the secret crush you talked about in the recent McLaren video?" you ask, accompanied by a playful wink. you already know the answer, but you can't help but revel in the moment. Lando feels himself relaxing, and he lets out a laugh. "yes, you are," he admits with a genuine smile.
as you resume walking, Lando's car now just a few meters away, you can't resist playfully prodding him further. "so, are you gonna ask me out or something?" you inquire, grinning from ear to ear. Lando chuckles in response. "if you want me to." a chuckle escapes you as you confess, "oh, i've wanted that for months now." Lando's eyebrows raise in surprise. "really?" he asks, seeking confirmation, and you nod, your smile growing wider. there's a brief moment of contemplation before he speaks again, "your brother is gonna kill me." both of you exchange grins, knowing the potential repercussions. you laugh heartily and respond, "he's gonna survive."
∿ people who asked for part two ─ @alilstressyandlotdepressy @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @dakotali @ophcelia @be-your-coffee-pot @81astri @readinsilenceplease
don’t forget to like, comment & reblog (it’s very much appreciated <3).
© milaeth | 2023
#·˚ ༘ ☕️ — mily’s writings !#lando norris#lando norris imagines#lando norris x reader#lando norris fanfiction#lando norris fanfic#lando norris blurb#lando norris one shot#lando norris imagine#lando norris oneshot#lando norris drabble#f1 fanfic#formula one#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#formula one fanfiction#formula one x reader#f1 driver imagines#f1 driver x reader#f1 driver x you#formula one x y/n#x reader
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Hiya I saw your requests were open so I was wondering if we can get a Tim Drake x male reader
The reader is a bigger older guy, like not too older than Tim but reader does have a streak of gray hair due to the stress of taking care of Bruce's dumbass.
Reader is kinda sly and fox like.
Idk why but I can see Tim liking someone older than him
Tim Drake x older male reader
Headcanons
I feel like tumblr has been deleting requests from my inbox, I swear some go missing. This one didn’t though, so here you go.
It’s been a while huh? Who’d have thought getting ready to graduate would be so stressful.
Reader is about Dicks age, so around 26.
You didn’t meet through hero work or anything like that. You were actually the CEO of a larger company called Aces co. It had been in your family for many years, and your father and grandfather had worked with the Waynes.
So, when you took over at 18, you started working with Bruce Wayne, even though you thought him nothing much more than a himbo at the time. Later, when Tim took over, you’d work side by side with the younger man.
One way or another, you learn Bruces secret identity, and soon you end up mixed up in the vibrant and extremely stressful world that is heroes and vigilantes, you’ve lost count how many times you have had to cover for any of the batclan.
You almost burst into tears when you see the first grey hairs appear at your temples. Your father had gone grey much later in life, and here you were, 24 and greying, all because of the bats. Of course, it wasn’t all the bats, running a billion-dollar company was stressful too, but they sure didn’t help.
The media called you the fox prince, because of the sharp look in your eyes and how sly and underhanded you could be, insulting someone straight to their face and they would first realize days later. Or somehow tricking someone into revealing all their secrets to you.
None of the bats can ever seem to reach your level of mingling and information gathering, even Bruce who has been doing it longer than you’ve been alive.
You never become a hero, or a vigilante for that matter, but you do get involved every now and then if needed. You didn’t take over Aces co. for no reason at 18, you have always been a genius, but a sly and cruel one in the eyes of many.
Unlike Bruce, you don’t feel a soul deep duty to save the world and save as many people as possible. You simply do what you can, without putting yourself in too much danger. Which mainly resolves to you gathering too much information, and enough blackmail to have the entire congress of America and the EU buckling under for your whims.
You are an extremely cold and calculated businessman as well, to the point where underhanded companies like Lexcorps won’t work with you because they know you’ll rip them apart and leave them with nothing.
It was your cruel but very effective business methods that drew Tim to you, especially when it turned out you were a lot more friendly behind closed doors. He did get to hear you complain about him and his family a lot, and it gave him a good laugh to see Bruce open a bill for your hair treatments to get rid of your greys.
The alliance between Wayne enterprises and Aces Co. only grows stronger between you two, and you end up closer to Tim than you’ve been any other bat, even Dick, despite the fact that you two are the same age and have been around each other the longest.
It ends with you going out of your way to score the best deals for (Tim) Wayne Enterprises, and Tim finds ways to benefit (you) Aces Co. Its like flirting and foreplay at the same time between very powerful rich businessmen.
For some reason I can imagine most of the batfam is shocked when Tim and you started dating, whilst some of them aren’t surprised at all. Bruce is uncomfortable in the beginning that one of his former business partners is dating his son, until someone (most likely Jason) points out that you aren’t even 30 yet and took over your company the moment you turned 18.
Your relationship is kept a secret for the media, mainly to keep the drama and paparazzi away. You aren’t a very publicly affectionate person, and Tim doesn’t really like mingling with the media if he doesn’t have too, so it’s a win-win.
The two of you don’t go out of your way to be super secretive though, you just aren’t all lovey dovey all over each other. Some people may notice you getting a lot crueler and colder to those trying to cross Wayne Enterprises, and Tim striking down hard on anyone who tries Aces Co.
It’s assumed it’s just cuz you two are both young CEOs who are trying to strengthen the relationship between your companies. All your mutual friends and families knows its cuz you are both protective and a little possessive.
You are most likely the one in the relationship with the most experience since Tim has spent most of his time being a vigilante, so you’ll have to guide him in the beginning. He’s a great and enthusiastic learner though, so Tim probably ends up doing all kinds of research.
He lovingly calls you his old man, or jokingly calls you a cradle-snatcher, since you look older than you actually are cuz of your greys. It probably causes some drama online when your relationship finally gets out, until people are like “He’s literally only 26, he’s just greying early”.
Tim will comfort you when you end up with your face in your hands because of those comments, weeping for your once beautiful and not grey streaked hair. He loves it though, and always tells you.
You tell Tim he likes it cuz of his daddy issues, and he ends up being all “maybe so”. Doesn’t stop him from loving it though, or loving to see that foxlike glint appear in your eyes when you are about to strike on a deal.
#male reader#dc#tim drake#red robin#young justice#tim drake x reader#tim drake imagine#tim drake headcanon#tim drake x male reader#red robin headcanon#red robin imagine#red robin x reader#red robin x male reader#dc imagine#dc headcanon#dc x male reader#dc x reader#young justice imagine#young justice x reader#young justice headcanon#young justice x male reader
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More Neuvillette thoughts, as requested by people in my inbox.
He is a traditional man, and he wants to court you in the proper way that someone as lovely as you deserve. The only problem is that he isn't actually sure of the way humans do so. Sure, he's seen other people do so, but sometimes it ends up in failure and rejection. And he sure does not want to ever see a dissatisfied look from you directed towards him. So Monsieur Neuvillette will head to the library to borrow a book regarding the principles of courtship. (Everyone is sworn to secrecy if they happen to see. Though the Melusines already know who the lucky person is.) He will genuinely start to worry if you don't show signs of reciprocation or happiness so please indulge him, he's trying his best.
Taking him diving. This doesn't really seem like a Neuvillette thing to do but when he's in love with you I believe he will actually consider your suggestions just to please you even if they seem a bit ridiculous. Why diving specifically you ask? Because he looks like an otter and you also want to show him those cute otters in the ocean to prove it. Even before the romance stage, you are probably Neuvillette's first real friend. No one else has the courage to speak to him as openly as you do. And he does not find it disrespectful, no, he realizes that he quite enjoys it. He doesn't realize how lonely he is without you until a mere day passes without seeing you.
Being besties with Furina. If you manage to catch the attention of the grand Chief Justice, you are sure to get the same treatment from the great Archon herself. You may be nervous at first but if you can deal with Neuvillette you can probably see her confidence isn't all that real and something she uses to hide her fears. Regardless just be her friend because Neuvillette is tired of dealing with her. She confides in and trusts the two of you very much. Furina will also let you in on some secrets of the Chief Justice, don't tell him though.
Expect to be spoiled with riches. I mean he is probably really wealthy and you are his lover so isn't it natural for him to treat you to expensive things? Though if you feel overwhelmed by the sheer amount of Mora that he's spending on you just tell him and he will dial it back a bit (just reassure him that you really do love his gifts because he'll probably be a bit nervous that they're not good enough.)
Taking the Melusines out on dates with you and Neuvillette. Both of you are like parental figures to them. It goes from a table for two or a table for a few. It's really cute to see how they eat with their tiny hands, and see how Neuvillette listens to their stories with the utmost seriousness. They will also ask you the questions Neuvillette wants to ask you so he doesn't have to. Also, gently biting and nomming on his pointy ears. Just do it. He's really confused at first (is this what humans do?) but he won't stop you. Moving onto his horns. They are very smooth but I don't think they're hard. You could move and bend them pretty easily which makes it super hard for the judge to keep a straight face. Give them a little kiss too.
Everyone knows this by now but he is an emotional man who keeps his sadness and solitude to himself. Neuvillette doesn't rely on anyone to cheer him up but as time goes on he realizes even the smallest things you do makes him feel better so nowadays you'll have a visitor outside your house in the pouring rain.
#neuvillette x reader#neuvillette#genshin impact x reader#genshin x reader#this is completely self indulgent
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Hi! I'd copy-and-pasted this request into my doc to write it, but now I can't find it in my inbox! I don't think it was anonymous, so if this is your request and it somehow got deleted, I'm very sorry! Thank you for requesting, apologies for the wait, and hope you like it <3
hi love!!! Congratulations on 1,000 followers!!! I absolutely adore your writing and if your requests are open I’d love it if you could right something about poly marauders with a reader who’s non-binary or gender fluid. Maybe they just got together and the reader hasn’t came out to them yet or something. Idk you get all the writing freedom, of course if you don’t want to write it’s totally fine!!! Thanks anyway 🫶💗🫶💗 xoxo
cw: marauders unknowingly misrepresent reader's pronouns+gender
poly!marauders x nb!reader ♡ 1.1k words
“Sirius, no.” Remus rubs at his temples. “I will not mar you with a tattoo gun you bought from some bloke on the street.”
“Oh, don’t be such a wuss,” Sirius complains, sitting spread out on his bed. “It'll be fun, you can all do it!”
“I’m on board,” James says from his own bed. He’s levitating his shoes about the room idly. “Hey Pads, can we draw anything we want?”
Sirius ponders this for a moment. “If you do a dick, it has to be small, and I’m putting an arrow with your name next to it.”
James’ smile fades, and he lets the shoes drop. “You’re no fun.”
“I don’t know,” you say to Remus, looking up at him from your chosen spot on the floor of their dorm. “It’s his body, I say let him cover it in shitty tattoos if that’s what he wants.”
“Yes!” Sirius hops down from his bed to throw an arm around your shoulders, planting a kiss on your cheek. “That’s what I’m talking about, that’s my girl!”
You’d begun to glow at his over-the-top praise, but you dim at the last bit. Sirius must feel it; he looks over at you quizzically as Remus says for the fifth time, “That’s fine, but I won’t have anything to do with it.”
“Well, it’ll…” Sirius’ eyebrows furrow as he continues to watch you. You try to bury your discontent where he can’t see it, but once he catches a whiff of melancholy he becomes a dog with a bone. The levity slowly leeches from his voice. “It’ll be more fun if you all do it…Sorry, sweetheart, is everything alright?”
You don’t want the attention, but you can’t bring yourself to lie. “I didn’t mean to distract you,” you say softly, shoulders hunching forward. “Keep going.”
“No, that’s alright.” His slender fingers squeeze at your shoulder like he can tell you need the comfort. “It’s not actually important. What’s on your mind?”
You want to tell him. You want to tell all of them, you have for weeks, but is there ever a right time? When the boys had first asked you out, it felt too abrupt to say anything, like you were making a big deal out of nothing because they didn’t even know you all that well. But now you’ve turned serious faster than you could’ve seen coming, and they feel like they do know you that well. And the longer you go without telling them, the more like you feel like you’re keeping some dirty secret.
You should have just corrected them the first time they’d gotten your pronouns wrong. Each time feels like someone’s chipping away at your heart with a toothpick, the pain lessened by your surety in their good intentions but still very much there. It’s almost worse, now, to be on the precipice of falling in love with people who you don’t feel really know you, and it’s all your own fault.
This isn’t how you’d imagined the conversation coming about, but it might be the best chance you get for a while.
“I, uh.” You clear your throat, unsure if you should move out from under Sirius’ arm for this conversation but really not wanting to. “I don’t…listen, it’s not your fault, but I don’t really like it when you call me your girl.”
Sirius lets his arm drop to look at you properly, hurt flashing across his features. You take his hand, selfish thing that you are. “I mean it, it’s really not your fault.” It’s more plea than promise. “It’s just that I don’t—I don’t really see myself as a girl. I’m sorry.”
You watch confusion take hold in Sirius’ expression before letting your eyes flit to the other boys. James looks tentatively like he’s beginning to understand, and Remus’ face is carefully controlled. He leans his elbows on his knees, looking down at you.
“What do you mean by that, honey?”
You know the endearment is meant to soften the question, but you get all tense around the middle anyway.
“Just that…” You swallow, and James offers you a small smile of encouragement. “I don’t really see myself as any gender. It’s…it’s called nonbinary, I don’t know if you might’ve heard of it before? I’m really sorry I didn’t say something sooner.”
“Hey, that’s alright.” James kicks a foot out from his bed, nudging your leg gently. “I’m really glad you told us, angel. Thank you.”
You try to return his smile, chewing your lip.
“Merlin, I thought you meant you didn’t want to be our girl,” Sirius sighs, bumping your shoulder with his. “That would have been unacceptable. You can be our something-else, though, if you like.”
This is going well, you tell yourself. They’re being as kind as you’d always expected. Still, you don’t feel like they fully understand what you’re so clumsily trying to tell them.
“I get it if this changes things for you,” you say, and when you lean away from Sirius’ touch, he doesn’t chase you. “I know this is…you signed on for a girlfriend, not this.”
The gentle smile drops from James’ face. His eyebrows twitch together uncertainly. “We…what? No, we didn’t…we didn’t ‘sign on’ for anything like that. We signed on for you.”
“Darling,” Remus says, in that careful, measured voice that you can’t decide if you should be nervous about, “I don’t know a lot about this, so correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the point that you’re still you? You’re just telling us how you’d like to be treated and understood, right?”
You take a second to run over his words in your head before nodding.
Everything about Remus has gone soft, from his eyes to the gentle uptilt of his mouth. “Then James is right. Nothing has changed. I mean, we can make any changes to our relationship that make you more comfortable, but nothing about how much we care for you is any different.”
“And look around you, sweetheart.” Laughter livens Sirius’ tone. “It’s not like any of us are only dating girls.”
A smile tugs at your lips. “That’s a good point,” you mumble, and he laughs, arm reclaiming its spot around your shoulders.
“Yeah, I actually do make those sometimes,” he teases. “Listen, gorgeous, I don’t think anyone here has a problem with you being whoever you are. Just tell us what you like to be called, and we will. And if there’s anything we do that you don’t like,” he adds, giving your shoulder a little squeeze, “you can tell us those things too.”
James nods, emphatic. “Exactly. We want to support you, angel. Thanks for telling us, but just keep talking to us when you can, okay?”
You have to bite down on your lip to contain the full scope of your smile. “Okay,” you promise him, overflowing with a gratitude that feels a lot like love. “Thanks. You guys are too sweet to me.”
Remus makes a pfft sound. “Dove, I cannot believe that is your standard for sweetness. You’ve set the bar far too low.”
#poly!marauders#nb!reader#poly!marauders x reader#poly!marauders x nb!reader#poly!marauders x y/n#poly!marauders x you#poly!marauders x self insert#poly!marauders fanfiction#poly!marauders fanfic#poly!marauders fic#poly!marauders fluff#poly!marauders hurt/comfort#poly!marauders drabble#poly!marauders imagine#poly!marauders scenario#poly!marauders one shot#poly!marauders oneshot#james potter#james potter x reader#sirius black#sirius black x reader#remus lupin#remus lupin x reader#the marauders#marauders era#marauders#marauders fanfiction#marauders fanfic#marauders fic#marauders x reader
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Prompt requests:
1) Price x Reader - abandoned farm / waking up in a random room with no idea who/where/why/how you got there
2) Soap x Reader - forest / dealing with strange natural (or not-so-natural) phenomena
3) Ghost x Reader - the only other car in the abandoned parking lot / being followed
1k game here
i went ahead and just did one of these! i've got several requests in my inbox still, but i might come back and add another one you had later :)
1.7k of your ex-boyfriend ghost catching up with you. no smut!
The car's been tailing you since you left work.
It's a discreet car, and you probably wouldn't have even noticed it if you hadn't run several errands before starting to head home. The driver isn't even trying to be subtle - he never parks more than a spot away from you and he never lets another car get between you and him on the road.
You already know who he is. You hate to admit it to yourself, but you know.
Ghost always was possessive. It's not a leap to think he'd be pissed at the idea of anyone getting close to even your car.
Plus, he probably wants you to know he's following you. He always was a sadistic bastard, always liked the see the pain he was causing.
There's no one you can call for help. You didn't rat him out the first time you ran, and you're not going to now. There's no way you could get the police to keep you safe without telling them all about Ghost and his secrets, and you'd be better of just surrendering to Ghost's wrath at that point.
You take a deep breath and tighten your hands around the wheel.
You can't get help.
You can't run - he's tailing you too closely for that.
You can't fight - you don't keep your gun in your car, and you've never been a match for Simon hand-to-hand.
You pull into a dark parking lot, one that's almost entirely empty save for a few people waiting at the bus stop. You take a few deep breaths as you pull to a stop as far away from the bus stop as you can, trying to prepare yourself for the inevitable confrontation.
The car parks a spot away. Just seconds later, he's climbing out of the driver's side and striding towards you.
You knew it was him. He'd never send a henchman after you, even all these months later with so much distance between the two of you.
He's clothed entirely in black - like he always is on the job, apparently black hides bloodstains best - and comes to a stop right in front of your window, so your just staring into a wall of darkness.
You roll the window down, the awkward silence heavy.
The first thing you notice when he ducks down is that he's wearing the mask. Not the one sewn onto a balaclava, but one with the skull pattern printed onto the balaclava itself.
"Get out," he grunts. His first words to you in nearly a year and they're a command.
You scowl. This is exactly why you ran in the first place.
"No." You try to infuse as much confidence into your voice as possible, but you know you fail.
He huffs. "Love, c'mon, I'm not playing games. Get out of the car."
You shake your head, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white.
"No! I don't have to listen to you - especially when you've been stalking me all day-"
He sighs loudly, and before you can complain he's reaching through the window and opening the door for himself, quickly ducking into your car.
"Hey, stop!" You try, batting away his hands when he unbuckles your seatbelt, pulling you up by the waist until your standing unsteadily against him. "You have no right-!"
"Baby. Shut up." He growls, reaching around you to tug the key out of the ignition, the hand around your waist affording you no wiggle room.
"Don't you tell me to shut up!" You complain, pushing against his chest as he starts to nudge you in front of him. "I haven't had to deal with you in nearly a year and the first things you think to say to me are an order and shut up? Fuck you, asshole!"
There's a low chuckle at your back, and he turns you around to pin you to the car. Your breath hitches as he presses your chests together, ducking low enough that you can't look anywhere but his eyes.
"I missed you," he says, low and secretive.
God, you wish you could hate him. Everything would be so much easier if you hated him.
"Let me go," you say, forcing sternness into your voice.
"No."
"I'm serious," you try, pushing at the center of his chest. He only uses the pressure as an excuse to lean closer, draping himself over you.
"I'm serious too, love. You're never leaving my line of sight again."
You shut your eyes against the wave of longing that brings. He used to talk like that all the time, back before you realized how deep he was in his life of crime.
Gonna keep you forever, love.
Might chain you to the bed. Keep you safe at home, make sure I always know where you are. Little fuckdoll waiting at home for me, hm?
Never letting you leave me. Never.
I can't stand to be apart from you, love. It feels like I'm missing a limb.
You can't leave - you know that, don't you? I'll hunt you down, baby. This isn't a relationship you can get away from.
Simon was always a little possessive, a little controlling. Sometimes it got you off, and sometimes it scared you. In the weeks leading up to your escape, it did a lot more of the latter.
"We're broken up," you say on an exhale, looking back up at him. He's tugged the mask up to his nose, and his warm breath ghosts over your face. "I left you. We're not together anymore, Ghost."
He nearly flinches at that name, stiffening against you. "Don't call me that."
You don't correct yourself, and one of his hands comes up to collar your throat.
"I'm not joking. You don't call me that, understood?"
He applies just the slightest bit of pressure on either side of your neck and you fold like wet cardboard. Nodding quickly and taking a big deep breath in when he stop squeezing.
"What do you call me?" He bites, leaning closer until you're almost brushing noses. You try to flinch back but can't make it very far. "Say it. What do you call me?"
"Simon," you blurt out, nearly a plea. You haven't been near his intensity in so long, it's hard to handle now. You drop your eyes shamefully, unable to look at him.
"Good girl," he purrs, hand moving upwards to cup your chin and tilt it up. You can't help but meet his eyes, and the softness there nearly breaks your heart. "I'm never Ghost for you, only Simon. You got that?"
"You hunted me down like a dog."
He smiles at that, leans close enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. "I got you back. You're the one who ran away, love. It's a scary world out there, I can't leave you all alone."
"I don't need you to help me."
"You will. You'll need me again. Everything will go back to just how it was, and you'll see how good it is again. I'll take care of you."
That makes your heart beat a little faster, makes your breath quicken.
The first few months with Simon were... well, not heavenly but certainly good. Things were at their best when you first moved in - when he was still eager to dodge work for you, and when you didn't realize how violent "work" really was. Things only started getting bad when you started putting the pieces together.
"You can't protect me from your world, Simon," you whisper, tilting your head towards him just enough to bump your foreheads together. That's the whole reason you had run in the first place - nearly getting kidnapped and having a gun held to your head had been more than enough to scare you out of his world.
"I can," he growls, pressing closer to you. "You just have to let me. You didn't know before, but now you do. Now I can make sure you know how to keep yourself safe when I'm not there."
"But I shouldn't have to!" You exclaim, tears welling in your eyes. Why can't he just understand? "I don't want to always be looking over my shoulder, always waiting for someone to hurt me, or to hurt you-"
"That's not going to happen."
"You don't know that!" You explode, shoving at his chest as he tears slip past your waterline.
"I do," he snarls, the first hints of anger painting his words. "I can keep my woman safe. I can keep what's mine safe."
You sniffle as you look up at him, bottom lip quivering.
You're not even sure what to say at this point. What else is there?
He seems to realize you've run out of words and deflates against you, curling both of his arms around your waist and holding you as close as he can while resting his chin on top of your head.
"It'll be okay, love," he comforts, swaying side to side. "I get why you ran, alright? I know you were scared, and that's my fault. It won't happen again. But it's time to stop running and to come home. You know that's where you're meant to be."
You sniffle against him, blinking into the dark fabric of his shirt.
"You scare me," you confess quietly, safe without his eyes boring into yours.
He only stiffens for a moment, then goes soft against you again. "I know."
One hand moves up to pet over your hair, stroking across your head in the exact way that always makes you feel a little loose limbed. It works now, and you give him a bit more of your weight.
"You're scared because you're smart. I'd be worried if you weren't scared. I shoulda known before that I couldn't keep my job from you, and that's on me. If I had told you, you might not have run."
"I would have."
He snorts, tugs a lock of your hair. "Shush. I promise, things will be different this time. Better. All cards on the table."
Your hands tentatively wrap around him, linking at the small of his back. You've always loved how big he is compared to you, how protected you feel in his shadow.
Even now, knowing what you know, you still feel that way.
It's that thought that has you finally breaking down, leaning into his hold and squeezing him tight to you.
"Oh, love," he sighs, squeezing you as tightly as he can without hurting you. "It's alright, you're okay. Just get it all out. Everything's going to be alright."
As much as you hate it, you think he might be right.
#1k celebration#bo writes#ghost x reader#ghost cod#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost riley x reader#cod fanfic#call of duty fanfic
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Secrets
Eddie x Fem Reader request
Summary: Could Eddie’s good intentions really be the downfall of you both? Tempers rise when reader suspects Eddie has been keeping their relationship a secret as a means to sneak around with Chrissy Cunningham as well.
Inbox is open for requests!
———
“What are you doing?” Eddie crept to the doorway, hearing the sounds of dresser drawers slam.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing my shit.” You didn’t spare him a glance, you just continued stuffing your belongings into a bag. Eddie shuffled towards you in utter confusion. He had just made it back from practicing with his band to find you in his room like this.
“HEY hey, why are you- what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Eddie’s brows pinched together with concern. “Talk to me. Please?” He gently placed his hand on your shoulder. You tore away from his touch as if it could burn you. Eddie’s face further contorted into a pained expression realizing he was somehow at the core of this. He hadn’t seen you since yesterday. What could’ve changed over night?
“I’m tired, Eddie. I tired of sneaking around because YOU don’t want us to be seen together.”
“Y/N, I’ve already explained it to you. If you risk letting people know we’re together, you risk everything. You-Your reputation…” He stammered, hoping you would finally just accept that this is the way things needed to be. He hated the thought of you receiving the same treatment he endured on a daily basis. Eddie’s skin had grown thick over the years but he worried how the scrutiny of others would affect you.
“Who fucking cares about a reputation!? Do you really think that shit matters to me? What matters to me is you. But you seem perfectly fine keeping me in the dark. A dirty little secret you hide in your bed every other night.”
“NO. It’s not like that!” He couldn’t believe you’d actually think that.
“Is it like that with Chrissy?” You stopped dead in your tracks, looking at Eddie for the first time since all this started. Your eyes burning holes through the man you once considered yours. You wanted to see the look on his face when you said her name.
“What the hell are you even talking about?”
“Chrissy Cunningham. I saw you two yesterday. You snuck out into the woods and she followed.”
“That must mean I’m fucking her then, right?” Eddie scoffed. “It was a drug deal y/n! She’s clientele.”
“Yea? Do you typically bring clients home with you?” You crossed your arms over your chest to conceal your shaking hands. Eddie’s doe eyes startled as if caught in the lights of an oncoming truck. The realization of how that must’ve came across settled in with the sinking feeling that he was moments away from disaster. “You opened the door and let her right in.” You sneered a smile, watching Eddie grip his hair at the roots. You thought you’d surprise him after his meeting with the Hellfire club. You never thought you’d pull up to see him bringing another girl home. You were disgusted. Eddie sat down on the mattress, racking his brain on how to explain himself, already feeling overwhelmed.
“Y/N…it wasn’t like that. You gotta believe me.” He punctuated the word as if it would drive the point home but you weren’t having any of it. There would be no convincing you. You saw if for yourself. “She was only here for-“
“It’s never what it looks like, is it, Eddie?” You cut him off saving his breath and your own time.
“Y/N PLEASE-“
“NO! Do you really think I’m so naive that I’d take any ol’ excuse? That you can just say I’m wrong and I’ll fall happily into your arms?”
“Will you just shut up and let me explain!?” Eddie shouted, clearly distressed. His legs bounced anxiously. His hands shook in his lap. You were irate. Heat flushed behind your cheeks. It was as if a switch flipped in your brain and you could barely contain your resentment anymore. You thought Eddie was someone you could trust. In fact, you were actually falling for him. It hurt you that he wanted to keep things secret. Still, you were willing to accept that if it meant you could have him. But the thought of him sneaking around with Chrissy Cunningham, the perky cheerleader, Hawkins High’s sweetheart, it broke you in ways you couldn’t imagine possible. Another girl. Another secret.
“Fucking cheat! LIAR!” You began tossing your clothes at him harshly, one by one. Eddie jerked his hands up to block the projectiles. He was growing angrier by the second. Angrier with every harsh word you spit at him. His breaking point was rapidly approaching. “You’re a condescending, lying, prick, Eddie Munson!”
“Yea? And you’re a jealous, fucking bitch!” He finally snapped, rising to his feet. “You wanna say hurtful shit? We can do that. You are so goddamn insecure, it’s pathetic. I didn’t fuck Chrissy. I don’t WANT to fuck Chrissy. I was selling her drugs! That’s IT!” His face was red. The veins in his neck prominent from the strain of yelling. “Can you get that through that little head of yours and cut the know it all bullshit already!?” You stood there dumbfounded. Eddie had never raised his voice to you. Your eyes began to sting with tears.
“Karma is gonna bite you in the ass, Eddie. And I hope to God I’m there when it happens.” You managed to choke out. The lump in your throat grew with each passing second.
“Do you really think that little of me?” Eddie’s voice wavered, pained by your distrust. “You really think I’d spend every second with you I could, introduce you to my friends, give you a key to my house if I was just using you? Jesus fucking Christ, Y/N!”
Your body vibrated, tears you tried so desperately to stave off finally breaking free. You wanted to believe in him, but you saw it with your own eyes. Could you really have misread things so gravely or was it all a lie? You couldn’t answer him.
“If that’s really how you feel, then GO! HERE, I’ll help you pack!” Eddie grabbed the remainder of your clothes and furious stuffed them into your bag before tossing it to the floor. “Just get the fuck out of my house.” He turned his back to you, running his hands through his hair. His vision blurring with unshed tears he didn’t want you to see. You choked back your sobs as you picked up the bag. You spoke no goodbye. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
———
You cried the entire drive home, catching glances of your glossy, bloodshot eyes in the rear view. The possibility that you were wrong dug deeper and deeper with every mile that passed. The further from Eddie you drove, the harder his words hit. They played on a loop in your head. You weren’t sure who fucked it all up, you or Eddie but there was no saving it now. No taking back what was said.
Meanwhile Eddie sat in silence, fully taking in your absence. Empty hangers in his closet where your clothes used to be. A vacant space on his nightstand where you used to keep your books. The ones he’d beg you to read to him as he was falling asleep. How could you think he would touch another girl? You were all he ever wanted. The more he thought on it, the worse he felt. You thought he was ashamed of you when truthfully, you were the best thing about his life. He was only trying to protect you. Keeping things a secret was meant to shield you from the cruelty of others. But then he turned around and hurt you worse than anyone else could manage. What you needed was reassurance. Instead he berated and belittled you for being genuinely hurt. He dropped his head into his hands, holding back tears. He had to find a way to fix this but he was sure you wouldn’t talk to him again. Not after what he said. He thought on it all night. Time was abundant since sleep was scarce. Every time he’d close his eyes to rest, he’d see your face. Eyes red. Broken. Betrayed. You two needed to talk about it, but that would take some convincing of course…
———
You dragged yourself out of bed. You combed your hair and brushed your teeth like you always did. You followed the same monotonous routine you followed every morning before school. But things felt heavier than usual. There was a weight on your shoulders, waiting for the perfect moment to break you. Still, you sucked it up and caught the bus. Staying home only meant you’d dwell on things.
Eddie’s chair was empty during first period which wasn’t entirely uncommon but given the events from the night before, you wondered why. Would seeing you break his heart or just piss him off? It was all for the better. Seeing him would collapse the collected veneer you were trying so desperately to uphold. You tried putting Eddie out of your mind to the best of your ability and focusing on your assignments.
Back at Eddie’s, the numbers on the clock blinked red ‘10:07AM’
“SHIT! SHIIIIT!” He had overslept after finally drifting off around 4AM. He discarded his blankets in a flourish and launched himself off the bed, clumsily stepping into whatever jeans were closest to him. He rushed down the steps of his trailer, making a b-line for his van. He had to make a little stop before heading to the school…
He burst through the cafeteria doors, practically breathless. A few students jumped in surprise. Others rolled their eyes, assuming he was up to his usual antics.
“Y/N?” An unintentional shout. The room went silent. Eddie zeroed in on your almost immediately. Your heart beat quickened, eyes locked with his as he made his way to you. You hardly noticed that everyone else was staring as well, watching the scene unfurl. Your eyes drifted to the hand Eddie held behind his back, revealing a beautiful bouquet of flowers. “They’re uh- they’re for you.” Your eyes shined bright with disbelief, on the verge of tears. Words escaped you, so Eddie continued on. “I don’t really know what flowers are good, so I tried to get your favorite colors instead.” Eddie’s smile was nervous, but hopeful. He reached the bouquet out to you. You lightly touched petals colored in violet and magenta. He remembered?
“Th-thank you?” You couldn’t help but smile at the gesture although you were still taken aback by it all. This was Eddie’s first public display of affection which of course garnered an audience for the two of you. Your eyes darted around the room, hearing whispers from the other students. You glanced over to Chrissy, curiosity getting the better of you. There she sat with dreamy, bright eyes. As if she were watching a scene from a televised romance. She looked happy. Happy for you. Happy for Eddie. Not at all like a scorned lover or a burned out flame. Eddie took your hand in his.
“Can we please talk?” His doe eyes melted away at the animosity you felt just earlier.
“Looks like the Freak got himself a girlfriend.” Jason jeered from the jock’s table, laughs following.
“Maybe somewhere a little more private?” Eddie sighed, not even phased by the attention. It was new to you but already insignificant.
———
You followed Eddie out to the football field. The spring air was cool but the sun provided just enough warmth. You sat together on the bleachers. You stared at your shoes while Eddie fumbled with his rings.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.” He grumbled. He dipped his head low enough that his hair concealed his face. “I just couldn’t believe you’d actually think I would even look at someone else the way I look at you. I promise you, y/n, I swear on my life, we were just making a deal. She asked for something stronger while we were in the woods. I-I didn’t have it, it was back at my place. She caught a ride with me, I gave her the stuff and I drove her back home. That’s all it was.”
“I believe you, Eddie. I’m sorry I freaked out. I feel like such an asshole now.” A tear slipped down your cheek, embarrassed by your behavior from the night before. Eddie lifted his hand to wipe it away.
“Hey, no more crying, okay? Everything is fine now. I don’t blame you for getting mad. I would’ve lost my shit if I saw you bringing another guy home.” You placed your hand on his knee. “Why didn’t you just tell me about the deal before hand?” Eddie huffed realizing that would've saved you both a lot of hurt.
“Um, because I’m an idiot? Selling drugs is a quick way to earn cash but it’s not really something I’m proud of, Y’know? I just thought it would be better if I kept you out of that portion of my life. It felt like I was doing the right thing at the time…but like I said…idiot.” He breathed a laugh, admiring your small upturned smile.
“Eddie? No more secrets. If I didn’t think I could handle it I would’ve left a long time ago. You gotta stop acting like I need to be sheltered from you. From your life. I want this, okay? I want you.” Eddie placed his hand over yours giving it a tight squeeze.
“No more secrets, promise.” He looped his pinky with yours. A subtle gesture the two of you often shared. “I’ll tell you everything. Y/n, I was never ashamed of you. Not for a second. The day you kissed me before that pep rally? I had to stop myself from running across the court and yanking that microphone out of Jason’s hands to tell everyone about it.” You laughed at the thought. “I mean it! No one else makes me as stupid as you do.” Eddie snaked his arm around your waist and moved in close, relieved you would allow him to hold you in his arms again. “But no more hiding. Tell me the time and place, I’ll be there to kiss you breathless.” He buried his face into your neck, smiling against your skin in between kisses. You pushed against his chest, laughing at the sensation. “There’s no one else for me, sweetheart. It’s you and only you.”
#Eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson fic#eddie munson angst#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson imagines#eddie Munson requests
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I Will Wait
a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)
cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness
18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader
one (9.9k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes
in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. if you didn't check out the prequel publications (hot off the press on our series masterlist), make sure you do, since they provide important backstory for the IWW universe! read them carefully; there are secrets. 😉
Your mind is a buzzing whirl, just like that of the streets of New York City below, visible through the thick glass of your apartment window. Below, where you can hear the blare of honking horns, can see people loitering on the side of the road, hands waving high in an attempt to hail one of the taxis rushing past. You watch as people dart across busy intersections, dodging oncoming cars, scattering like ants across criss-crossed streets that teem with activity even in the dead of night.
It’s a constant, a comfort, something you can cling to as anticipation bubbles and wells in your gut.
Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent; glowing bright skies begin to deepen into a powdery orange, hinting at a day starting to close. Your fingers press against the window, a mental note already forming to clean it once you step away, eyes peering out into the bustling city streets. You work your way down the mental list once more: dishes washed, already set aside in the drying rack; laundry ironed and folded, pressed neatly into your drawers in categorical order; counters wiped down, shades dusted, furniture polished; dishwasher emptied, cups, plates, bowls and utensils placed in proper cabinets; AOL inbox checked, your confirmation for the time you would be meeting your new boss responded to, while the rest of the emails were placed into proper folders or deleted completely.
You’ve already changed your outfit three times. Laid multiple options out on your bed and ironed them all. You had held them to your body in the reflection of your bedroom mirror and tossed them into a heap at the foot of your bed. This wasn’t just any day, after all. The importance isn’t lost on you. This isn’t like any of your temp jobs that came before it. This is the first you’ll be working alongside someone with undeniable notoriety in the music space.
A celebrity, really.
“I can see your mind working, you know?” Angela, your roommate, glances up from where she sits at your kitchen island. There’s a magazine in front of her with some likely-falsified article about the newest Hollywood “IT” couple on display, dressed to the nines with glowing, airbrushed features. Her nails tap along the countertop, stark red against pale cream, as she arches a brow in your direction.
You’re already walking into the kitchen to join her, skirt sliding against your tight-clad thighs as you reach down beneath the sink to grab a bottle of windex, sights set on the fingerprints on your floor-to-ceiling windows. She twists in the chair while you rustle about, ignoring her as you grasp paper towels from the rack.
“This is a good thing,” she says, sighing with an exasperated shake of the head. Your reflection obscures for a brief moment, replaced by blue spray, before you wipe your lingering prints away. “You’ve wanted to travel for so long. You know, see the world and all of that. This is your opportunity to do it. And shit, it beats working for that asshat you used to deal with. What was his name again?”
You slip back into the kitchen to throw the towel away, heels clacking against tile. “Carver,” you reply, just as the lid to the garbage falls closed. You lean back against the countertop, smoothing your sweaty palms along the sides of your skirt. “Pretty sure anyone would be better than him. I still can’t believe that Mr. Harrington came to the office looking to mitigate all that tension between Mr. Munson and Jason by trying to partner up Carver Distilleries and Corroded Coffin for a commercial, and Jason went and ruined it by running his mouth. I wish you could have seen it, Ange. Mr. Harrington was so disgusted with how he behaved, he extinguished the deal completely right there in his office.”
“Exactly, because even he knows that man is vile,” she sighs with a pout, her form slipping down from off of one of your shoddy barstools, curly blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she walks. You snort when her hands curl around your forearms, shaking you lightly. “What did your new boss say? Something about you being more than equipped to handle this position? Didn’t he, oh I don’t know, request you specifically for his client? You’re going to be fine; in fact, you’re going to be wonderful. If there’s anyone in this world who can handle the notorious Eddie Munson, I think it’s you.”
With a newly restored confidence, you set to the bustling streets of Manhattan, sights poised on the recording studio address you were given. You thought your first day might start with something akin to an office introduction. Something, at the very least, a little less imposing than this. But you double checked your email from Mr. Harrington before you left and printed the directions that now sat clutched tight within your hands.
The building that stands before you at the end of your trek looms arresting and proud in the midst of the bodies swarming around you. Your eyes lift hesitantly to the glass door, your mirrored reflection leaping back at you. Angela’s words ring true in your ears; you are more than adequately equipped. You wouldn’t be invited here if it were not fate itself beckoning at your door. With a resigned exhale, your fingers twine around the cool, metal handle and step inside.
Schmackin’ Records is a world unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. From the moment your feet hit the mat at the front door, company logo etched into it, you know you’re no longer sitting at the front desk of Carver Distilleries. Your head tilts upward to the records dangling from the ceiling, then lower to the endless sprawling walls littered with posters boasting of accolades achieved by the success of the artists that have roamed these halls. You’re struck with the realization that you’re standing in the shadows of legends that have also trailed this path before you.
This— this place and this moment, are your current reality.
“You wouldn’t happen to be the new assistant, would you?” The woman at the front desk catches your attention. Your head whirls, fingers slipping from where they rest along a glass case affixed to the wall, proclaiming a recently obtained platinum record. Her face softens at your visible nervousness. “Sorry to scare you, dear.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine! I’m… ah, I’m actually here to meet with Mr. Steve Harrington. He gave me this address….” You hold aloft the directions in your hand, heart dancing in your chest as your heeled shoes propel you over to where she sits behind a glass panel. The woman before you glimpses down at your directions printed from MapQuest with a pitying grin, her head bobbing before her fingers clack away on her keyboard.
“That’s right! Hold on one moment, sweetie.” You open your mouth to speak as she lifts a phone from its receiver and dials a number quickly. You can faintly hear a voice on the other end. “Mr. Harrington? Yes, this is Joyce speaking. Mr. Munson’s new assistant is here looking for you… okay— yes, that’s fine. Thank you, yes— I’ll let her know. Goodbye.”
Your legs plant beneath you firmly, shoulders ramrod straight, head tilted up in anticipation of your new role. Joyce only resumes in her typing, head tilted down toward her computer screen, leaving you to simmer alone in the tense silence.
“Mr. Harrington will meet you on floor five. Just take that elevator down this hall on your left,” she says, head lifting abruptly from her work.
“Thank you!”
Somehow, the directions only bring you more nervousness. The knowledge that all that stands before you and your new role is five floors. A short elevator ride. Merely a few moments in time remain stretched between you and the catapult into a lifestyle you’ve only seen on television prior to this opportunity.
Your shoes clack against the laminate flooring, a foreboding tap tap tap as you shuffle your way down the short hallway and press the call button for your elevator. The doors open with a soft ping, heart ricocheting against your ribcage as you step inside and the silver metal closes behind you. Hesitant fingers raise to press the number five, the circle bursting to life and illuminating your selection. You step into the center of the room, hands clasped at your side, eyes ahead of you on your distorted reflection upon the surface.
You settled on a simple outfit for the day. Something pristine and professional. A thin black long-sleeved shirt, pale gray tweed skirt, black tights, and dark heels. Simple and understated, though still maintaining your own preferences for stylistic choices. Those same clothes cling to you now. Your tights suddenly seem too tight, heels increasingly pinchy around the back of your heel, skirt prickly and coarse against your thighs, the neck of your sweater digging into your throat. You’re parched, though you doubt any amount of water would assist you now.
The door opens to reveal sprawling wooden walls, as well as the figure of Steve Harrington standing before you in a pair of slacks and a simple button up. He looks exceedingly kind just as he did the first time you met him. Dark, depthless eyes with a wide grin spread across finely hewn features. His fingers card through his hair as you step out to greet him, hand coming to extend before you at the ready.
“You’re here! Oh, thank god.” He shakes your hand briefly and nudges you toward the opening of a hallway, those endless panels of wooden walls surrounding you on either side. The voice that spills from him in a rush is a frantic murmur of, “I’m sorry to have contacted you on such notice. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble—”
“Oh, not at all, Mr. Harrington,” you interrupt, swallowing thickly as he pauses in stride. “Sorry.”
“No, no. Please, call me Steve. Mr. Harrington is what people call my father,” he says, smiling softly. There’s a comfort in his gaze, a warmth that oozes from him. The tightness in your chest loosens, a deep breath pouring out. “We’ve… well, his last assistant quit abruptly, you see, and therefore we were obviously left with no notice. So when you said you could start as soon as possible, it was almost a godsend.”
Your hands grip tighter to the band of your pocketbook draped over your shoulder, leather still cool from the afternoon air. “I’m here for whatever you need, Mr. Ha— Steve.”
The hallway leads to a door, dark and imposing, with a wide silver handle. His fingers curl around it and hesitate, head turning over his shoulder to gauge your expression. The worrying of your lip pauses, teeth releasing from their tense position against your skin. Your mouth quirks upward into a hopeful smile, willing those nerves bubbling to subside.
“What exactly have you heard about Eddie Munson?” he asks you.
You know he’s not expecting a true answer. Not really. You’ve done minimal research. A quick Yahoo search brings up more articles than you know what to do with in reference to the infamous Eddie Munson. Most of which had brought you to pages detailing his altercation at the Grammy Awards in 1994 and the numerous escapades he’s gotten himself into in the course of his still newly established stardom, as well as his whirlwind romance with his wife.
“Not much,” you admit, and while it is the truth, Steve seems to deflate a bit.
His shoulders drop, hand coming to run through that full head of dark hair on him once more. That easy demeanor shifts, mouth turning southward. “Eddie is… he means well. He’s just— well, he’s gone through a few assistants in the past few months, as you know. In the few years I’ve known him, I can tell you with certainty he is dedicated to his craft, but he tends to veer into the wilder aspects of life. What he needs right now is someone who can handle him, and I truly believe that person is you.”
You feel your stomach drop. Initially, when Steve had offered you the position, he boasted of a fast-paced role that required adaptability. Your previous job had been nothing but back to back phone calls, fielding all the incoming clients and their questions, managing the schedules of your manager, and ensuring all issues were handled accordingly.
Babysitting a rockstar hadn’t exactly been on your agenda; yet even despite all of that, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity and had accepted the job offer.
“And the others?” you question, hand coming to rub along your bicep.
“I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “You handled Carver. Eddie should be a breeze.”
Carver Distilleries was not your ideal job, but it was the job you acquired shortly after a brief stint as an administrative assistant for a local community college. The company touted a prolific background of over thirty years in business and you jumped at the prospect. It had been straightforward enough most days. The phones rang around the clock and you handled the calls as expected, passed them off to their proper channels, and made sure the son of the CEO was happy at all times.
Jason Carver was, to put it lightly, the devil’s incarnate. Most days you wondered if he’d been placed in this life for the sole purpose of bringing suffering to all those around him, with a pitchfork in one hand and tail swishing behind him as he stomped through the halls of the building.
You couldn’t recall off the top of your head a day wherein he had ever been happy. Shockingly so for someone born from wealth and thrusted into the limelight, silver spoon in mouth at birth. Jason was proof that money hardly ever solved all problems.
He reigned as the crowned Prince of the company, his father’s shining star, who never raised his finger to do anything. For years, he rode on the back of his father’s coattails and treated those around them like they were beneath him, nose always upturned, sneer firmly planted on his face.
That evening you were already overwhelmed. There was an issue down in the marketing department regarding a mixup in schedules, leaving the Carver’s seated next to a family they didn’t particularly have positive dealings with at an upcoming gala. To add to the rising tension, Jason sent you on an errand to retrieve his requested cappuccino. Light foam, two sugars, extra hot. When you’d returned, he was still in a meeting with some of his fathers business executives, hidden behind a glass door. You left the cup for him there, as requested of you, and rushed back to the front desk just as Mr. Steve Harrington walked into the building.
He’d come in looking like any other businessman you’d seen grace the building in the past. Perfectly tailored suit and tie, briefcase in hand, hair coiffed neatly atop his head. Steve Harrington, though young, harnessed a professionalism about him that Jason Carver lacked. There were no sneers aimed your way as he approached the desk and greeted you pleasantly, nor did he scoff at the hand you’d extended in greeting, welcoming him with a soft thanks.
“Mr. Carver is just finishing up another meeting and will be out to retrieve you,” you advise him, walking out from behind your desk. “Would you like coffee, water… tea?”
“I’m okay, thank you,” he says, holding his briefcase tighter within his palm as he made his way over to the small couch positioned across from you, nestled beside a potted plant. You retreated back to your desk as he pulled a phone from his pocket, voice rising just enough to ask, “Do you happen to have—”
“What is this?!” Jason’s voice boomed from down the hall.
A loud thump echoed from his office, likely from something he’d tossed off his desk in frustration, and you knew well enough to duck behind the covering of your work space. You frantically thumbed the spacebar on your computer to bring it back to life, assuring everyone in your vicinity that you appeared occupied as a shock of blonde hair filled your peripheral. He’d bursted into the room with the dejected coffee in hand, hair strewn about messily atop, eyes narrowed in heedless anger.
Your eyes flickered to the cup, then settled back on the opened email on your desktop computer. The subject line held a request for a flower arrangement you were set to purchase for Jason’s wife, Chrissy, because he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself.
You let out a soft sigh and explained, “It’s the coffee you asked for.”
His nostrils flared like a bull, the embers burning behind his eyes glowing brighter. “I know it’s the coffee I asked for. I don't pay you to answer me with that sarcastic bullshit—”
“Mr. Carver—” The rise of your voice caught you both off guard, only further angering him.
His eyes narrowed, brows knitted tight across the middle of his forehead, vein pulsing against taut skin growing redder by the second. “I asked for a cappuccino with light foam, two sugars, and asked that you make sure it’s extra hot. This isn’t extra hot. This isn’t even warm. It’s cold.”
“Yes, Mr. Carver. It was hot when I left it on your desk two hours ago. Would you like me to go and get you another one?” You try your best to retain a neutral tone. You’re aware of Steve’s eyes trailing along both your forms, interrupted from his own work by your increasingly heated argument.
He barked out an incredulous laugh, head shaking. “No, I don't want you to get me another coffee. You should have known my meeting would run long and planned accordingly. I don’t know where you get the nerve to talk to me like you are when you seem to have forgotten you are no more than a rece—”
“Mr. Carver.” You both paused at the finality of your tone, throat filled with the bitter taste of the degradation he attempted to throw your way. “Your two thirty meeting for the Tennessee Maple Whiskey commercial is here.”
He clicked his tongue, shooting a glower your way. You already anticipated a meeting in his office later wherein he reminded you of all the reasons why your behavior was unacceptable and why you were lucky to still have a position at Carver Distilleries.
“Fine. Mr. Harrington, give me one moment and I will call you back into my office. I just need to finish running something by my father. As for you—” His eyes darted back to your form. “—I will deal with you later.”
You exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as the blonde haired man sauntered back down the hall, leaving you to the comfort of your generally quiet front desk. Steve still lingered there, one hand curled around his phone, the other lifting the briefcase he held off his lap to set it in the seat beside him. You watched as he rose to his feet and dropped his phone within his pocket, gliding over to your desk with a small white card in hand.
You didn’t need to read the words there to know what he’d slid across your desk. It was an instantaneous understanding, the knowledge of a new opportunity, of a way out from beneath the weight of the man who wanted nothing more than to rule with an iron fist and remind others that they were all beneath him.
He glanced briefly down the hall to ensure no one was listening and leveled his gaze with yours, voice a quieted whisper as he said, “You work well under pressure. Carver is… well, Carver’s an ass. I can offer you more money, if you happen to be looking for another job. You could travel the world working for me instead of sitting behind this desk. Let me know.”
Standing before Steve, you feel the questions swirling of the validity of the hope he’d placed inside of you. Had it been premature? He’d only seen one encounter between your prior manager and yourself. That was hardly enough to base a whole career off of, and yet his fingers tighten around the door handle all the same, ready to pull it forward and open you up to a world of newness beckoning you.
Your sweaty palms slide down the sides of your tweed skirt, fabric rustling about your thighs as you step nearer to the door, hardening your resolve.
It’s now or never, you suppose.
“Remember,” Steve warns, just as you move to step inside the recording studio. “He means well. I should also warn that he can tend to be a little… flirtatious. But I would try and pay it no mind. You’re going to be great.”
The room inside is grandiose. Roof to floor wooden paneling shrouds everything in a honey warmth. There are a couple of couches near the far wall, one of which seemingly occupied, and a coffee table that sits in front of it. You catch the slow glug of a water dispenser in the distance, nearest to a coffee station in preparation of the long night that lies ahead of you all. To your right is an open closet, then further still a bathroom. The room itself is dim, lights adjusted for a cozier feel. Intimate and fitting for the tracks that are to be laid today.
The same room, previously full of echoing laughter and vibrant conversation, fizzles into deafening silence as Steve leads you into the room, calling out, “Guys, there’s someone I'd like you to meet!” The announcement has every eye in the room darting your way, faces drawn tight to get a sight of the newest visitor. Only you’re not a visitor, because one of these men is about to be your new client. Steve turns to you then, hand lightly brushing your shoulder to nudge you forward as he says, “This right here is the new assistant, Y/N.”
A round of introductory greetings reach your ears, your voice full of certainty as you return them. “It’s great to finally meet you all.” However, you’ve yet to capture the elusive image of your client, as two of the band members stand closely together, obscuring him from your direct field of view.
Steve continues, “This is Gareth Parsons, drummer of Corroded Coffin.”
The first of the group steps forward. His shaggy head of brown hair flops as he moves, reaching forward with an extended hand in greeting. The warmth of his palm fills the space within your own, squeezing lightly. You feel a little bit of that boiling tension dissipate, the weight on your chest at the notion of a room full of new people unintentionally judging you lightening.
His voice is kind, edged with humor as he says teasingly, “Nice to finally meet Eddie’s new babysitter.”
The next band member makes himself known. He has dark skin, dark hair and lovely brown eyes, full of a kindness that has your mind easing further. Those same comforting eyes flash quickly to his bandmate, a stern flicker of his warm gaze resting on Gareth’s, the latter of the two huffing from his nose.
“Behave,” Jeff warns, voice a low murmur that has Gareth resigning to his defeat. That warm hand releases from your own and he steps back enough into the fold of the remaining members to allow Jeff to step forward. “The name’s Jeff. I’m on rhythm guitar and synth. It’s so nice to meet you.” He flashes you a white smile, and you can’t help the grin that blooms across your features at his easy acceptance of your presence.
“Thank you,” you say, truly grateful that the first two introductions have thus far proceeded smoothly. “Both of you.”
Seemingly pleased with how things are processing, Steve clears his throat. “So that’s Jeff, who you’ve now met. And then you’ve got Harry, who would be the bassist of Corroded Coffin.”
Harry steps forward, his hulking frame shadowing your own, to shake your hand. You lock your hand within his and he opens his mouth to work over the words he’s going to say when a voice cuts through the silence.
“The name is Harry Cox. And if you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll show it to you.”
“Eddie, fuckin’ really?” Jeff asks brusquely, whirling around in the Eddie Munson’s direction.
You’re not sure what to expect as the men shift and separate, bodies moving one by one to reveal the figure that’s so far remained hidden from your view. In theory, you’ve seen pictures of him. One would have to be living under a rock to not have come across a photograph of Eddie Munson somewhere. The infamous photo of the men standing around you, dated back to when they were teenagers, boyish frames huddled together in the halls of their high school before they had skyrocketed to fame at a trajectory no one ever anticipated; the clippings from not so flattering headlines showing his swift rise and downfall, leaving him on thin ice; the photos documenting his hasty nuptials to his actress wife. However, none of those compare to the intimidating figure that commands the presence of everyone around him as your hesitant eyes clash with his beneath the dark shroud of his sunglasses.
Your eyes settle on the dark swath of ripped jeans over coltish limbs. Black material stretches tight over sinewy muscle, thighs splayed out in front of him, scuffed Doc Martens thrown carelessly against the cherry wood of the coffee table. Your eyes start the slow crawl upward, tracking along black shirt stretched over his broad chest, with an equally dark leather jacket hugging his biceps. His arms rest over the top of the couch, a confident sprawl of elongated limbs against plush cushions. His face is almost feline, predatory and intimidating, most of the upper portion of his face obscured by those aviator sunglasses. The parts you can see are striking: lengthy, wavy hair that falls to his shoulders, soft and feathery against the leather jacket; those long fingers adorned with silver rings pushed flush against knuckles, broad hands covered in intricate tattoos; the pale skin over high cheekbones, an indent on his cheek that hints at a dimple if he weren't looking your way in disdain; full lips, soft nose, and the slightest hint of shadow along his jaw.
The Eddie Munson portrayed in the tabloids Angela had showed you over the years pales in comparison to the man that sits before you. This man oozes presence— owns this sort of magnetism that pulls the attention onto him in the center of the room with the mere sound of his voice.
“And that would be Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist for Corroded Coffin,” Steve explains, the arresting presence of the man sitting on the couch in front of you rooting you in place.
Gareth coughs out a quiet, “Resident douche.”
Jeff shoots him another scathing look. It’s enough of a distraction to draw your attention away from your new client, uneasy laughter welling up from you. Your stare drifts momentarily to Steve, his warm smile easing your tension, hand unfurling in front of him. The gesture has you faltering, understanding his intent is for you to make a proper introduction.
You shuffle your way toward the man, disregarding the way he barely even acknowledges your presence within the room. He’s not once moved, back pressing further into the curve of couch cushions, eyes peering up over at you through the top of his sunglasses. Dark and depthless, an endless swirl of ink, devoid of any emotion that might give you insight into how he thinks this initial meeting is going. You hear it then in the vestiges of your mind. A soft howl, nearly imperceptible—the whisper of wind in the distance, echoing in your ears. A warning, an insinuation of something to come. Still, your hand stretches into the spaces between you, left to linger in the open air.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Munson.” Your voice remains firm— unwavering, despite the fact that he dismisses your hand.
Jeff scoffs from beside you, head shaking slightly as his foot comes to shove Eddie’s off of where they rest against the wooden surface. They hit the ground with a dull thud, though Eddie’s posture remains lax, facade unwavering. “She’s talking to you.”
Eddie remains silent for a time, those dark eyes sliding up over the top of his sunglasses, voice hollow as he mutters, “You can call me ‘Sir.’” It’s innocent enough until the corners of his lips tug into a salacious smirk, fingers moving to push his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose, head tipping upward a bit so he’s now level with your unrelenting stare. You worked with Jason long enough to understand this game, the ploy to see if you’ll break at the first sight of tension, and you’re not falling into that trap now.
You take a step closer, hand hovering in air untouched, voice unyielding. “I’ll call you Mr. Munson, or Eddie. Take your pick.”
Gareth chuckles at your left, but your eyes remain focused on Eddie in your battle of stares. Him, veiled through darkened lenses, and you in your refusal to grant him the satisfaction of looking away for even one moment and admitting defeat. You hear that soft howling again, a quiet whir in your ears, just as Steve claps his hands and a new man enters from the recording room, voice slicing the strained silence. “This right here is Argyle. He’s the producer and sound engineer working on this project. Today, the guys will be laying down the tracks for their latest album, so you’ll be here to take care of anything Eddie might need in the interim.”
Your head turns, breath catching at the unexpected arms that loop around your shoulder, fingers reaching up to press against the hawaiian print on his shirt, those long strands of his dark hair smooth beneath your fingertips. He steps back to take you in, head bobbing animatedly as he says, “Nice to meet you, my dude—dudette. I’m the king of this music castle here. Can’t say I’ll be of much assistance, but if you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.” His greeting concluded, Argyle meanders back over to his seat again, contentedly rocking the swivel chair back and forth with his feet.
There’s a sudden creak of leather that draws your attention; Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the waves as his gaze darts from you to Eddie, who’s now rising from the couch. Eddie cracks his neck to the side, finally pulling off the aviators and dropping them haphazardly to the coffee table, where they skitter before meeting the magazine stack beside you. You push the top one back into place with the tip of your finger.
“Call me if you need me,” your boss says, one broad hand landing on Argyle’s shoulder, crinkling the Hawaiian print. “Good luck,” he mutters, patting him twice before moving toward the studio door.
You aren’t sure who Steve had been wishing luck to, but since his parting words don’t seem to phase the producer, you figure they must have been meant for you.
The heavy door thumps closed after him, echoing through the silent room. You can feel almost everyone's eyes on you— the outlier, the new variable in this equation, the only one here who doesn't have a pre-existing role in the narrative. As your gaze darts from one man to another in the span of that brief silence, you see a variety of expressions: curiosity, pleasantness, neutrality. But only one expression truly matters, and of course, unfortunately, it’s the expression of the only man whose gaze is averted as if reluctant to acknowledge you.
You take a moment to study your client now that you can clearly see his face, and what you see does not fill you with confidence. Eddie Munson's eyes are large and brown and framed by long, soft lashes, but there is only hardness in his dark stare. The crinkled lines at their corners would be charming, but they're wrinkled in a critical squint, not with a smile. Instead, though his lips are plush and pink, they're twisted in a faint sneer as he gazes at the plexiglass of the recording room, decidedly away from you.
He means well, Steve had said. But you can't help but think that this man doesn't look like he means anything but ill will towards you, his new assistant. Despite the welcome from others around you, it's making those new-job jitters deepen.
In the middle of your examination, those dark eyes—very suddenly and unexpectedly— flick to yours.
It's an impact you couldn't have braced for. Instantly, a rush of prickling heat crawls up your spine as if Eddie is looking through you, past skin and bone and muscle, straight to your very center. It’s a look that pins you down, flays you open, leaving you entirely exposed in its disapproval.
Blessedly, because of the time you'd worked with Jason Carver, you have perfected your customer service poker face. There is no outward appearance of your inward reaction, aside from the dampening of your palms; smoothly, you run them down textured tweed in the guise of fixing wrinkles before clearing your throat lightly.
It does the trick. The room, which had been suspended in silence following Steve's departure, suddenly stirs as Argyle spins in the chair to face you all fully, folding his hands over his belly. “Well, all right, brochachos,” he says, nodding slowly, his long curtain of black hair swaying as he does. “You ready to record some shit?”
"Fuck yeah, dude," Gareth answers immediately, pushing up from his knees, an enthusiastic smirk splitting his face as he leads the way to the recording room. Harry follows next, his hulking form shuffling from behind the coffee table. He pauses before reaching you as if he's afraid to enter your space; you shift quickly, moving closer to the coffee table to make more room as he fits himself around you.
"'Scuse me," he mumbles, and the gentle baritone of his voice coupled with the tiny tinge of pink on his cheeks makes you smile.
"No, I'm sorry," you're quick to assure him, "I was in the way."
He smiles shyly back as he passes by you, pausing by the recording room door to let Jeff enter first.
Distracted as you were by the exchange, you’re hit with a tiny spike of panic when you realize Eddie has begun to follow them, seemingly with no intention to address you again. It would leave you adrift with no direction— no inkling at all of what you can do to assist him, especially as Argyle already said he won't be much help— and that makes you act hastily. Impulsively.
Your body tilts forward, jerking after him, and your hand flutters out of its own accord, stopping just shy from making contact with his jacketed elbow. Eddie stops abruptly as his eyes dart to you; he squints as his gaze flicks down to your outstretched fingers. Your cheeks heat as you feel almost chastised, but you don’t let your embarrassment show. Instead, you let your hand drop, looking evenly into his dark brown eyes as you ask, “How can I best assist you right now, Mr. Munson? Is there anything in particular you'd like me to do?”
His stare sharpens, plush lips curving in the whisper of a smirk. “You a fan, sweetheart?” He asks, voice gritty with smoke and a quiet smugness as if he already knows the answer.
You keep Steve’s words in your mind, his warning about Eddie’s potential flirtatiousness. The shift— from thinly-veiled disdain to this— is jarring, but you figure it's probably meant to throw you off. “Of you or of Corroded Coffin?” you ask, expression carefully schooled to neutrality. Eddie's smirk tightens at the corners, grows a little more defined, but you continue before he can respond. “If I’m honest,” you tell him, “I’m not really well-acquainted with your music.”
His brows jerk, and when his eyes scan down your body before returning to yours, they’re narrowed again. “Let me guess. You’re a TLC girl? A little Backstreet Boys groupie?”
There’s a heavy shade of judgment in his voice that tells you he isn’t really interested in learning the answer, only in confirming for himself that your musical taste leaves much to be desired. You can't deny that the implication rankles you. You bristle at the thought that he presumes to know you when you've only just met, that he considers you lacking before you've given any reason for him to. The injustice of it makes you rush hot again, but not with nerves— with irritation.
Still, you maintain that mask of professionalism. You don’t let it show. “No,” you reply evenly, meeting his gaze dead-on, unhesitant and unashamed to share your preferences. “More like Smashing Pumpkins. Hole, too.” You ignore how his expression suddenly glints with salaciousness. “Though I do also appreciate harder stuff. Like Alice in Chains, for example,” you add, following it up with a small, polite smile. And it's true— you do appreciate some metal, despite it not being your go-to. It's not as though you don't like Corroded Coffin's music on principle.
But this answer doesn’t seem to excite him. Instead, Eddie’s sharp gaze dulls slightly as you refuse to play into his game. “Right,” he says, expression easing for the first time. “Well then, I do have something you can do for me, sweetheart.”
Pet name aside, it's the most pleasant he's sounded so far, and you brighten, having expected him to put up more resistance. Maybe all you needed to do was show that you were truly here to help him.
"Okay," you say, face expectant as you await his instruction.
Eddie’s lips twitch up into a tiny, crooked smile. “You see that door over there?” He flicks his finger lazily toward one of two narrow doors on the far wall, set into the wood paneling. You nod obediently, and he leans in, eyes wide and brows tugged up, pitching his voice low and soft like he’s coaching you through something secretive. “Well, inside, there’s a box. A box of all our recordings. Yeah?”
He waits until you nod again, a little more hesitantly this time. “What you can do for me is go in that box and listen to everything inside. Every album, every EP, every demo. Even the shitty garage recordings. Even the b-sides.” He pauses, tipping his chin down. And though he doesn't raise his voice, its softness sharpens to granite. “Because I’ll be goddamned if my personal assistant doesn’t even know my music.”
Your face was too eager for him not to notice the way it falls, and Eddie straightens, putting distance between you as he stuffs his hands in his back pockets, elbows jutting in satisfaction. That ghost of a smirk returns as he pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, raising his chin and leveling you with one last look through his long, feathered lashes before he turns away.
His clear dismissal sinks into your chest, and you huff lightly through your nose, rushing with disappointment. Almost as if he can sense the crack in you, he whips back around abruptly; it startles you, and your spine straightens as you jerk to attention. “When we’re done recording, there’ll be a quiz,” he says, and the sharp smile on his face becomes a threat.
You can't help it— a bit of nervousness leaks through your expression then. That seems to finally please him, and Eddie releases you from his dark gaze as he, at last, joins his bandmates in the recording room. The sound of instruments tuning surges before the glass door thumps closed behind him, muffling to silence again.
Now left alone with your task assigned, you turn toward Argyle a little helplessly. He’s gazing at you with an absent smile on his face, still in the same position with his hands folded on his belly, seeming entirely unphased by the contentiousness of your new client. You exhale a quick breath, using it as a reset before asking him, “Can I get a pair of headphones and a Walkman or something?"
"Certainly, my little dudette." He points toward the same door Eddie had indicated. “There’s bound to be some somewhere in that closet.”
Lovely. You nod slowly, flashing a quick smile through pursed lips. “Thank you,” you say before turning and making your way over to help yourself.
The interior of the closet is lit by a single dangling lightbulb, and despite the polished fixings and thorough decor of the recording studio itself, this room is bare-bones in its furnishings. Metal shelving crowds the narrow walls, and the floor is plain poured concrete, barren compared to the plush rug in the lounge area. Your heels clack hollowly as you edge tentatively into the space, avoiding loose cords until you’re standing in the center of the tiny room, directly under the lightbulb. Your hands plant on your hips as you survey your surroundings: shelves and shelves of identical cardboard boxes, all unlabeled aside from an occasional errant number or acronym that means nothing to you, some stacked three high.
Of course.
It takes a good half an hour to finally uncover the correct box. Thankfully, though the labels on the outside are useless, the contents within are masking-taped with far more descriptive labels, written in a messy but still legible scrawl. When you open the box, seeing ‘CC’ on the top CD case feels promising, and a little shuffling reveals some hand-drawn album artwork complete with a coffin and bats that can't be for anyone other than Corroded Coffin. With the correct box secured, you pick your way back to the closet door, setting it down to begin your search for a Walkman, some headphones, and a tape player, since you’d seen a couple of loose cassettes in there, too.
You’re nothing if not thorough. No one can ever accuse you of not doing your job.
When you re-emerge from the closet, the recording room behind the plexiglass is not peaceful like you’d left it. It looks like a television set put on mute as you see Gareth’s hair whipping, Jeff’s shoulders swaying, Harry’s nose scrunched in a concentrated grimace, and Eddie’s lips hugging the mic, pink crawling up the base of his neck, its cords stretched tight with effort. You avert your eyes to Argyle, whose long straight curtain of ink-black hair sways with each bob of his head, his ears enveloped by an oversized pair of fancy headphones. Everyone seems to be moving in time with one another, rocking to a rhythm you can’t hear, and the utter silence in the room combined with those frenetic movements strikes you as comical as you carry your box and its contents over to the smaller couch, placing it on the cushion beside you.
As instructed, you dig out each CD and cassette, organizing them methodically in chronological order and choosing to begin with the oldest one. The faded marker on the front tells you it’s from 1986, and the marker’s haphazard scrawl matches the scrawl of sound that blares from the tape deck when you slip the headphones over your ears and depress the play button. The sound is tinny, echo-y as if it’d been recorded in someone’s garage. And you suppose it probably was. Judging by the year, you figure they were probably still in high school or not far from it when they recorded this.
The Corroded Coffin of 1986 is not particularly remarkable. The kick drum holding the beat isn’t quite precise enough, and the bass is somewhat sloppy. Not every transition is tight; sometimes a beat that should be synchronized is just a split second too soon or late, whether guitar-strum or cymbal-strike. But there’s an unmistakable energy to the sound— a fervor, an insistence that demands you pay attention. You can feel that pouring-out of teenage aggression through the growls and licks and chugging of the guitars, through the lyrics sung in that voice that, though it sounds higher and less smoky than the voice you’d heard from your client today, is still unmistakable Eddie. Corroded Coffin has something to say, and you can’t help but listen.
Your gaze drifts up to the plexiglass of the recording room. Your eyes see them as men, but your ears hear them as boys. And you can almost picture them in that garage, surrounded by brightly-striped lawn chairs and deflated pool floaties, youthful bodies jerking and swaying with no less enthusiasm than what you see before you now. When you think about it, it’s kind of touching to imagine them as young boys with nothing but a dream. Clearly, it took years of effort to become what they are now. You watch Eddie’s long-lashed eyes scrunch closed and his dark curls cling to the sides of his jaw with sweat, and a sense of wistfulness wells up inside you as you think of your client as that boy in the garage, a boy who didn’t know what he’d eventually make of himself.
You’ve only heard three songs before the play button pops up, signaling the end of the tape. Quickly, you move to the next two— more garage recordings, all short and sounding similar— before you’ve exhausted the cassettes and are ready to begin on the CDs. The first is marked as a demo from 1988, so you know it’ll likely be longer than what you’ve listened to thus far. You slip it into the player, settling back against the cushions as you begin, eyes wandering over the wood-paneled walls as you imagine Corroded Coffin recording it right here seven years ago.
It begins with the ticking of cymbals, the clatter of the snare, and the whine of a guitar. Much more polished than the garage recordings but so unmistakably eighties in its sound that you can’t help but feel your lips curl up in a little deprecating grin. Still, your foot bobs along, and you end up listening to half of it before your curiosity for more overwhelms you. You switch to their debut studio album, which is what that demo eventually became, and that same song— now track begins the same way— the ticking of cymbals mixed with a snare’s clatter, but you recognize the difference immediately.
This— this— is Corroded Coffin.
Eddie’s voice is grittier and deeper, and the band is tighter, and the addition of those grinding metallic sounds and the electronic synth parts, which have clearly evolved past that stereotypical pop-eighties style, create something truly special. You’d been truthful before when you told Eddie that you hadn’t listened to much of his music, but now that you are, you find it genuinely enjoyable.
Time passes. Argyle’s head bobs, the guys grow sweatier, and your foot steadily bobs until Pretty Hate Machine concludes. And you should move on to the next EP, but you instead find yourself skipping back, back, back until the disc whirls in a blur of muted blue and pink and the first track starts again. You close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in it until a muffled commotion of voices and thumps rouses you. It’s the guys exiting the recording room, chests heaving, shirts tacky against their chests, looking tired but pleased as they converge on Argyle in a tight circle. You watch their faces light up with smiles and eager chatter, smiling yourself as they seem all of a sudden more boyish for it. Even Eddie, whose visage was once marred with disdain for you, is grinning toothily; as the joy turns his dark eyes amber, you feel a tiny pang low in your stomach at the sight.
Nuh-uh. None of that.
It fades quickly under your quick dismissal, smothered by a reminder of the pride you take in your professionalism. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But he’s still your client, and nothing would change that.
Before long, the group around Argyle disperses. Gareth and Jeff wander towards the couches while Harry stops at the water cooler, gulping down two fills of the plastic cup dwarfed by his meaty hands. You quickly move the cardboard box beside you to the floor and pull the headphones from your ears as you watch Eddie divert from the path, heading back into the recording room without his bandmates.
“What’s he doing?” you ask Gareth as he flops down, sagging against the arm of the large couch across from you. He shakes his damp bangs out of his eyes, flicking sweat that narrowly misses you before he replies.
“He’s laying down the rest of the synth parts for the most recent track. We have to record it separately.” His lips tilt in a grin as he adds playfully, “Ed might be talented, but even he can’t sing and strum and play keys at the same time.”
You find your interest piqued as Eddie folds himself onto the bench behind the keyboard. “He doesn’t need a break?” You watch as he stretches his back with a grimace before shaking out his hands, ruddy fingers turning to a blur.
Jeff just huffs out of his nose, drawing your gaze. His dark skin is shiny with the evidence of his exertion. “Oh, he needs a break,” he says, exasperated though his eyes are fond. “He just won’t take one.”
“Yep,” Gareth adds, “He’s a stubborn bastard. Won’t stop ‘til it’s done.” Gareth and Jeff each accept a tiny plastic cup from Harry gratefully, and you shuffle closer to the couche’s arm to make room for him next to you. You tilt toward him as he sinks down carefully beside you, but it doesn’t draw your eyes. They’re stuck on Eddie, on the look on his face as he nods at Argyle: focused, as if his fatigue is nothing to him but an insect to be flicked away. Argyle nods back, tapping a button on the complex board of switches and sliders in front of him. As Eddie’s head begins to bob, you realize what they just recorded must be playing in that plexiglass box, silenced from your ears.
Before you can overthink it, you rise from the couch, the muffled thumps of your heels shifting from thick, plush rug to clack against wood. As you come up next to Argyle, he remains gazing evenly ahead, eyes never wavering as his head bobs in time with Eddie’s. You’re considering whether or not to interrupt him when, without looking at you, he asks mildly, “What can I do for you, brochacha?”
“Are you able to play it out loud?”
Argyle glances at you then. “Alright,” he drawls, stretching out the word as if impressed. “You wanna hear the bitchin’ beats? Certainly.”
And with the push of a button, the once-silent studio fills with sound.
It’s a perfect marriage of grit and polish, evoking both the garage recordings and their first album in the best way. The distortion on the vocals makes Eddie’s voice sound even more imposing than it was in person when you first met him, and you watch his shoulders rock, brow scrunched tight. “This world rejects me. This world threw me away. This world never gave me a chance; this world’s gonna have to pay.” Eddie’s voice projects over the speakers, though his plush lips are motionless now. With such ease you almost don’t notice them, his fingers begin to dance over the keys, adding a subtle electronic melody beneath the drums and grating synth.
You can feel the tension of the song— the building of something carnal, something furious brewing beneath the surface, threatening to whip your hair back from your cheeks. Its energy builds and builds as Eddie’s voice goes almost breathy underneath the effects, singing, “Something inside of me. It screams the loudest sound. Sometimes I think I could…”
You sense it’s coming, and yet you’re not prepared for it when Eddie’s voice becomes practically a howl: “I’m gonna burn this whole world down!”
The guitars, the drums, the bass and synth— they all explode out in a whirlwind of thrashing sound and driving noise as Eddie’s body rocks, fingertips turning white as he forces sound from the keys. His teeth are grit, his face is pouring sweat, and the sight of it speaks to one thing: determination.
You can’t help but admire that.
You don’t even notice that your head’s been bobbing along to the beat until it ceases, and as you grow still, it whips to the guys at the couch. This song is better than almost all their others. If the rest of the album is like this… Your eyes sparkle with the force of your excitement as you beam at them, and in their pleased smiles and behind their eyes, you can see it: pride and confidence, knowledge that this album they’re creating is going to become something big.
That feeling is effusive, bubbling in your blood as the door to the recording room opens and Eddie emerges. His curly bangs are plastered to his forehead, his eyes are ringed by dark circles and his lips sag in fatigue. Yet despite it, from within, he’s positively glowing.
Caught up in the moment, all you can do is blurt, “Holy shit.” You blink dazedly at Eddie for a moment as his face goes slack, and then he tosses his head back and laughs.
Eddie’s laugh is husky and wild, unrestrained in his amusement. Utterly unfiltered. He laughs as if you’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and it’s then you realize this is your first day on the job, and you’ve just cursed in front of your client.
Your face fills with heat, cheeks burning as you stutter, “Mr. Munson, I’m so sorry, that was entirely inappropriate—”
Eddie snorts, waving you off, looking not only unbothered but positively tickled that you’d cursed in front of him. To give yourself a moment to recover, you spin, clacking toward the water cooler to fill up one of those little plastic cups like you’d seen Harry doing earlier. You stammer past your indiscretion, and as you focus on expressing yourself, you feel the burn in your cheeks begin to recede. “I shouldn’t have forgotten myself like that. But that song was just… I mean, seriously. It was like… like a return to your roots or something, but not just that.” You pass him the cup carefully, falling back onto your hip as you cross your arms and your eyes dart to the ceiling. You’re trying to put it into words, and you feel frustrated that you’re struggling to. “Okay. It sounded like those early garage recordings where everything was just raw. It’s gritty and angry and cathartic. But it also feels so… new. Like compared to your last album, but also compared to what other bands are doing right now. You know?”
It doesn’t seem entirely adequate, but that’s all you’ve got— all you can do to express that almost intangible quality that you felt but can’t describe. You finally let your chin drop to meet Eddie’s eyes and are surprised to see them no longer dark and shuttered or squinty with mirth. Eddie’s eyes are wide and bright, amber like sun shining through whiskey as they stare unwaveringly into yours.
"Yeah, you picked up on that?” For once, there isn’t a sharp edge to his voice; in fact, he sounds almost pleased. “With this album we're experimenting with something a little different, really trying to focus on the textures and moods. Trying to find ways to create sound that’s not music. Not in a traditional sense, at least.”
You nod eagerly, caught up by the enthusiasm in his voice. “Yeah! That’s it. I don’t listen to metal much, but it just doesn’t sound like what you typically hear nowadays.”
Eddie crosses his arms, holding his elbows as his tongue plays against the inside of his cheek. “You’re right,” he concedes, so easily that it comes as a surprise. “In a way, we are going back to our roots; all the way back to being the freaks who don’t want to be packaged up in some neat box. Especially seeing where this industry is going. Like, I’m watching bands that got me through the hellscape of high school crumbling and folding to the pressure. I mean, fuck.” A whip of sweat-damp curls as he shakes his head, his gaze heating with molten passion, pinning you so intently that you couldn’t look away if you tried. “Do you realize the irony of a genre that prides itself on being anti-establishment becoming part of the establishment?”
“Fuckin’ bullshit, man,” Gareth pipes up from the couch, and Eddie’s arm flies out, an eager finger shaking in his direction as his eyes go wide and almost wild.
“Fuck-ing bullshit,” Eddie enunciates, and as his voice roughens, he almost seems to puff up with the strength of his ranting. “Look, I do get it. They’re not the first to end up caught in the wheel; happens before you even realize it. But you know what you’re left with at the end of the day? Jack fucking squat. And we’re just as angry and powerless as we were as kids.” He jams two ruddy fingertips against his open palm, brows raised in emphasis as if willing you to understand. “This— this music was our escape back then. And it’s going to be our escape now. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about it.”
He’s nearly craning over you now, breath hot as it puffs against your face, face drawn tight with his fervor. But you aren’t afraid. Because though he’s nearly yelling, Eddie’s ire isn’t directed at you. Your expression doesn’t harden up or crumble under the weight of his passion; instead, you accept it, letting it whip against you without faltering.
Your steadfastness seems to temper him as the tension in his face eases slightly, though he doesn’t back away. More quietly, he says, “All they want is the next sound-bite, the next commercial success. Sorry, Arg,” he throws a glance toward his producer, “but I honestly don’t give a shit whether there’s even one song on this album that would be a successful single. It’s not meant to be consumed that way— picked apart like fuckin’ buzzards on a corpse.”
Eddie’s amber eyes hold you as he breathes, “This album is raw. It’s ugly, and it’s personal—”
His words choke in his throat, and for a moment, there’s something tentative connecting you, drawn thin between your gazes. Something fragile but nearly tangible, like the foam of the sea that bubbles against sand but melts to nothing if you reach for it.
But then Eddie blinks, and the connection is severed as he seems to realize he’s talking to you: his personal assistant.
His glorified babysitter.
All at once, the passion is gone. He flattens, taking a step back. And there is no preamble to the sudden switch in his demeanor as he demands, “Where’s our dinner?”
the next chapter will be released on @abibliophobiaa's blog!
🌿bluey's masterlist | 🌙luna's masterlist | 💌myo's masterlist
#blueywrites#i will wait#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#eddie munson fic#rockstar eddie munson#eddie munson rockstar au#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson x fem!reader#corroded coffin#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson angst#eddie munson smut#eddie munson soulmate au#eddie munson fake marriage#myos ideas
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Please detailed Drift post? 🙏🏼 I am loving your characterization and analysis of him and want him to hunt Rodimus for (sexy) sport and find out that yep turns out Rodimus is also into that
OKAY SO!!!
I characterize Drift as having a lot of problems. Like, he's more of a pile of issues than a guy, specifically around the stuff he finds... sexually stimulating.
I imagine Drift as a switch, but more of a top than a bottom. I picture him enjoying to give a lot, do things his partners find fun, kind of disregard the stuff that gets him off in favour of pleasing his partners(in my mind- Ratchet and Rodimus).
NOW I THINK THE REASON he does this is because he's into- in his mind- freak shit, and would rather die than deal with the rejection of one of his partners not wanting to do the stuff he's into. So he's made the decision for them that they won't like it, and therefore must NEVER hear of it.
This is because drift connects literally everything he does to a vast and complex web of moral codes and personal rules that make him feel like he's a good person. Every good thing he does is a lifeline that he is good, every bad thing he does is confirmation that he is, indeed, still a horrible person like he was when he was deadlock.
All of this is preamble to say:
I believe that Drift believes any amount of sexual sadomasochism he engages in by imagining doing things like tying his partners up or chasing them down before railing them is morally objectionable to the point that it proves he is an awful evil person.
[TL:DR- A helpful gif]
SO! Drift is probably incredibly fucking pent up, but stubbornly refuses to tell either Ratchet or Rodimus a thing about his sexual fantasies. He bottoms for Rodimus because rodimus believes drift is a bottom, and drift believes Rodimus would hate bottoming for him. He's gotten a little further with Ratchet, because he struggles to hide stuff from ratchet more, but either way, there is still something 'sinister' brewing below the surface.
Drift is GREAT at self control, but most of the time that he's horny i think he's sort of like this
And he would, in my mind, need some kind of kick to start being more honest about the stuff he's into. He's too busy looking for the perfect opportunity to subtly hint that possibly he'd like to hunt his partners for sport to realize that he's in a safe and happy situation where he could literally just tell them and they'd be into it.
So i picture Drift fantasizes. A lot. about the stuff he'd like to do(and possibly has done in some alternate stories, albeit as Deadlock) to his partners. And pioneers the practice of catholic guilt as a cybertronian who probably doesn't know about the concept of catholicism.
I imagine he does this when he's supposed to be meditating, then takes a very cold shower at the washracks while feeling bad for his immoral and evil thoughts
dw though, eventually, drift will get his secret revealed and there will be peace and love on the lost light.
[Feeling nosy? send me an ask in my inbox!! ty for the requests!!]
#my art#transformers#archie answers#my requests#tf headcanons#mtmte headcanons#mtmte#drift#dratchrod#driftrod#dratchet#maccadam#valveplug#suggestive
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🖌 // lfgggggggg
meme / accepting.
send me 🖌 ( paint brush ) and my muse will draw yours !!
#origiinis#* ── dealing in your secrets. : inbox.#i think its iconic. really!#its the fuckin .. grave meme LMAO
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do you have any favorite fic recs that are fox/coruscant guard centered? there are a couple i've found that are really good but a lot of the fox tag is him in a more minor role with the focus on like cody or rex or jedi etc
Yeah i have a few! Here are some that i keep rereading - I'm putting them under the cut!
Politicians In My Eyes by jaigeye
Fox looks down at his armor, awash with blood. There are no identifying marks on him anymore. He's as red as Coruscant
CHTHONIC by catboydogma
Not even two days later, Fox revised his opinion. This wasn’t a disaster. This was a Grade-A, first order, fresh off the hot plate fuckfest. Fox’s day had gone something like this: lay in bed. Get up. Knock back some of the sludge in the mess masquerading as caf. Go through forms. Fill out forms. Bust open a closet in which the Senators for Uyter and Kinyen had both managed to get “stuck” in. Go through more forms. Fill out more forms. Get called up to the Senate dome to tell a Senator that no, the Guard did not address noise complaints. Find that the stack of datapads on his desk had somehow tripled over the last two hours. Despair at the state of his inbox. Etcetera, etcetera.
And then.
dead dog (bye-bye baby blue) by batchmates
The way it happens is simple: at some point during your service in the Guard, you’ll lose time.
The thing wiping the Guards’ memories gets sloppy and Fox remembers the order not to let Fives leave the surface alive. It changes everything and nothing at all.
Life During Wartime by chermit
Commander Fox has a lot on his plate: managing his Corries, filling out piles of forms, dealing with obnoxious Senators, and not thinking about the way he keeps waking up covered in other people's blood. All that considered, he really doesn't have time to deal with being investigated by the Captain of the 501st and the Head of the Jedi Order for two separate murders he (probably) didn't (want to) commit. But Fox is a soldier, and good soldiers follow orders, so when does he ever get what he wants?
Commander Fox's Guide to Touring Coruscant by kakashikrazy256
The painkiller he had been giving just half an hour prior is still working fine, leaving him relatively...alright. Nothing hurts particularly bad, but there’s a fuzziness layered over everything, making it hard to think too hard on anything beyond the first thoughts running through his head.
Go inside. Find the rest. Sit down. Drink. Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t get caught. And...and just be there to properly enjoy the company of his brothers.
Don’t forget these memories.
/
Fox gets injured but decides to keep it secret for the sake of his batchmates. For the prompt 'is that a bloodstain?!'
their days are darker by always_a_slut_for_hc
After the death of ARC Trooper Fives, an altercation at 79's leads Wolffe to spend his leave snooping around the Coruscant Guard. Fox assumes he'll drop it and leave the Corries to their fate; it's what everyone else has done.
He is very, very wrong.
The Last Reason by meerlicht
Cody has a scar now, and it’s the only thing that differentiates him from Fox appearance-wise. For one, they both have the same circles under their eyes. Fox assumes that’s what comes with being a Commander. Their hands are the same, too, damaged and bruised at all times.
But the biggest difference Fox sees when he looks at Cody isn’t the scar. It’s the rage. Cody doesn’t wear that same rage.
Fox’s hands ache with the need to punch something.
Or: Fox dealing with Senators, little brothers, the terrifying ordeal of asking for help and a menace called Quinlan Vos.
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Reader fangirling over moon knight not knowing it was steven/marc/Jake? 🎃
Under Your Nose
Warnings: Not much other than the moon boys lying to you and keeping a secret from you. Also the idea of walking alone at night while drunk.
Author’s Snip: I am so sorry, I literally forgot that this was in my inbox. Sorry for the long wait.
I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.
Word Count: 764
They found it kind of funny. In a sense. You had no idea that the vigilante that you've been fixating on is actually your boyfriends. You didn't live with them so you wouldn't know that them leaving for something was actually them going on a mission. It also kept you from connecting the dots that whenever they leave, Moon Knight's out and about.
They liked to hear your praise. In a way, you not knowing that it's them made your positive comments more genuine because, to you, Moon Knight was just a crime fighter that you would hear about, and so the influence of them being your boyfriends didn't make way for a bias. There were, however, sometimes there were cases where they barely managed to keep the secret.
One night, there was a gang that the boys had to take care of that put up more of a fight than they thought they would and left the system sore from having to fight back and defend. When the next day came, Steven, who was fronting at the time, decided to pay you a visit. But you were able to tell that he was stiff. When you asked, Steven threw the explanation that Jake was fronting last night and he had done an intense workout. You took it and so it was left at that. "Well, then how about we lay down and watch something so you can feel better, yeah?" you recommend. Steven just nodded with a smile,
Next came the time that you had gone out with friends to a bar and had more drinks than you usually do. You decided to walk to the boys' flat since you were not sober and didn't have a ride, and it was closer to the bar than your place. Maybe you should have texted them as a heads-up to your sudden arrival, but by the time you thought of that you were already going up in the elevator.
When you knocked, there wasn't an answer. Maybe they were asleep, it was pretty late after all. After remembering that they had given you a spare key, you unlock it and let yourself in, trying to be as quiet as you can. But looking around, no one was even home. You figured that maybe Jake was cabbing around town or Marc was on a late-night walk. With that idea in mind, you shot them a text telling them that you were at their place and why before taking a quick shower. changing into some clothes you had there, and promptly falling asleep in their bed.
Marc was there in the morning making you some breakfast. He of course, just confirmed that he was out for a stroll around the block because he couldn't sleep, even though he was patrolling. If anything he seemed more concerned that you walked there alone drunk in the dead of night. "I'm fine. It was just a ten-minute walk here." you shrug off. "Still, I don't like the idea of you walking alone like that when it's dark out." Marc said. "I'm surprised we didn't run into each other to be honest." you remark.
And then there was Jake. He had to deal with getting information out of someone and he figured that the best way was the old 'talk in a chair' way. But as it turns out, that guy was more of a hassle than he thought too. He put up a good fight and actually got him good with a punch to the face that damaged his nose. But they always, lose when it's Jake so he got his way in the end. But when you came over the next day, again, you say the bandage and got worried. "It's nothing, beba. I had this guy in my cab. He was drunk off his ass and being a pain. When I looked at him to tell him to knock it off he socked me in the nose." Jake lied. He could still see the concern on your face as to gently touched his bandage. "I'll be fine." he said as he kissed you on the forehead.
It's not that the boys want to keep lying to you. If anything all three hate it. But they feel this air of worry when thinking about you knowing too. They know it's dumb. And they know that they can't keep up the secret for long since they want you to be in their lives. But they just need to think of how to bring it up to you at some point.
#moon knight#moonknight#moon knight x reader#moonknight x reader#jake lockley#steven grant#marc spector#steven grant x reader#marc spector x reader#jake lockley x reader
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𝕮𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖗𝖞’𝖘 𝕺𝖈𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝕱𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑
“….𝖜𝖊’𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖆𝖉 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊..”
“𝖏𝖔𝖎𝖓 𝖚𝖘 𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖊…”
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•
𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙚𝙨, 𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙤, 𝙚𝙩𝙘…
click below ⬇️
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•| * .
• starting off by saying that this is only my 2nd year doing this and my first year doing it on tumblr so please be patient with me.
• Also, I am making an ✨attempt ✨ to do all 31 days but no promises as I’ll be doing other things this month for Halloween/cosplay but please feel free to DM/inbox me any requests that you have and I’ll be happy to try and squeeze them in.
• Once the month is done, I’ll put them all in my masterlist so you can back and binge read if you’d like.
• this will be multifandom and feature characters from AOT, JJK, HunterxHunter, One Piece, Jojo’s, Haikyuu and many more!..if there’s a show you’d like me to write for, feel free to request. I’ll let you know if I’ve watched/write for it.
• all works featured in this will be modern AU’s. No canon stuff.
• understand that not every kink will be for you. As always, there will be warnings at the top of each story..take heed to said warnings and use them at your discretion. If you feel a specific kink/fetish is too much, then I suggest you skip that day and I’ll see you in another one. We’re all grown (I would hope) so you can decide for yourself. Please do not comment anything childish, hateful or derogatory towards my work because it will be automatic block. Kinktober is a time to explore things I’d normally not write about but even so, it may not be your cup of tea. Don’t report or try get something slapped with a label because YOU don’t like it. Simple.
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•| * .
[writing this as of 9/10/2023, naturally this is subject to change but here are the plans so far for the upcoming works you can expect:]
stranger than fiction (sfw stories + interactive fics)
Beyond Fact or Fiction: an anthology series comprised of drabbles and fics based off of real events….or are they? That’ll be for you to decide. (multifandom)
Are You Scared of Me Yet?: they are your average, hardworking family. Working on their farm by day…body snatching by night?! The young couple finds themselves in quite a predicament when one of them is bitten a strange creature while outside and becomes undead! Now with an appetite for more than cookies and cakes, they must try to feed their desires for human flesh, all while keeping this dirty little secret from those around them! (cowboy reiner x baker black reader) (nsfw version available in Kinktober list)
Sacrilegious: music’s much more fun with a little contreversy and that’s a fact that EJ the Don knows all too well. No stranger to dark imagery and occult themes in his songs, the rapper decides to get a bit creative and raise the bar for his next video. With Halloween around the corner, his wife + beloved influencer, (y/n), who’s notorious for her out of this world costumes every year decides to join him on the fun by being his co-star. And what better way to debut the new track and visuals than at the Jaeger’s infamous Halloween Bash?! But along with insane reception from the fans and friends alike, they may have invited some unwanted attention…from both the living and dead! How will the it couple deal with this situation? (musician eren x influencer au) (nsfw version available in kinktober list)
undertaker: chrollo lucifer has always been the town outcast. Dubbed a weirdo, troublemaker and the person you’d want to avoid at all costs. Mainly due in part to his love of heavy metal, cigarettes and all things occult. Too bad for everyone else, he didn’t care to clear up his reputation..that was until the mayor’s daughter goes missing and he gets accused of being involved!..with no one on his side, the lonely Chrollo feels as if he has nowhere to turn. However, he ends up meeting someone who may be able to help him out of his bind…the local botanica owner with an equally terrible reputation! With a race against the clock and their backs against the wall, the unlikely duo team up in a whodunnit like you’ve never seen!
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵
Kinktober 2023 (NSFW Stories)
(these may be changed at a later time and characters are TBA but here are some of the kinks you can look forward to.)
office sex, pegging, free use, knife play, age gap (legal ofc), foot worship, size kink
pregnancy/lactation kink, gun play, sensory deprivation, anal, food play, pet play, CNC
BDSM/Shibari, fem dom, breeding, roleplay, corruption kink
impact play, exhibitionism, nipple play, spit kink, facefucking, car sex, orgy
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•| * .
FLUFF/CRACKTOBER (feel good + funny fics)
• through the pumpkin patch: cowboy!reiner x reader
• first time for everything: scholar!armin x scholar!reader
• pick up the phone • doordasher!eren (ft. doordasher!connie) x reader
puuurfect fit! • choso kamo x plus size reader
trick or treat • ryomen sukuna x reader
carve me like one of your french girls • nanami kento x artist!reader
my dress up darling • seamster!mitsuya x cosplayer!reader
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•| * .
taglist will be available. Let me know if you want to be added!
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•| * .
all works are intellectual property of chrollohearttags. I do not own any characters mentioned except OC’s or reader descriptions. Please do not repost, steal or copy my fics. It’s not cute :(
* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° .* * . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•| * .
@greenieweeniesworld @spaceforher @anubisisthebomb @crazychaoticizzy @makaylasierra789 @momobaby227 @certified-stargirl @thickbihhwitdagapp @kameko-ko @valentineluvu @mukurosbracup @prettypink-princesss @bleach-your-panties
#cherry’s works 🌹🍒#kinktober 2023#kinktober#info post#masterlist#rules post#one piece#jujutsu kaisen#attack on titan#aot x black reader#hunter x hunter#JJK#aot#black reader#tokyo revengers#jjk x black reader#anime au#aot au#jjk au#halloween fics#true crume#black reader smut#one piece x black!reader#x reader#jjk x reader#aot x reader#octoberfest#black fem reader#cw smut#cw kink
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Ok idk if this is to much but can I request Juice Ortiz with Line 24, and then L and M (🔥🔥)? Thank you!!
Tension.
juice ortiz x teller!female reader
warnings - sexual content. cursing.
24. “You like it when I’m mean to you?” & l. Keeping the relationship a secret & m. Catching eyes across a crowded room.
written for my 5k celebration - post here, masterlist here, inbox here.
It’s risky and you know it.
But you just can’t keep your eyes off of Juice Ortiz.
It’s your average Friday night at the Teller Morrow Garage. Everyone’s drinking, smoking, laughing as Tig tells a horribly inappropriate joke. Your brother is sitting at a table with Chibs and Happy, discussing some sort of club business that you frankly don’t really care about.
You turn back to the bar, sipping on your drink and taking a deep breath. You spin on your stool to scan the room again, and catch eyes with the one man you’ve been watching like a hawk. Juice.
He raises his eyebrows at you, winking cheekily before breaking out into a grin. You shake your head, but can’t help but smile.
He looks good. Better than usual. You’re not sure what it is - maybe it’s the tight black t shirt, maybe it’s the tattoos that are peeking through, maybe it’s the cocky smirk that seems to be permanently etched on his face.
You know the both of you will be in so much trouble if your brother finds out. It’ll be bad for club dynamics, bad for your family’s dynamic. But maybe it’s the risk that makes it that much hotter.
He looks at you, the bathroom door, then back at you. You get the message instantly, nodding gently before watching him get up and make his way in that direction.
You give it a few agonisingly long minutes before you slip off your stool, glancing around to check no one has noticed. When you get to the bathroom, he opens the door and pulls you inside, slamming you against the wood.
“Here she is. My pretty whore.”
Your breath catches, gazing at him with blown pupils.
“Don’t call me that,” you choke out, with less conviction than you would have liked.
“Why not, hmm? You’ve been staring at me with your fuck me eyes for the last couple of hours. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
He chuckles, leaning in to nip at your neck, arms winding around your back to hold you against him.
“You’re pathetic, baby,” he mumbles against your skin. When you shudder, he laughs almost cruelly. “Oh, honey. You like it when I’m mean to you?”
You shake your head, and he moves a hand to wind around your throat, squeezing gently. You change your answer and nod, knees going weak.
“Here’s the deal,” he drawls into your ear, all low and honeyed. “If you can keep your filthy thoughts off your face for the rest of the night, I’ll take you home later and fuck you the way you want.”
You whine, hands tangling into the back of his shirt.
“That means no fuck me eyes, no lip biting… none of that shit. You hear me?”
You nod, leaning forward to rest your head on his chest.
“You’re gonna get us caught, baby. We’ve got to be more careful.”
You lean up to press a kiss to his lips, tasting beer and cigarette smoke.
“Okay. Deal.”
He smiles at you gently before kissing you again.
“I’m gonna go out first. Wait a while, okay?”
He slips out the door and back to the guys, praying that no one has noticed either of your absences.
You rest your head against the wood and take a deep breath, body thrumming with the anticipation of what’s to come.
#murphy’s 5k celebration#sons of anarchy x reader smut#sons of anarchy x reader#sons of anarchy fic#sons of anarchy x you#sons of anarchy smut#sons of anarchy imagine#juice ortiz x reader#juice ortiz#juice ortiz smut#juicer ortiz imagine#juice ortiz x you
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