#Clean-up on aisle four!
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MAG 165, Revolutions
Happy Smite The Stranger From Orbit Day, to those who observe it.
@a-mag-a-day
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lots of scent talk? fingering; foursome; MDNI 18+
w/ ART DONALDSON & PATRICK ZWEIG & TASHI DUNCAN
the hotel room is victim to a stiff heat unlike anything you've ever felt before. you've been privy to the heat that comes with matches in the south, and you're well aware of what happens when the AC decides to break in the tiny hotel rooms they've put you in.
but this heat is different. it's uncomfortable, yes, but that makes you want it more. it has a stench, strong to the point where it's loud. it blares in your face, almost taking your attention off of them. almost.
you're surrounded by their bodies, the heat of the room radiating off of them. there's a different heat to all of them. unique in ways that will implement itself into your mind to be called on later.
art has a cleanliness to him. he's warm, burning up when you touch his face, ears, and neck. but he's sturdy. he's desperate, pulling your leg over his hip as he grinds his crotch into yours. his boner presses into you almost awkwardly. it's maneuvered by art's hips, and eventually, it lays flat against you through his gingham boxers after some effort. you have your legs spread as far as they can go, welcoming the heat of art's dick against the taunt crotch of your panties. when he's not kissing you, he's breathing into you. this is supposed to be foreplay, but art's getting off to it. his forehead rests against yours and his nose is slotted right up against yours as he breathes onto you. he breathes with you. he breathes into you, releasing air into your awaiting mouth.
every so often, he'll stick his tongue out and probe it into your mouth, maybe swipe it along your bottom lip. eventually, you catch his tongue with your lips, puckering them around the muscle until you have a good enough grip to suck. your head even starts bobbing as if you're sucking him off. and this gets art. he grinds into you with more fervor. he groans low in the back of his throat in the way that he does when you've helped him roll out a particularly tense part of his body.
you have to slow him down from cumming too soon by bringing your bent leg up between you both, nudging your knee cap into his chest. one of his big hands pushes your leg out from between you both, and then he goes in. he doesn't wait, he doesn't hesitate, and it's only through the jesting coming from beside you that he stops. you take your lips from around his tongue and he keeps the muscle there for a second, suspended in air, before he licks his lips and finally closes his mouth.
and then comes the heat from patrick. this heat is similar to the one in the hotel room, likely the largest contributor. stiff, a strong stench. he's musky in the way that says he isn't completely well groomed, but it works for him. his musk is one of money. you can smell it on him—the hints of cologne still not washed off, the smell of fabric softener you likely cannot and will not get in the aisles of a regular grocery store, the waft of hair products that smell just clean enough. it all works to barely mask the musk from his skin, the smell of sweat working against deodorant and everything else included.
patrick kisses at your neck first, burying his nose behind your ear as his hand slides over your collarbones and latches onto the other side of your neck. he pulls you closer to him. he grips the side of your neck, digging his fingertips into the flesh, bringing his thumb around front and clutching. he holds you and you like it. your back arches and you don't have to be told to turn your head, but patrick directs you anyway.
his hand is warm when it slides up to your cheek. he sandwiches your face, pressing four of his fingers into one cheek and his thumb into the other. he pulls you towards him, bringing you to the heat of his mouth. there isn't any hesitance before he has his tongue pressing against yours, your tongues sliding together from the tips to as far back as you can reach.
there comes a moment where patrick, likely driven by his need to be as close to you as possible, nudges his tongue a little too far back. he slides it along the top of your mouth, running it along the ridges, and then he presses into the back of your tongue, almost triggering your gag reflex. you jerk as if he had and try to move back, but patrick holds you still. he eases up a bit, ceasing his almost never ending addition of saliva onto your mouth.
art has stilled a bit between your legs, but he's still fidgety. he has his fingers tapping against your knees and eventually, without much warning at all, they stop. your eyes are closed, lost in bliss of patrick giving you yet another prideful mark, but you open them to the sound of kissing. you see tashi attached to art. she has her hands on his face, pulling him away from you. he leaves the space between your legs empty as he crawls over to tashi, his head tilted up as he rests upon her altar.
you don't know how long they're there. you're too busy sitting in the fever settling over your body while trying your best to reciprocate patrick's lips over yours while his fingers pump in and out of you. but soon there's another pair of fingers gliding down your cunt, running around patrick's two thick fingers down to where you're gushing out arousal. it's tashi, kneeling between your legs. over patrick's head, you see art sitting off to the side, his feet tucked under his butt and his hands rubbing up and down his legs almost as if he's nervously waiting for something.
you can't attempt to decipher his intentions when tashi nudges patrick's wrist to the side, turning his fingers inside of you to a new angle that has you gasping. patrick shushes you quickly, kissing into the center pit of your neck.
tashi's heat is sweet. it's comforting and familiar. she places her fingers onto your clit, rubbing your own arousal around your pert bud. she settles in between your thighs, running her tongue along your inner thigh. you can't smell her until a gust of wind pushes through the open window, and she smells like perfumes and body oils and lotions. they are either all the same, or they just compliment each other well enough. she smells like a kiosk in the mall, but less over powering. she smells gentle, like warm flowers. the heat of her lips against your inner thighs is nice. it's heavy, but less imposing than the heat of curiosity from patrick on your neck. less intense than the heat of primal desire you felt from art.
she's gentle, the reprieve you need from the intense way patrick shoves his fingers into you and the satisfaction you desired from when art had clumsily knocked his hips into yours. she's slower on your clit, helping your orgasm build up as patrick digs and searches for the spot that she can find easily.
"it's to the left," she tells him, and just like that, patrick finds the spot. your hand wraps around patrick's wrist, your nails digging into his skin.
tashi looks up at you, her smile small but very much there. it's visible and familiar, the same smile you saw her wear whenever patrick and art pushed their lips together for the first time without any inhibitions. it's knowing.
she knows that despite the stiff heat circulating through the room, and the individual heat coming from each of you only making it worse, this is part of your dream. your deepest darkest desire that you only admitted to her no more than 48 hours ago whenever you first laid eyes on fire and ice as they'd been dubbed.
she jerks her head to her right just a bit, enough to signal something to you. your eyes turn and you see art, still sitting in the same spot but with his cock pulled out. he's slowly tracing his thumb over the tip, spreading what looks to be a sizable drop of precum over his head. when you find tashi again, she lifts her thick eyebrows once and you know that look. she's asking you if you want a taste.
she leans up, occupying the space previously taken by art. her smile widens when her eyes meet yours. you can feel it hovering over your lips when she brings her head down. instinctively, your head tilts up as you wait for her to knock your lips together. she doesn't do it immediately and you feel pathetic as you wait. you feel like art.
"yeah?" she asks, her lips moving closer and closer to yours.
"yeah," you confirm. and finally, she presses her lips to yours.
#patricksworld!#artsworld!#tashisworld!#art donaldson x reader#patrick zweig x reader#tashi duncan x reader#celeste writes challengers
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Shopping Carts and Conversations
(Geto x Reader)
Summary: You're out shopping with the twins and Geto, when an eldery couple mistakes you for a young couple and the twins as your kids, a comment you're too happy to ignore.
Word Count: 1.2k
Content Warnings: Fluff, for context it's related to Co-Parenting with Suguru, but there's no need to read that for this.
masterlist
At the supermarket, Mimiko clings to your leg as you walk down the cleaning supplies aisle. You grab a bottle of the fabric conditioner and give it to the four year old to smell. Her little nose scrunched up, and you hand her another fragrance of the fabric conditioner. She approves that one and you throw it in your cart.
“Are you tired Mimiko?” You ask the little girl, she shakes her head in dissent but you can tell she is tired. You have been in the store for too long. “Come here,” you tell her before picking her up in your arms, and she quickly wraps her little arms and legs around you. She is very thin and light for a four year old, all thanks to those cruel villagers.
With Mimiko at your hip, you push the cart forward and grab your favourite brand of laundry detergent and stain remover. You can't remember if Geto has extra dishwash, you quickly text him asking about it.
Geto Suguru: No
Geto Suguru: Are you by the cleaning supplies?
You: Yes
You: Where are you?
Geto Suguru: I'll be there in a moment
You're startled with a fake cough near your ear, but you smile on realising it's Geto and Nanako. The sight in front of you makes you and Mimiko giggle - Nanako is sitting on Geto's shoulder, using his bun as her makeshift support. You quickly snap pictures and show it to Mimiko, who nods in approval.
“What's so funny to you?” Geto asks. “Nanako here was helping me search. You rushed away so quickly.”
“We did not rush away, I told you I'm gonna get some detergent. You're out of it back home.” You counter. “Right, Mimiko?”
Mimiko nods in support and adds, “And you said ‘hmm’, Geto Sama,”
Geto blushes for a moment, embarrassed. “Well, all that matters is that we've found you now.”
“Sure,” you tease, giggling. “What did you get?”
“We have to get rice, lentils and vegetables.” Geto says, holding Nanako’s knees on either side of his head. He brings her to his arms and sits her down on the baby carrier in your cart and pushes it out the cleaning supplies aisle after you throw the dishwash in it.
“We’re out of carrots and cucumbers,” you note. “We have enough tomatoes to last the week. Oh, potatoes - stock up on them. That seems about right.” You turn to the child on your hip and then to the one in the cart. “What do you guys think of apples and bananas?”
“Nooo…” they both whine in unison.
“But you have to eat it, or you won’t get big or strong like Geto-kun,” You tease. The girls think hard at that, always admiring Geto as their father figure. “All of us can have fruits together, then ice cream after?”
The twins look like they want to say no, but they’re big fans of ice cream like most children, so they don’t protest much. You and Geto sneaked in some more fruits to the cart and different vegetables that most kids were known to not like. You wait for your cart to be unloaded into bags by the entrance with Mimiko, while Nanako continues to cling to Geto. You reach out for her when Geto is at the exit to get the bill scanned, holding the two of them on either side. Once free of the guard, he quickly snaps a picture and holds the bags in one hand and Mimiko with the other.
“What lovely kids you have got,” An elderly woman entering the store comments. She is with her husband and presumably their grandchild. Your face heats up, but you don’t bother correcting her, and neither does Geto. “Such a lovely young couple with a family,”
“Thank you,” Geto says, smiling at the old couple. “Is that your grandchild? He looks adorable.”
“He is spending the weekend with us,” The old man says with a nod. “May the gods be kind to you,”
“Thank you,” You say this time. “We hope the same for you,”
Your face burns as you sit Nanako and Mimiko down in the back of the car as Geto loads the bags into the trunk. Your girls have little smiles on their face, and you ask them what they’re smiling about.
“You didn’t say anything when they called us a family,” Nanako says.
“And you thanked them for the prayers,” Mimiko adds.
“Well, that’s because we are a family, aren’t we?” You say, caressing both their baby cheeks with either hand. “It’s nice to be polite to polite people.”
On the way back, you’re both quiet, enjoying listening to the twins talk among themselves. Their delight at your silent acceptance has your heart soaring, and you cannot keep that stupid smile off your face. You are barely holding back your giggles, not wanting Geto to think that you have gone crazy.
“What’s got you so smiley?” Geto quietly asks you, his hand settling on your knee after changing gears.
“They’re so happy to be considered our family,” you admit, unable to keep the giddiness out of your voice. “I love them so much,”
Geto glances at you from the mirror, admiring the way you glow with joy. He half hopes you’ll remark on that comment of the old lady of you being a lovely couple, but you don’t - too happy to be considered the girls’ mother. He supposes it’s fine, wondering if he will ever gather the courage to ask you out.
“You know, you’ve been helping me out so much, why don’t you start calling me Suguru?” He says instead. “It’s a little strange to hear our girls see you as a mother figure but you still calling me Geto,”
You giggle once again, admiring his pretty face from the side. His eyes flicker to the mirror, but he is mostly focused on the road. It’s nice to hear him ask this so casually, and somehow you hope he’ll say something else, something more - but you’ll happily take what he offers. “Okay, Suguru,” you test, loving the way his name rolls off your tongue. He looks positively delighted too. “You should start addressing me by my first name too, then.”
“Of course,” he says, the sound of your name sounding angelic in his soft voice. You get why he has always been popular among the girls, his pretty face and voice and gentle manners are easy to impress almost anyone. Your face only brightens when he hums out your name, a chuckle escaping you.
Geto cannot stop thinking about the elderly couple addressing you and his girls as a lovely young couple with a family - he hasn’t felt that delighted in a long while, praying to the gods who listen to give him courage, courage to finally ask you out for a date. You’re so kind, helping him with the girls and reassuring him that he is doing a great job with the girls, spending your time with him and your girls, acting like the unassigned-assigned head of the household.
In his rose coloured dream, he can freely hold you and kiss your pretty face as he pleases, the girls call him papa and call you mama - it’s a fantasy so close to reality that he can almost taste it, but like Tantalus’ fruit, it’s just a bit too far away.
A/N: Can you tell that i'm in love with this dynamic?
#geto suguru x reader#geto x reader#suguru geto x reader#geto suguru#geto suguru fluff#jjk x reader#geto fluff#jjk fluff
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“You cannot buy four boxes of Honeycombs.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have a list. A budget. Jeans we have to fit into.”
Eddie rolled his eyes.
“Stop being sensible. It’s not cute.”
“What happened to me always being cute?”
“I mean when you’re grumpy in the morning or when you’re trying to clean the pool but leaves keep flying in and you make that scrunchy face. Not this.”
Steve grabbed the two boxes out of Eddie’s hand and placed them back on the shelf.
“I’ll allow two boxes. But we have to stick to the rest of the list.”
Eddie crossed his arms. He may even be pouting a little to emphasize his displeasure in not getting what he wants.
It was easy to do this with Steve and know that Steve wasn’t actually annoyed, just amused.
Steve wasn’t paying attention to him anymore, though. He was already pushing the cart down the aisle so they could find the next thing on their list.
Probably vegetables.
Steve loved making him eat vegetables.
“Shit. I forgot to get the garlic powder. Can you go grab it?”
“We have a clove of garlic right there.”
“That’s different.”
“Not if you grind it up.”
Steve ignored him and kept walking because he knew Eddie would listen and grab the garlic powder.
They did this every week.
Their list was almost the same every week with a few small changes here and there depending on what Steve was cooking.
Eddie found reasons to argue with Steve, and usually it involves sneaking treats into the cart and getting caught.
They worked their way through the store, usually ending up in some kind of wild debate on every other aisle. At check out, they usually rushed through it, not wanting too many questions pointed at them shopping together every week.
Eddie loved doing this with him. He loved being able to watch Steve’s eyebrows furrow as he did the mental math for how many of one thing he needed. He loved watching Steve buy an extra frozen pizza for when Hellfire met at the house. He loved how Steve would touch the small of his back to guide him along when no one else was in the aisle with them.
He loved that he got to do this every week for the rest of his life.
“Eddie Munson, put the brownies back!”
He also loved being a menace, and that would never change.
#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#stranger things#headcanon#domestic fluff#just two dudes grocery shopping together#definitely not in a gay way#they’re just in love and stuff#it’s only gay if they kiss#which they do
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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧
part one | part two | part three | part four
You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]
fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991
The air here smells like sulphur.
After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind.
Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down.
Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell.
"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle.��
You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable.
At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders.
His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket.
"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things.
You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.
The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde.
Probably.
You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight.
You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.
You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open.
You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.
Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection.
Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream.
The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout.
Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin.
You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts.
"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask.
"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend."
"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly.
"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–"
You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to.
"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch.
Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down.
"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls."
"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that."
"Uh-huh," you say.
"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!"
"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?"
"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath.
You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour".
Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.
The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make.
Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't.
You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it.
Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders.
Or when you're with Eddie.
As you stupidly told him.
What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him.
Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady.
People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here.
You want to see him again.
What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea.
If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog…
You grip the door.
You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you?
It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest.
I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?
The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush.
Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside.
"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."
You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?"
"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet."
"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."
Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit."
Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep."
She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed."
She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat.
"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?"
"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around.
You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts.
"I'll see what I can do," she says.
Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again.
You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up.
"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?"
You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on?
"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?"
"And is he expecting your call?"
"No, ma'am."
"Who's calling?"
"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful.
"Hold please."
You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck–
"Transferring now."
You hold your breath.
The phone clicks twice.
"Hi?"
"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.
"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?"
You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N."
"Hey. How's Florida?"
You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.
"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot."
"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"
You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face.
"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine."
You can still save it.
"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask.
Wrong.
"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!"
"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you.
"Okay, good."
You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.
"How's Houston?"
"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here."
You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.
"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket."
You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.
"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says.
You know exactly what he means.
You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person.
Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit.
"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask."
"Yeah? That's not how I remember it."
"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?"
"I should hang up on you."
"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises.
"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time."
"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”
“Where’s the question?”
“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”
You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power.
“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep.”
He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”
“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark.
“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”
The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”
“So what if I am?”
“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”
Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up.
“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”
“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks.
“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”
Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.
Eddie finally puts you out of your misery.
“Did you hear that?” he asks.
“No? What was it?”
“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”
“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat.
“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks.
You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"
“Uh…”
“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”
“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”
“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.
“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”
You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”
You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?
Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought.
Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak.
“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”
There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.
“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”
“You don’t usually wear heels.”
“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”
“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”
You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”
“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”
“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”
Another patch of silence.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”
“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true.
“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”
You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”
“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”
You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.
“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says.
“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”
“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”
“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”
There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”
You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”
“Fine. I’m a loser.”
“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”
He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”
A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.
-
Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991
Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it.
He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”
And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”
Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this.
He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar.
Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter.
He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she?
He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them.
Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it.
He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.
“Hi,” you say.
“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”
“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.
“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”
“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him.
“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”
“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say.
“Ditto.”
You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”
Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small.
“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”
Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed.
“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”
“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful.
Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”
He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”
You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes.
Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips.
“Will you share it with me?”
He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too.
Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough.
“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes.
“They believe you?”
“Nope. They know you’re here.”
“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”
“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed.
He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare.
It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand.
“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”
He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better.
“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says.
Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart.
“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”
“The fans,” Eddie repeats.
He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play.
And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another.
“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says.
“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”
“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before.
“I didn’t want to cancel…”
“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.
“Can I just sit here a while?”
“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder.
Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.
Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate.
“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”
“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks.
He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.
“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”
Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes.
“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”
“I see.”
You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”
He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”
“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.
Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips.
“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest.
He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart.
Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth.
“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”
“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”
“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”
Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile.
“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”
“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”
Your answering hum tickles.
“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest.
“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”
“You're not subtle.”
“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.
“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask.
“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”
You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze.
“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair.
“That’s pervy, I think.”
“I’m trying to be nice,” he says.
He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier.
“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.”
You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing.
“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say.
He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.
“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience."
You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips.
Eddie could get used to this.
—
Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991
There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself.
“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath.
There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance.
You nod carefully. “Yeah?”
“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”
You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge.
“Are you looking for something new?” you ask.
If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged.
“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”
You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV.
“You’re too busy,” you finish.
“I'm way too busy.”
There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing.
Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else.
You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do.
You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner.
Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry.
You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl.
"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out.
You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you.
"For what?" he asks.
"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock."
"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment."
"No, at the store."
Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you.
"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."
Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it."
He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.
"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame."
"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time."
"Nerd."
"Loser."
He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty.
You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit.
"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks.
"They'll have yours."
Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine."
"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.
"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena."
You gawp at him. "You did not."
"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs.
"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it."
Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away.
"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time."
"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say.
"You don't think you would?"
"I'm not really tenured."
"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable."
"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing.
"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together.
You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU.
"What do I play?" you ask.
"Anything."
"That's not helpful."
"Something fun," he says.
Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline.
Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor.
"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate.
"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard."
"I'm telling people you said that."
You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus.
"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks.
"No."
"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song."
"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously."
You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest."
"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home.
You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face.
You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation.
The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part.
It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.
You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking?
His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that."
"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head.
"No, you worked hard. There's a difference."
His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should.
"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel.
Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval.
"What do you wanna hear?" he asks.
"What do you know?"
"God, I know everything. You should know that."
"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention."
He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss.
You're in awe.
He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle.
"S'what I get for trying to show off."
He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that.
"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.
"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself.
You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away.
He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer.
You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it.
"Are you okay?" Eddie asks.
The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip.
"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be."
He licks his lips. "You're cool."
You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do.
"I'm worried about people finding out about us."
"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us."
It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely.
"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?"
"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer.
"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it."
He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain.
"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive."
"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded."
"Let's go back to when you didn't like me."
"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?"
"No," you mumble.
"Oh. Good."
"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask.
"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on."
"They've clocked on."
"Cruel!" he says, delighted.
"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?"
"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe."
"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh.
"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up."
The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly.
"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–"
"What am I getting into?"
"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this."
He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this."
Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl.
"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you."
"But I don't get that, we don't get along."
"What do you call this?" he asks.
You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky.
"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you."
"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness.
You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure.
"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want."
You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying.
"Okay," you breathe.
He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice."
"You're not on thin ice."
"I should be."
Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it."
"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?"
"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod.
A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one.
"What's for dinner?" you ask.
Eddie smiles.
—
Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991
"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?"
Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing.
You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love.
He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession.
"I miss you," he'd said.
You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then."
So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something.
"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours.
He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.
Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank.
"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer."
You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself.
Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?"
"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?"
"Is there any room?"
"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?"
He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath.
He whistles. Can't help himself.
You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur.
"Sorry. You're just pretty."
"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice."
He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–"
You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could.
He's messing with you. It's his prerogative.
Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried."
About what? he'd asked.
You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.
He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle.
It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie.
He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him.
"Don't push me away," he whines.
"Don't make fun of me."
"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that."
"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue.
"You don't like that word?"
You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do.
"You like Status Quo?" you ask.
He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?"
"Showaddywaddy?"
"Beg your pardon?" he jokes.
"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath.
"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily.
"Queen?" you ask, quieter still.
"Don't ask stupid questions."
"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party."
He hangs his head. "I was in a mood."
"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?"
Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember."
"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say."
"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek.
"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating.
"Because you didn't know me."
You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?"
"Sweetheart, we met before."
Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more.
"We did," he says.
"What do you mean?"
"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."
You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.
I'll put you on the list.
"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something.
"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane."
He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–"
"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.
"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…"
"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other."
Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah."
Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck.
"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you."
"You took your time," he says.
"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"
He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains.
He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip.
"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge.
"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says.
You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!"
"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?"
Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?"
You're already forgiven. "Three photos."
"Deal."
"Should've asked for five."
"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.."
Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–"
You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off."
Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling.
"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them."
Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex.
"I've seen them," he disagrees.
"You have not."
"Have too."
"Have not."
"I'm seeing them right now."
You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape.
"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no."
He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks.
"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say.
Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?"
"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do."
Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated.
"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you."
"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently.
"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?"
You beam at him. "Right."
You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest.
The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears.
"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.
"It's really perfect," you say.
Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss.
"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?"
He hadn't meant to ask like that.
You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.
—
The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features.
The camera clicks.
𓆩❤︎𓆪
thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson#stranger things fic#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things fanfiction#rockstar!eddie#rockstar!eddie munson#rockstar!eddie munson x reader#rockstar!eddie x reader#eddie munson fic
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN; TWO IDIOTS
navi
“move your bubble butt out the way,” yuuji instantly straightens his back and glares at you.
“yn, please im literally trying to make the house look presentable while you sit on your ass warming yuutas seat”. his comment earned a snicker from megumi, which yuuji made a mental note of.
nobara shuts the fridge and shouts from the kitchen, “you wouldn’t need to make it presentable if you hadn’t invited the whole population over”
you think yuuji may be your number one hater and supporter. clearly he’s trying to help you, but at the same time you feel non confrontational.
“speak your truth. yuuji and megumi are literally the reason the living rooms fucked up”
a few minutes after the four of you finish “cleaning,” if you could even call it that, maki, inumaki, and yuta show up. as they enter the apartment, inumaki glances around the place.
"so did you guys just decide not to clean or what?" this earned him a slide flying by his head, courtesy of yuuji. while almost everyone is engaged in their own banter now, you make your way over to yuta, praying that it's not going to be the awkward interaction that you have in your head.
you smile as you approach him, "did you bring the ice cream?" his eyes slightly widened as he brings his right hand up to scratch the back of his neck. "soooo," you laugh at his awkwardness, "i ended up buying it but my dumbass left it at the house"
"that's not a problem, we could go get it since your house isn't that far?" you suggested. "wouldnt we miss the movie?" his question is genuine.
"nah we have time. it’s not like they’d agree on a movie anyway." he shoots you a smile before grabbing the lanyard that hung out his sweats.
"guys, me and yn are going to get icecream, it won’t take long!" maki shoots him a look that tells him not to fuck it up. yuuji acknowledges yutas statement, "oh, can you get popcorn? there’s like one bag left and i know all of you aren’t willing to share"
"oh we actually weren’t—" you’re cut off by yuta, "we’ll get it, it’s fine!"
. . .
"why’d you agree? i was trying to save you the trouble." he cranks up the car, "it’s fine, besides, do you really wanna be there when they fight over a movie? shit gets ugly." "you’re right," you say in between laughs.
the ride to the store was no more than 10 minutes, most of it consisting of you flipping through songs, due to you not really knowing what he listens to.
after he parks, he raises both of his hands up and looks at you, "do not move." you smirk and raise an eyebrow at his actions, not really knowing what his plan was. that was until you saw him get out the car and go over to your side and open the door.
the smile was evident in your voice, "what are you, prince charming?" as you get out the car, he dramatically bows, "anything you want me to be your highness." this earned laughter from the both of you.
the two of you entered the store and right as the sliding doors opened yuta probably asked the dumbest question you've ever heard.
"we're supposed to be getting popcorn right?" truthfully, he was trying to make conversation after ignoring you for the past few days.
"jeez yuta, you drove us and you don't even know what you're here for?"
he gave you a grin, "i got us here safely, no? thats gotta count for something!"
as the two of you roam isles in search of popcorn, you find yourselves indulging in random conversations from embarrassing childhood stories to things your friends have done. it's effortless, the way you connect with each other, as if you've known each other for much longer than just a few weeks.
you spot the aisle that the item would be in, and reach over to grab his shirt to steer him into the aisle. his eyes widen at the gesture, clearly being caught off guard.
the two of you scan the shelves for a good brand with a reasonable price. you both decide on a box and head to the checkout.
"hey. you aren't slick, i saw you slide those kitkats"
you bring your finger to your chin, "hmm, i don't recall. maybe it's a ghost telling us we need to get them."
the both of you quickly got into the car and drove to his house to get the ice cream he bought. surprisingly it was a really quick stop, he told you to stay in the car and darted into, and back out the house.
by the time the two of you had got back, unsurprisingly, they were still fighting over a movie.
"yn, yuta, please settle this dumbass debate," nobara pleads.
yuuji obnoxiously says that it should be the conjuring, while maki counters and suggests spider-man, but more specifically andrew garfield’s.
"guys.. yuuji may be right for once. conjuring sounds good as fuck right now"
megumi brings his hand up to his hair, clearly stressed you picked opposite of him "dude just get back in the car you’re unwanted." nobara brings her hand to her mouth clearly trying to stifle a laugh, while inumaki has no shame and does it anyway.
"bitch? i hope your 'situationship' unadds you." this nearly made yuta start praise dancing. his thoughts ran wild of "i have a chance oh my gosh" "she just might fuck with me.." "never will i doubt maki again"
your voice brings him out of his chaotic thoughts, "yuta! pick one!" "oh uh, conjuring i guess? never seen it"
bad idea. he felt like he needed a life saving medical procedure, he’d nearly shit himself 3 different times. the only thing that made the movie slightly tolerable was you sitting on his left. yuujis sitting on the floor and whispers, if you could call it that, and asks for some of your popcorn. you respond in a hushed voice, "no! you should’ve thought about that before you put it on four minutes."
yuta must’ve not gotten the hint not to reach in the bowl, because he took a handful of popcorn from the bowl. "oh but you’ll give your little boyfriend some. fine!" he faces back toward the tv, only to be met with a handful of popcorn flying at his face from maki telling him to shut the fuck up.
the rest of the night went smoothly but somewhere in there you found yourself knocked out on yuta. during the credits, inumaki and yuuji were laughing at him for pretty much not moving a muscle.
you woke up to an almost abandoned couch, just maki sitting on the end. you quirked an eyebrow, "where’d the rest go?" "outside."
"i do have a question for you though," the little people in your head are panicking right now, "do you like yuta?"
you sheepishly smile, "uhm. . . yeah he’s a good friend i guess?" she gives you a look that a disappointed parent would give their kid, "you know what i mean."
"i guess? yeah. i probably started liking him when i streamed with him for the first time, he’s really sweet."
she hums in response, and right in time, nobara comes back through the door with toge, and yuuji, megumi, and yuta trailing behind her.
do we fw the chapter.. did not proofread this
guys if i missed your comment asking to be on the taglist pls send me an ask 😭 i literally lose comments all the time
tags: @saesofficialwife @k4romis @soy-garbage @sakyira @dreamxiing @swissy23 @shnzies @captaincyberqueen @fantasycantasy @chuyasthighs0 @mixzimi @milza12 @nahoye @spookyrule @4phskingdom @sad-darksoul @morgyyyyyyy @smashingdollz @bubbles-the-ghost @lunavixia @gaychaosgremlin @jayathelostdragon @h3xi2g0n3 @lysaray @sereniteav @httpakkeiji @histxricaldrama @aiieera @rieieieieieiei @tobaccosunbxrst @hvnyacoded @ohhyuuta @inupibaldspot @diogodxlot @amenial @kzoyu @ancientimes @mochuchi @cerisescherries @sugurubabe @saltypuffin1040 @lunarbleedings @kamikokii @egoistars @r0ckst4rjk @arysbruv @bbladie @hobistigma @k1ttylvr @deeeeexx @arivsx @kyrofu9 @kereseth @clxvrs @chososwh0r3 @alluresenses @sak1l @just-a-girlblogger @m6tra @nyxlai @ecliiipsee
#✧; satcrvz#jjk x reader#✧; satcrvz writes!#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk smau#jujutsu kaisen smau#yuta smau#yuta x reader
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I’ve had this scenario stuck in my head for three days straight so pls bear with me
Reader’s alone late one night, trying to wait for Miguel and being particularly pent up. He’s late, got caught up with smth, and she can’t wait anymore - starts to take care of herself by using a vibrator. When she’s too out of her mind to notice anything, Miguel slips in and realizes what’s going on. I feel like he’d normally be a little possessive about the use of toys since he prides himself on his prowess and knowledge on pleasing the reader, but he’s so taken by the sight and sounds of reader so totally enthralled that she doesn’t even notice him standing at the foot of the bed until he teases her about it.
Cue him deciding to use it while he fucks her until reader’s an incoherent, overstimulated, cockdrunk mess barely able to get his name out, much less formulate the full pleas he’s lowly demanding she say to tell him exactly what she wants. Imagine him making her orgasm so much she’s hoarse from all the noises he’s ripping out of her (bonus points if reader is normally not very vocal), and eventually she blacks out. Comes to with Miguel washing her with a hot wet rag and massaging her sore muscles, kissing tenderly along her shoulders and forehead and cheeks.
Terribly self-indulgent, I know, but there’s something about Miguel that summons the absolute whore in me like an incubus🥵
HOLY FUCKING SHIT! I have no words, HEAD EMPTY! ;alksjda;ksd
I'mma--- I'mma just lie down on the floor and try to remember the basic act of breathing.
There needs to be a clean up of aisle four here cause i'm drenched.
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── meet cute `🪄` . ִ ֗
pairing: kang taehyun x gn!reader
genre: fluff fluff fluff, strangers to ???, magician!taehyun, some crack ??? idk
synopsis: you had a thought and a dream, you were going to be a magician. so you did what one who wants to be a magician does next, you went to a magic store. and what did you do? accidentally knock over a shelf of bang snaps and came face to face with an actual magician.
word count: 1k┊v-day event masterlist┊masterlist
a/n: part four of my v-day event! cute and short little drabble after that heavy and angsty ass beomgyu oneshot! that episode of academy reincarnation really ignited a light in me. y/n also really reminds me of that one scene of rachel mcadams in the hot chick lmao.. i hope you enjoy! ♡
all your life you only wanted only one thing: to have magical powers. unfortunately, this was the real world. so, you had to do the next best thing—become a magician.
that’s how you ended up in the magic shop out in the outskirts of your town—the star seeker’s magical emporium—wandering up and down the aisles aimlessly. your fingers trailed along the various items. from cliché magical wands to stuff for making things “disappear,” this store had it all.
you were lost in your thoughts, thinking of how you could use all the items you saw when your eyes had caught on a product claiming that it could make you bend metal. in your distracted state, your legs had kept moving and in turn, you ran straight into the display of bang snaps.
the display and open boxes fell to the floor, loud snapping and sparks everywhere. you had jumped back in shock, a loud gasp coming from your lips, when an employee ran over with wide eyes. “oh my god… oh my god, i’m so—so sorry!” you sputtered, turning your attention to the employee.
he was wearing one of those stereotypical magician costumes, the ones with the top hat, cape, and tailored tailcoat. his gloved white hand held a thick, plastic looking wand. his dark hair was styled to the side out of his eyes. if it weren’t for the deep embarrassment and your face heating up, you would remark to yourself on how cute he was.
you got down to the floor as you began trying to clean everything up. “oh, it’s okay! don’t worry about it…” the employee said as he got down to help you. you looked at his name tag. taehyun.
“i completely destroyed the display, oh my god! how much does it all cost?” you asked as the two of you got everything cleaned up. you got to your feet at the same time he did, wiping the palms of your hands on your jeans. taehyun waved a hand in the air, “it’s really no problem! nobody really buys those things anyways except the kids who come in once in a blue moon.”
taehyun waved his plastic wand in the air and you chuckled. “see? abracadabra! now it’s like none of it ever happened!” he gave you a big smile as you returned the favor. “really? thank you so much!” you exclaimed. he rolled back and forth onto his tiptoes for a moment. “is there anything else i can help you with?” taehyun asked.
you hummed for a moment in thought, “no… but you work here! can you show me any magic tricks?” taehyun scoffed playfully, “can i show you any magic tricks… follow me!” he led you back to the counter and made his way behind it as he dug into the cash register.
taehyun pulled out a quarter and held it up in the air to show you. “watch as i make this quarter… disappear!” he beamed as he waved his other hand in front of the quarter. your eyes widened in shock, a smile creeping its way onto your lips as he held both of his hands up in the air. they were both empty.
“let me guess, it’s it your glove?” you said with a smug smile. you had watched hours of magic videos on the internet and knew just about every trick there was. taehyun shook his head, chuckling, “that’s for amateurs, i’m the real deal!”
he reached behind your ear, his hand brushing against the side of your neck and sending a shiver down your spine. you heard a slight “ding!” sound as taehyun pulled his hand back, quarter sitting in it. with raised eyebrows and a smile still on his face, he presented it to you.
smiling, you crossed your arms across your chest. “okay, okay! but i want something cooler!” taehyun’s smile turned to a smirk and he leaned over the counter towards you. “alright… but for this one i’m gonna need your id, please!” you playfully furrowed your eyebrows at him and reached into your bag.
when you got your id out of your wallet, you slid it over to him on the counter and taehyun grabbed it, doing a little spin in the process. you laughed at his display and he smiled at you. “are you ready… y/n?” taehyun asked as he glanced down at your id and you nodded eagerly.
taehyun did a little show of waving his hand in front of your id, making it disappear and reappear. his eyebrows raised slightly as he held it up in front of you, eyes shining, before flicking the card quickly. with wide eyes, you held your hand over your mouth as your id turned into a small white card you didn’t see him grab.
he slid the card across to you on the counter, then waved his hand over it so your id was next to it. taehyun gave you a shy smile. you grabbed the white card from the counter and turned it over. it had his name and number written on it. grinning from ear to ear you looked back up at him.
“let me take you to dinner sometime? i can show you way better magic tricks than this… the store kind of limits me,” taehyun asked, looking away from your eyes briefly. you giggled and nodded at his proposal. “are you free tonight?” you asked him, placing the two cards back in your wallet.
taehyun chuckled and nodded, scratching the back of his head and making his top hat fall into his eyes ever so slightly. “i am, it’s a date! i’ll see you tonight!”
© jjunieworld - all rights reserved. please do not repost on any social media sites, translate, or modify any of my works.
permanent taglist: @jjunberry @gothgyuu @spooksh0wbabe @beargyuuzz @kittyhyuka @dani-is-tired @soobieboobiedoobiedaboobie @rapmonie2047 @riaawr
v-day event masterlist┊masterlist┊request rules
#txt x reader#taehyun x reader#taehyun#kang taehyun#taehyun x y/n#txt taehyun#kang taehyun x reader#kpop imagines#kpop scenarios#kpop#txt beomgyu#txt hueningkai#txt soobin#txt yeonjun#tomorrow x together#tomorrow x together imagines#kpop x reader#txt#txt imagines#txt scenarios#txt angst#txt fluff#taehyun angst#taehyun fluff#taehyun oneshot#taehyun drabble#taehyun imagines#taehyun scenarios#taehyun fanfic#txt fanfic
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Prompt. Alastor hits deer mating season and tries not to let anyone know, but Lucifer finds out.
Obligatory warning: It's a mating prompt. There's going to be EXPLICIT SCENES.
“Do you smell that?”
Husk sniffed the air delicately, then shook his head. “Nothing but Angel Dust’s normal B.O.”
Angel Dust purred. “Don’t pretend like you don’t love it.”
The cat rolled his eyes and turned back towards the bar, but not before Lucifer caught the rare smile he reserved for Angel Dust curving on the corners of his lips.
“Do you seriously not smell that?” Lucifer asked, puzzled. The scent was growing stronger by the second, so rich and heavy it seemed to hang in the air. Musky, woody, with a spicy sharpness to it, like crushed pine needles and orange blossoms. There was something else to it though – something that Lucifer couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it filled his head like an opium cloud. His thoughts felt slow, like molasses in winter.
His body was a different story. Every time he breathed in, a tingle of electricity ran through him. His fingers were trembling, and his skin felt too tight and a little numb at the same time.
Am I being drugged?
He was just about to excuse himself when Alastor came rushing around the corner. He was moving fast, as if he was being chased by a pack of wolves, and muttering something to himself like a lunatic. He didn’t see Lucifer until it was too late, and they collided into each other so hard the impact sent them both tumbling to the ground.
“Ouch! Clean up on aisle four!” Angel Dust crowed.
“Shut up.” Alastor’s voice was distorted, as if it had been spliced into four. He sounded strained, his throat clenched.
The scent was unbelievably strong now. Lucifer’s head swam with it. On autopilot, he picked himself up off the ground and extended a hand towards Alastor to help him up. Alastor moved to swat it away, but the second their hands touched, it was like a sonic blast ripped through the hotel. Lucifer’s world went numb, flexed and narrowed in on one thing, and one thing only: Alastor. A bolt of lightning ran up his arm, through his chest, down his legs, and pooled underneath his belt. His legs went weak with need.
Alastor, for his part, didn’t seem much better off. His eyes were wide with disbelief, his chest heaving as his breathing stuttered. He was staring at Lucifer as if he was a ghost.
And then something shifted. His eyes went blank, and Alastor – the Alastor Lucifer knew, at least – flickered out of view as something else, something infinitely hungrier and far more desperate, took over.
Alastor snarled and leapt forward, grabbing Lucifer by the neck. People were shouting something behind them, but Lucifer couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them over the thick fog of musk and wood rolling off of Alastor.
Shadows swallowed them whole, and spat them back out in a dark bayou, lit only by the weak light of the stars and the moon twinkling high above.
“Where–?”
But Alastor wasn’t listening. His sharp claws ripped Lucifer’s shirt and coat into shreds in a matter of seconds, his red eyes gleaming with a hazy madness.
Lucifer forced himself to shake off some of that beguiling smell. It was telling him to relax, to give in. It urged him to thread his hands through Alastor’s gorgeous hair, to stroke his antlers, to finally admit to his deepest, most shameful desire – that he had always wondered what Alastor might taste like.
But he still didn’t know what the hell was going on.
“What – Alastor, wait – slow down!” He pushed Alastor back with a blast of angelic grace. Alastor hissed, his eyes still crazed with need, and came for him again. This time, Lucifer grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him into a nearby spring.
Alastor spluttered as he surfaced, shaking some of the water off his head. “What the hell was that for?” His voice was still distorted, but at least he was using his words again.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Lucifer demanded.
Alastor pulled himself out of the spring and flung his drenched coat off with a bitter grumble, revealing his bare forearms and – to Lucifer’s endless delight – a little tuft of a tail. In the gentle light of the moon, Lucifer could see every ripple of his toned abs, every flex of his broad chest beneath the wet shirt that clung to him like a second skin.
The hazy smell grew stronger. Breathe through it. Don’t lose control. “What did you say?”
“It's my mating season,” Alastor snarled, meeting his eyes again. There was something hypnotic in their scarlet gleam. Lucifer found himself taking a step forward before he caught himself. “Every couple of years, my pheromones go into overdrive. I – no, my body – sends out signals to any potential mates. I usually wait it out.” He shuddered, his jaw flexing. “It’s never found anyone before.”
A sizzle of pride and pure, clean joy cut through the haze filling Lucifer’s brain. So Alastor had never done this with anyone before?
(Was he special?)
“So what are you saying – that you’re horny?”
Alastor blurred – and suddenly he was in front of him, ripping the rest of Lucifer’s tattered shirt from his body. He yelped, but Alastor ignored him.
“If that’s how you want to think about it,” he growled, then he dug his teeth into the crook of Lucifer’s neck.
A jolt of intense pain that turned into searing pleasure roared through Lucifer. As if in a trance, he grabbed one of Alastor’s antlers and wound his other hand into the softness of his hair. Then he pulled, hard, forcing Alastor to let go with an audible hiss.
“None of that,” he snapped.
Alastor grinned, and it was sharp enough to cut him to the core. “No need to play coy with me, your Majesty. The thing about these pheromones – they work both ways. And they never work on the unwilling.”
The quick flash of heat (shameshameshame) was invitation enough for Alastor to pounce again. He rid Lucifer of his belt and his pants just as quickly as he did his shirt. Lucifer, not to be outdone, showed Alastor he had a pair of claws on his own and slashed Alastor’s entire outfit in half with one slice of his nail. It wasn’t a clean cut – a thin line of red welled up on Alastor’s chest, his stomach, and his right thigh.
Lucifer was about to apologize, but the words died in his throat when Alastor dipped his finger into his own blood and sucked it clean.
“Want to try?” He asked in his trademark sing-song.
Lucifer surged forward. Their mouths met in a clash of teeth and tongue, and Lucifer felt himself go even harder at the dark taste of spice and sin on his lips.
“You drive me crazy,” he whispered when they broke apart.
“My dear, I am crazy,” Alastor chuckled. “What did you expect?”
Then Lucifer grazed his upper thigh, perilously close to his dick, and Alastor cut himself off with a gasp. That strange need clouded his eyes, and once again, Alastor’s primal self took over. He roared, pushing Lucifer onto the ground, their bare legs tangling as he pushed his hand between their legs.
The haze swirled, that sweet, opium smell wiping out the rest of Lucifer’s good sense as Alastor gripped his naked cock with his claws. He groaned, lifting his hips obligingly towards the deer to give him a better angle. That groan turned into a cry when he felt Alastor smearing his own precum on the head of his dick and pushing it against his entrance.
More, his heart thudded. More. More.
He must have been saying it out loud without realizing it, because Alastor grinned. “As you wish.”
Then he pushed in. Lucifer screamed as he felt Alastor’s hardness invading him, penetrating him, stretching him to the limit. But with it, he felt the bond between them swell, take on a new shape. The hatred was still there, yes, but there was something else now too.
And through it all, the same sentence kept running over and over in his fevered brain: Alastor’s never taken another mate.
Alastor’s eyes rolled back, his back arching as he let loose a low moan. His body was shaking, and his hips were moving as if he was a man possessed. That smell was thick in the air, drugging them both as the pleasure washed over them, coming faster and faster until finally –
The explosion that ripped through Lucifer was like nothing he had ever felt before. He had been there for the birth of the cosmos, for the first steps of mankind, for everything that had come before and that would come after. He had thought he had experienced all the firsts in the world.
But this…
He clutched Alastor, who was still trembling from the force of the release. Unlike Lucifer, who was basking in the afterglow, he looked…unsure of himself. Now that the pressing drive of the mating call had disappeared, he looked lost, as if he’d been dumped in the middle of a strange land with no map and no compass.
“Don’t go,” Lucifer whispered, eyeing the strange shadows that were bubbling by his feet. “Stay here with me.”
Alastor wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Lucifer didn’t make him. But he did hold his hand.
“We can work it out together. Just stay.”
Alastor didn’t say anything. But the shadows disappeared, and the two of them sat in the stillness and the quiet of the bayou.
He didn’t let go of his hand.
#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel alastor#hazbin hotel lucifer#alastor#radioapple#my google search history wants me to find jesus#try googling “deer mating signs” without feeling weird#duckiedeer#alastor x lucifer#prompts#asks
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We drift in and out
Chapter 3: Did I find you, or you find me?
E/NSFW/MDNI
CW: Consensual Somno, Light Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst
6k (I know, I went nuts)
10k COMPLETE!
This whole fic started with one picture of a man with hairy arms holding a baby. Everything that came after was a fever dream.
Ch. 1 , Ch. 2, AO3
You had one last night together. Eighteen short hours before a black Land Rover would pick him up and take him away. Off to catch a plane to some forward operating base in a remote, foreign place.
He’d been home with you for four months, by far his longest leave yet. With each day, you’d gotten more comfortable, wondering if maybe he’d become permanent. That instead of just playing house, you were living something real. Building something special together.
That your plans could change, and you could let the fearful part of you rest. That doubtful voice that kept you always prepared. Always on. The survival mode that kept you moving forward but also stopped you from slowing down long enough to breathe. To enjoy.
It was a skill that benefited you in your work. The single-minded attention to detail and success. And when you’d learned you were pregnant, it had kept you from giving into the panic of the unknown. But once she was born, you didn’t have a choice, but to sit with it all. The joy, and the exhaustion. Slow, blissful days had become your routine.
Now you were facing the plan again. The one he wasn’t in. You’d survive, of course, but the bleakness of it cut like a wound. You should’ve known nothing so perfect could last forever. Maybe you did know, deep down. Maybe he did, too, and that’s why you kept each other just a bit out of reach.
But you still had a little more time. A few more memories to make before it came to an uncertain end.
You popped out to Marks & Sparks for supplies to make dinner. It had become a little holiday for you in the last few months. He’d stay home with the baby, and you’d put on real clothes and do your hair and escape for a few hours to squeeze the fruits and smell the cheeses. Go aisle by aisle and daydream about new recipes to try.
Not this time. This time you hurried through as fast as you could. Wasted not a minute as you snatched up everything on your list and rushed to get back to them.
They weren’t in your apartment when got home, so you crossed the hall and knocked on the door to his.
“It’s open!” His voice rang from inside, as you tried the knob and walked in.
He had the baby’s highchair in the kitchen, and the dining room table set with fine china and candles. Music crooned from some hidden speaker, something classical you’d never heard before.
“What’s all this?” You asked, as you set down the bags of groceries on his counter.
“I thought we could eat out tonight. Something different.” He stood with his hands at his hips, and a burp cloth strung over his shoulder. A scheming smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. They didn’t crinkle at the edges the same way you’d gotten used to.
“You’re okay with me making a mess of your kitchen?” You teased. “You know I’ll use every pan and utensil at my disposal.”
Your place was lovely, but his side of the building had twice the space, and a balcony that overlooked Hyde Park. During the few times you visited, it had felt like stepping into a different world. Like a fancy hotel suite in a far-off country, in the way that it had visitors but never really felt lived in. Sanitized into a blank slate, adaptable to anyone who crossed the threshold in search of an escape from their mundane reality.
Or like a museum, it was a place that existed outside of time.
“You cook, I’ll clean up.” He leaned his hips back against the granite and opened his arms to it welcomingly.
It made sense that he’d want to spend his last night in his own home. His own bed.
“Suit yourself,” you plopped a smacking kiss on the baby’s downy head as she sat contentedly in her chair, chewing on a colorful toy.
When you turned your attention back to him, he waited patiently for his greeting. The longing with which he first looked at you and your daughter the day you’d come home was back again. It had seemed like the start of something then.
This time it felt like the end, as you pulled up on your tip toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. Short and sweet. If you hooked your arms around his neck and buried your face in his neck, like every corner of your soul was aching to do, you’d never let go.
The food would rot on the counter and the hard things would never get done.
So, you settled back down and unpacked the bags in front of you.
“Will you pick the wine? I’m making your favorite.”
In lifetimes past, you would’ve dressed up and gone to The Midland in King’s Cross for dinner. Fed each other oysters and champagne. Danced until the early hours of the morning and crashed wildly into bed. Shared a cigar afterwards, naked but for the shelter of each other’s arms.
This time, you made roast beef with fingerling potatoes, minty peas, and glazed carrots. Topped with gravy and with a side of Yorkshire pudding to sop it all up.
It’d be some time before the baby could join in on the feast, but she flailed with enthusiasm at the smells and the excitement with which the two of you ate. Oblivious to how much her lukewarm cereal and the bottle that she could now almost hold on her own paled in comparison.
In place of a West End show, there were airplane spoons and milky sneezes to keep you laughing. Something to focus on besides the future. Besides each other.
The chasm that was too deep and too far to cross, let alone name.
As if on cue, with the last sip of wine, she started to fuss. Fisted her eyes and arched her back in surrender as John rose to soothe her. You’d have many more nights to put her to bed, but who knew what awaited him. You gave him the time alone as you collected the place settings and started the cleaning that he’d promised you.
The little one sighed so heavily against his chest as she curled into him, burying her fingers in his shirt. You knew the feeling, ached for it as you silently cursed your ability to dirty so many dishes making a meal.
He was gone long enough for you to handwash the china and fill the dishwasher, and you wondered if she fought sleep, or if he simply lingered a little longer. Did he tell her a story, or share some secret that was just between them?
The polished wood floorboards creaked under his weight when he finally returned to the kitchen. There was a stiffness to his towering form, as if he was flexing under an invisible weight.
“Just in time. Everything’s already done,” you chided, gently, as you dried your hands on a towel.
“I set her up in the portable crib with the monitor. In the bedroom next to mine.”
“Her first sleepover.” You still couldn’t look at him. You hadn’t yet, had you? Not really. Not since he got the call earlier that day.
Since you’d told him he was never meant to be a part of your life. That you could live without him.
A lie that he’d surely seen through, but you needed to keep for yourself as you busied your hands and kept your back to him.
But he wouldn’t let you hide, as he stepped behind you and pulled you in.
“Don’t pull away. Please. Not yet.” He tucked his grizzled chin into the curve of your neck.
“I’m trying.” You let your head fall back against him, vaguely aware that the music was still playing. Something sad and slow as you swayed to the beat of it.
His hands rested on your hips as he spun you around to face him. If a kiss could fix everything, you gave it to him then. Did your best as you fisted his hair and pulled him down to you, while his palms roamed lower to cup your ass and lift you onto the counter.
Like meat and wine, you savored his lips and his tongue as he delved even deeper. Splitting you open and demanding more. Demanding everything.
Your shirt was over your head and his roughened fingers scratched along the skin of your back, massaging and kneading the sides of your spine while he unhooked your bra. The same muscles you’d kept rigid all day he coaxed into pliancy with each stroke as a weak moan slipped past your lips.
“That’s a girl. Be soft and sweet for me, will you?” He started off slow at the tip of your ear, trailing light, tickling kisses down the shell and to where the lobe met your neck.
It sent shivers down your arms, and your naked breasts budded to peaks as they grazed against the cool smoothness of his shirt. You didn’t want cool, or smooth, just heat and texture as you pulled it off his shoulders and wrapped your legs around his hips.
He groaned at the contact, a fierce and hungry sound as he took one of your hands and slotted it between you. Pressed your palm against the bulge in his pants and grinded against it, letting you feel the way it grew and hardened at your touch.
“Tell me you’ll miss me. Fucking lie to me, just say it,” he grated out, against your collarbone. Miss him? Lie to him? It would be a lie to say you wouldn’t. “I need to hear you to say it.”
“I miss you already,” you whined, as you slid your hands from his groin to his ass and anchored him closer to the dampening heat at your core.
“I’m right here.”
“Then take me to bed. And show me how much you’ll miss me.” It was your turn to grind against him, rubbing the bud of your arousal greedily along the lip of his fly through your thin linen pants as your tits bobbed wantonly against his furry chest.
“Not going to last long if you keep doing that, love,” he growled, lifting you up again and carrying you down the hallway. “I’d rather take my time.”
And he did, starting with his fingers, then his mouth. Drawing out each sensation like he was mapping the stars. Exploring the far reaches of your body and forging new paths until you were shaking and spent.
You marked him in return. Staked a claim on the meat of his pec with a dark red love bite as he came hard and hot inside your pulsating quim. Filled you up with a contented smile on his face, as if there was no better feeling in the world. No place he’d rather be.
“Be back before it fades, okay?” You nuzzled the hair around the spot with your nose as you drifted off beside him, his fingers lazily circling your hole to push the leaky drops of his seed back in.
Did he have hopes that it would take?
Did you?
Later, a strangled sound, like a wounded animal woke you from a fitful sleep. At some point, you must’ve turned to your side and faced away from him because he was behind you. Pulling at your hips and burying his head between your shoulder blades.
“John? What is it?”
“Just a dream. A bad dream.”
You felt the swell of his cock as he sought out the smooth shelter between your thighs. Arching against him instinctively, you curved onto your back and parted your legs as he absently rutted around to find your opening. Still brimming with the sticky spend from your last bout.
He’d always been a giver, but this one was just for him as he worked out his nightmare on your flesh, your insides, your soul. It felt like a battle. A whole damn war as he smothered you with his heavy, dead-weight body and took ground, pounding away at your sensitive, stimulated cunt.
You wondered if he was even awake, or if he was still in the dream, as he fucked into you roughly and muttered far away words. Bit back his own tears as they mixed with the sweat on your skin.
“Mine...Fucking mine...Not letting you go...Not to anyone else...”
Deprived of oxygen from his bulk on your chest, you almost blacked out with the force of your climax, caught by surprise at the way the mound of hair at his base aroused your clit into bloom with each thrust. A tenderness amidst the brutal onslaught. A divine mercy.
If you had air, you’d have screamed at the intensity of it. Spotty flashes of light broke the darkness as you felt the last of your spurting aftershocks flutter around him, soaking you both and easing the incinerating friction from the stretch of him.
You could only clench your teeth and your walls as he shuddered with the strength of his own fresh release. With his face buried in your shoulder, you knew he didn’t smile this time. The sorrow of it hit you like a blow to your heart as you felt him stiffen with awareness, the fog of sleep clearing from his consciousness.
“I’m yours. There’s no one else, John,” you panted, begged, as he eased up onto to his elbows to give you enough space to take a breath. “Only you.”
********
Before you knew it, the black Land Rover was waiting like a harbinger along the street below.
“Here’s the keys to the truck, and to my place. Just in case.” He tossed a set into the bowl you kept on the sideboard. “I know how much you’re dying to go spying in my cupboards.” He raised a amused eyebrow to match the gentle hitch in his mustache.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Except you totally would. At the first opportunity.
“Afraid of what you’ll find?”
“An expired box of Earl Grey in the kitchen, perfectly sorted socks in the bedroom. Stinky smelling beard oil in the bathroom.” You flashed a cheeky grin at the last, in an effort to keep the tone light.
If he could be strong, so could you. You wouldn’t be the one to break. No matter what you felt like on the inside. You’d save it for when he was gone.
“Beard oil? This is all natural.” As if you’d insulted his manhood, he smoothed his mustache down with two hands, in a way you’d seen him do a thousand times. He’d trained any willfulness from his facial hair with nothing but nose grease and perseverance. Molded by time and patience, like marble cliffs and silt-shined creek beds.
“But I was right about the socks though, wasn’t I?”
“And the tea.” He hitched his mouth into a smile and turned his focus to the gurgling baby perched on his hip, yapping and cooing like she was in on the conversation.
The way he looked at her gave you hope that he’d call it all off. He’d sit back down on the couch and turn on the football. Put his heavy feet up on your table and let his flight leave without him.
“I’m sure we can find some priceless antiques in there she can teeth on.” They would start coming in soon. Another change he’d miss.
“Look, you don’t have to wait.” He paused to clear the words he was looking for from his throat. “I understand if you—”
“I just got you, John,” you cut him off, saving him from the self-sacrificing speech, and looked down at her chubby fist wrapped in a white-knuckle grip around his finger. “You’re not getting rid of us yet.”
Don’t let go, sweetheart. Don’t let him go. You willed it into her with your own thoughts.
Your world had gotten so small since she was born. You’d gone from having a job that needed you, coworkers and clients with a network of responsibilities, down to having just one job.
One person who needed you.
But it would’ve been a lot smaller without him. How lonely would you have been without someone to share it all with? How much of him had seeped into your life, and your heart?
“Be nice to your mum,” he whispered against her soft head, as he kissed her cheek and passed her back to you quickly. Looking everywhere but at you. “You have Kate’s number? In case you need anything?”
You pulled him closer with your free hand to his waist, forcing him to see you. Eyes wide and blue, he looked scared. For the first time.
Anything more than a kiss to the forehead would have broken you both. You’d already said your goodbyes the night before, and again that morning. So, you simply tilted your head up to him, your own eyes kind and trusting, and felt his beard graze your skin one last time.
And then you watched him go.
********
By the third week, nothing in your apartment smelled like him anymore. Everything had been washed, and the windows had been left open too long to let in the cool fall breeze. Looking around, you realized that nothing in your home was his.
He’d come through your life with a force and left no trace behind, as if he was never even there. It wasn’t right. You wished with renewed clarity that you’d taken more pictures of him. That you’d recorded every moment.
Something to show your daughter, someday, if she ever questioned whether or not she was loved. Something you could show yourself, when your mind tricked you into believing it was just a dream.
It was the need to seek out that connection, that comfort, that had you unlocking the door to his flat and letting yourself inside. It was dark, and too quiet. Cold and cavernous, like he was the one who heated it and gave it light.
With the baby bouncing on your hip, you explored from room to room. Three bedrooms and four bathrooms. And still, you couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere there either.
His sheets had been washed since you’d spent the night. His bathroom scrubbed of any lingering soap by the cleaning company that came once a month to keep it free of dust and spiders while he was away.
Trapped in time until the next visitor passed through.
Your grief and frustration sprung anew as you moved into his office. Surely it would have something. The indent of his body in a leather seat, or the half-burnt end of a forgotten cigar.
But his chair was too firm to leave a crease, and his ashtray was clean.
There were no medals or honors hung along the walls, and the top of his desk was empty, except for one framed photo. It was exactly what you were looking for, but at the same time, something you never expected.
It was from four years before, when he’d talked you into running a marathon together for a charity for wounded veterans. You remembered the day clearly but never knew someone had taken a picture. It must’ve been at the end, because you were both dewy-faced and soaked in sweat, smiling like mad.
His arm was around your shoulder and yours was at his waist. You looked like a couple. Like you were in love. Was that how you always looked when you were together?
Was this what you’d been missing out on all this time?
Surely, there were others. You’d open a drawer and find photos of him with other people. His parents, his friends. Other women.
But as you pulled them apart one by one, you only found files of old bank statements and tax forms. Until you got to the bottom. A lone manila envelope, padded and thick.
With your name written in the wonky, hurried strokes of his hand.
Your own hands shook as you turned it over to find it sealed. He must’ve wanted you to see what was inside, or else it wouldn’t have your name on it.
Right?
It felt like paper, documents of some kind, but with something else to give it bulk. You shouldn’t have seen it, shouldn’t have gone digging through his stuff. But he’d known you were going to snoop. Had practically dared you to, didn’t he?
You tucked it back in where you’d found it. Whatever it was, he could give it to you when he came back. You’d promised him that you’d wait, and you would.
However long it took.
Just as you shut the drawer, your phone began to buzz in your pocket, jolting you guiltily as if you’d been caught. You took it out, expecting it to be just another spam call, but paused in immediate horror at the name across the screen.
(John’s) Kate
He’d saved the contact in your phone in case you needed to get in touch with him. You couldn’t think of a situation where you’d be justified in pulling his attention away from a job, but you could only think of one reason she’d be calling you.
“Hello,” you answered.
*******
Two hours later, your apartment was full. Well, there were only four guests gathered around your coffee table and perched with varying degrees of curiosity and tension along your couch and side chairs, but it felt overcrowded considering their size.
Three men that you’d never seen before, and then there was Kate. Somehow, she took up just as much space as they did. She carried herself with an air of authority that made your spine straighten reflexively.
“He didn’t tell us he had a family.” The clean cut one in the ball cap, who’d introduced himself as Kyle, spoke first as you poured him a cup of tea. “We all wanted to express our support in person.”
“There wasn’t much to tell until recently,” you smiled, slightly, trying to be a good hostess despite the circumstances.
“You’ve been his emergency contact for the last five years,” Kate added as she declined your offer of milk and sugar.
“I didn’t know that.” That was as long as you’d known each other. Did he really not have anyone else?
“He’s a very private man.” She did you the favor of talking about him as if he wasn’t gone. As if there was still hope.
“How did you know about it?” MacTavish, the stocky Scot with the close-cut mohawk intoned back to her, with a bristling hostility you couldn’t miss.
“I’m CIA. It’s my job to know everyone’s secrets.”
You thought maybe she was trying to make a joke, but her face was dead serious.
“We never would have let him—” He looked regretfully from you to your baby as the blond one with the black surgical mask cut him off with a supportive hand to his knee.
“Have any of you ever successfully talked him out of something once he’d put his mind to it?” You looked around at the faces of the men staring back at you. The people he spent all his time with when he wasn’t with you. “I’m sure that’s why he didn’t tell you. Afraid you’d treat him differently if he was a real person.”
Perhaps for the same reason he’d never told you how he felt. Afraid to make it something real. Something it would hurt to lose.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened, please,” you continued, bracing for the worst.
“A massive fuck up from the beginning, is what it was—” Kyle interjected, heatedly, before he was interrupted by a pointed look from Kate.
“It’s mostly classified, of course. So, we can’t go into details. But John requested an indefinite leave of absence about four months ago. In the interim, his team was assigned to assist another task force in a sensitive operation.” She spoke evenly as if reciting a sequence of events before a committee.
And you listened, all the while searching for the bits she left unsaid. The parts that she hid behind her narrative.
Phrases like, ‘severe loss of life’, ‘pinned down in hostile territory’, and ‘unable to ascertain status’, were cold, calculated ways of saying something went horribly wrong.
You weren’t a naïve civilian who devoured sound bites at face value. You worked with government contracts all the time. American, British. They were all the same. ‘Cover your ass,’ was their collective motto.
When she finished, you had more questions than answers. But one thing stood out in your mind. He hadn’t been home for so long by accident. He’d chosen to stay. He’d given up his team, indefinitely, to be with you.
“So, if I understand correctly, it was a massive fuck up. You him called away, despite his clear wishes to be left alone, to save your ass and theirs.” You turned your attention from Kate over to the team. “And he got you out. And you left him behind?”
He’d quit for you. But he’d gone back for them.
“Not willingly.” The one in the mask, Lieutenant Riley, spoke up for the first time. His eerily dark eyes shot daggers at Kate, as if the fault was hers.
“He knew what he was doing. We needed to reassess the objective and regroup. And I’m available to discuss it at length with you another time, Lieutenant.”
“We know he’s alive.” MacTavish reassured you. “If he was dead, they’d be broadcasting his body and celebrating all over the dark web.”
Oh, what a relief. The visual turned up bile your throat.
“And if he’s been taken prisoner or something?”
“He’s an exceptionally valuable hostage. We’ll have a few weeks at least, while they interrogate him, before he’s ransomed.”
Tortured, she meant. The bile turned to acid, and you forced yourself not to be sick.
“So, what now?” You were in a daze. Kate’s firm, rational, voice grounded you and kept you present when all you wanted to do was breakdown. To scream and cry and pound your fists against their chests to get back out there and find him.
Her position demanded it, you imagined. Judging by the tension flowing between the team, they ached to do just that. It was as if they were held back by some invisible muzzle. Reined in by years of service. One strong woman was all that kept them from charging off to take matters into their own hands.
“We’ll keep you updated as soon as we have news,” Kate answered, softer than before. Perhaps aware that her words alone held little comfort. That they were as grim as hollow condolences. “But here, standard protocol. We had it stripped of anything sensitive. There’s only a few pictures and text messages left. It’s unlocked.”
She handed you his battered old phone. The screen was scratched up, and the case was cracked enough to be useless protection. You didn’t think they even supported this model anymore. You couldn’t help but smile when you saw it.
‘It’s busted to bloody hell, but still hanging on’, he’d said about it once with a proud laugh. You prayed that he was the same, wherever he was.
“Thank you. It was nice to meet you all,” you replied, politely, suddenly anxious to be alone. To fall apart in peace. “I wish it was under better circumstances. Maybe next time we can have a drink and a proper laugh. When he’s home.”
“We’ll get him back, Mrs. Price.” It was Kyle who pulled you into a hug, as if you were family. “I promise.”
It was the first time anyone had called you that, and you didn’t correct him. In the moment, it was a comfort. A universal truth that you longed to hear from someone else’s lips.
The others followed suit with their goodbyes, but their warmth and concern were a shallow replacement for the man you were missing. Kate settled for a stoic handshake before you closed the door on them all and set your back against it for support.
The phone in your hand was heavy as you pulled it up to see his text messages, looking for any possible clue or something to keep hope alive. There were a few off color jokes between him and his mates. Notes to you about what was for dinner, and silly photos he’d taken of the baby.
One single text exchange with Kate. As if he’d deleted them as soon as they came in. Or perhaps Kate had wiped them as part of her pruning. It was from four months prior.
I hope you know what you’re doing.
Never more certain in my life.
Were they talking about you? Of his choice to leave? It reminded you of something else he’d left behind. Something you’d forgotten in the whirlwind of the last few hours.
When you held the envelope again in your hands, you didn’t think twice about ripping through the seal. Inside was a stack of handwritten letters, all dated and signed with his name.
You focused on the one on top, from the day before he’d left.
Hey love,
If you’re reading this, then something must’ve happened to me. Or your curious nature got the best of you, and you went snooping around my desk.
I hope it’s the latter because it’s time you knew, and who knows when I’ll get the courage to tell you myself. But if it’s the former, then I’m sorry.
I can’t say I’m surprised, though. There’s only so many times I can dare death to find me before it wins. You just have to know that I did my best, for whatever it’s worth.
I never felt like I could have a family. I didn’t deserve that sort of peace after the things I’ve done. I’ve taken too many lives to have any chance at a happy one. Killed too many sons to be entitled to any of my own.
It’s been my purpose. What I’m good at. And I never wanted to bring that burden home to anyone else.
Then I saw you again after I made myself a promise to stay away from you this time. You were so fearless and calm. I just wanted to be near you. Close enough that you might scare away the darkness in me.
If someone like you, and her, could trust me and see any good in me, then maybe I’m not such a monster after all.
You made me believe in fate. In something bigger that was beyond my control. I just hope that it’s not done with me yet. That it’s not done with us.
If this is the end, then I just want to say thank you and leave you with everything. Everything that I have, and everything that I left unsaid.
These letters are from all the other times I’ve done this. The other missions that called me away since we met, in the event that I didn’t come back. You were the only thing worth coming home to, and I’m sorry I didn’t share them sooner.
If you’re just being nosy, and I’m already warm in our bed with the baby drooling on my chest, I hope I’ve already told you a thousand times how much I love you. How lucky I am to have known your love in return.
And I hope you’re already wearing one of these rings. I couldn’t decide which one, so I’ll let you choose. They’ve been in my family for ages. All yours now.
All my heart, John.
The pages were flooded with salty tears by the time the jingle at the bottom of the envelope caught your attention. Five different rings. Yellow and white gold, glistening diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires. Old and new.
But not yet. You didn’t dare to touch them yet. Didn’t choose. You believed in fate, too. He wasn’t gone, and it wasn’t the end.
*******
The next days passed by in a blur, waiting by the phone. You were thankful for the baby, as she didn’t let you wallow or crumble the way you wanted to. There were still diapers to change, and bottles to fill. Smiles to fake and colic to soothe.
You wondered if she missed him, too. If she even noticed he was gone.
It was three in the morning when you got the call, and you shot up in bed, sleep quickly forgotten when you answered. You didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID.
“John!”
“Hiya, darling.” His voice was a faint groan of relief.
“Where are you?” You held the phone away from your face just long enough to see the long, foreign number with a country code you couldn’t place. “Does Kate know where you are?”
“I don’t have a lot of time. I’m in the blind. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
You flung off your covers and rushed to your computer. He was in trouble.
“I’m here. Are you hurt?”
“Not bad.” You could hear him smiling, the way the words huffed out through pained lips. It was definitely bad.
You had to keep him talking, to stay on the line long enough for you to work. The laptop took forever to start up. You hadn’t used it since you’d left your employment, and it must’ve needed a hundred updates. But you didn’t have time as your fingers trembled anxiously over the keys.
This was what you did. This was your job. You designed software that could find people. Find targets. Needles in the giant haystack that was the world.
You set the phone to speaker mode and plugged it in to your program.
“Whose phone is this, John?” It would be encrypted, you presumed. You wouldn’t be lucky enough to have its location turned on.
“An old friend. I’d put him on, but he’s not with us anymore, I’m afraid. Poor fellow took a fall.” Another gurgled laugh. “But his name was Makarov. When you talk to Kate, tell her the mission’s complete.”
“You can tell her yourself. You’re going to be fine. Just keep talking to me.”
You buzzed through lines of code, searching for the one you needed.
“How’s the poppet? Is she being a good girl?”
“She’s sleeping. She’s okay. Misses you. Can’t wait to see you.”
Got it! You broke through the encryption and pinned his location using satellite GPS.
“It’s not looking good, love.”
“Do you believe in fate, John?” You asked, as you used your laptop’s connection to call Kate.
There was a reason you’d met each other. You were certain now that nothing had been by chance. You were meant to find him. You were meant to find each other.
“Ah, went pawing through my drawers, did you? Which ring did you pick?”
“I’ll show you when you get home,” you promised as the line finally connected. “Kate! I know where John is. You have to hurry.”
You sent her the coordinates to the exact centimeter. He was deep underground, in some kind of a bunker. Or an old mineshaft. To her credit, Kate didn’t argue or ask where you got your intel.
Two hours later, you were still on the phone with him. The light began to creep slowly through the curtains, bringing with it a brand new day. But his breath had slowed, and his words came thicker from his throat.
“Just a little longer, okay?” You didn’t let him sense your fear as you quietly willed your life into him, to keep him hanging on.
Where the fuck were they?
The line had gone too quiet when you heard the blast.
“John! John, what was that?” You prayed it was the team, and not a fresh wave of enemy combatants come to finish the job.
“In here!” John’s voice, with a renewed strength.
“Bravo-7 to Watcher. Eyes on Bravo-6. We’ve got him.” You heard Lieutenant Riley’s unmistakable accent breakthrough as he got closer to the phone. “Have med-evac waiting topside. He’s in rough shape.” He switched from his comms to John. “Can you walk, Cap?”
“Well, you aren’t fucking carrying me, Ghost. That’s for bloody sure.”
“Please don’t leave me.” The tears that you finally let fall were of release. Of relief. You didn’t know if he still held the phone, or if it lay forgotten on the ground as they carried him away.
“Careful what you wish for, darling.”
#call of duty#john price#captain price#price x reader#captain john price#john price x reader#task force 141
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Is Being In Love Always Painful?
~ gif not mine credit to owner ~
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader, Bucky x Natasha
Summary: Your in love with Bucky but he marries Nat
Word count: 636 shes a shorty
Warnings: Angst, swearing, Nat being a bad friend? Terrible writing as always
A/N: there will be another two parts
Masterlist Series Masterlist
Loving him was easy. But he wasn’t yours to love, no that was for your best friend. You still loved him with every inch of you.
Why? Because loving James ‘Bucky’ Barnes was easy.
You met him at school, he was your first friend actually. Starting a new school was terrifying especially when you don’t know anyone there. Ms Donovan paired you up with him so he could show you around, he made sure you ate with him and his friends, made sure no one picked on you. He was easy to be friends with.
He took you to prom when Jimmy Holland bailed on you, and that’s when you knew you was in love with him. His smile made your heart skip way too many beats to be normal, he danced and laughed the whole night with you. Prom was amazing just because of him.
You went to different colleges and even with the distance you still kept in touch, seeing each other twice a month, three times if you were really lucky.
Natasha became your best friend straight away since you both shared a dorm and you were into the same things. Nat knew of your feelings for Bucky so one day she told you to go and tell him, she even paid for the bus tickets. You stood there outside Bucky’s dorm going over your words that you selected carefully for the umpteenth time. You were both surprised, him being that you were there and you being that he had a pretty brunette standing behind him and him introducing her to you as his girlfriend. You left shortly after with some lame excuse that he either believed or simply didn’t care.
You went back to Nat and cried.
With graduation four months away, you finally introduced Nat and Bucky to each other and honestly didn’t think anything of it since Nat knew of your feelings.
A few weeks later Nat walked in to the kitchen as you was making dinner, shuffling back and forth. “Y/N umm I need to ask you something” Her voice was small which was something it never was. Giving her a nod she continued “so um Bucky asked me out on a date and I said yes, I just really like him and since he’s your best friend I wanted to know if that’s oka- shit are you okay?” You sliced your finger with the knife which hurt but not compared to the pain in your heart. But you couldn’t say anything, so you nodded. The night of their date, you cried and after their date you slept with headphones on just so you didn’t have to listen to them having sex.
It’s been three years since graduation and you were in the jewellers with Bucky. To get an engagement ring. He’s going to propose to Nat.
You were there when she squealed with joy, nodding so fast you thought her head was going to come off.
You said yes to being her maid of honour, you did everything for her. Helped plan the perfect wedding for your best friend and the man you were madly in love with.
You stood there watching Bucky cry as he watched Nat walk down the aisle towards him.
You watched as they exchanged vows.
You stood in the corner of the hall and watched them have their first dance as husband and wife.
You did it all with a smile on your face even with your heart breaking.
Long after the newlyweds and guests left you was still in the hall cleaning up. Steve was supposed to help but you waved him off telling him to enjoy his night with Peggy. All alone in the room you let the tears fall.
Loving Bucky was so easy but also extremely painful.
Next>
~ banners credit goes to @sweetpeapod ~
#bucky barns x y/n#bucky barnes#bucky barnes angst#marvel fanfiction#marvel#bucky barnes x reader#natasha romanoff#natasha romanov#bucky x you#bucky barnes x you#Steve rogers#bucky fanfic#james bucky buchanan barnes#bucky x female reader#bucky x reader#bucky fic#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky x y/n#bucky x natasha#bucky yn angst
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One Star Review // J. Todd x gn!reader
Requested? Yes!
Warnings: injury, blood, medical talk
Summary: When working a late night shift at the drug store, a certain vigilante comes stumbling in with a stab wound and a bad attitude.
The bell over the door chimed, setting off your Pavlovian response to greet the incoming customer. By the time you raised your head, you found no one standing there. Peeking over the counter, you spied a trail of blood drops on the linoleum tiles and sighed.
Working at a twenty-four hour drugstore in Gotham was a guarantee for stories to bring home to your roommates, but the novelty had worn off by the third robbery. You wished you could say that random people stumbling in with injuries was rare, but you weren’t raised to be a liar.
“Hi, can I help you?” you called. A low curse met your ears and you moved out from behind the bulletproof glass covered desk to peer down the aisles. The trail led you towards the first aid section. Of course.
“Do you need help?” you tried again.
“Fuck off,” was your reply.
You huffed and turned around the end of the aisle to find Red Hood of all people leaning up against the shelves with one hand clasped over his side and the other full of various first aid items. Planting your hands on your hips, you stared at him with an unimpressed look on your face.
“This is my store, bitch boy. Don’t tell me to fuck off,” you snapped. “And sit down before you hurt yourself worse.”
“I’m gonna write a review,” he grumbled. “Terrible service. Employee called me a bitch boy.”
“Tough,” you said. You gestured for him to follow you over to a chair next to the blood pressure cuff. “Now move it.”
He sighed and maneuvered his large frame into the small chair. Red Hood pulled his hand away from his side and you could see the angry, pulsing wound under his destroyed body armor. A hiss of empathetic pain passed through your teeth and you leaned in closer to see it.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” he snapped.
“Do you want to be a dick and bleed out or do you want help? Because you can’t do both.”
That shut him up, thankfully. You poured a glob of hand sanitizer on your hands and scrubbed it in before you pulled on a pair of the latex gloves from the box he grabbed. Gently, you pulled his ruined kevlar away from his skin and examined the wound.
“You got stabbed,” you noted. “Didn’t go too deep, luckily. Must have been a sharp knife to break through this material.”
“Assassins,” he muttered.
“Yeah, that’ll do it.” Grabbing the saline wash and some clean gauze wrappers, you ripped open the gauze and poured saline on it. Without giving him a warning, you pressed it against the wound. Red Hood, to his credit, barely flinched.
“I’m in an EMT class right now,” you explained. “I’ve always been interested in this stuff but shit, it’s expensive. By the way, you better be paying for this stuff.”
“Yeah, yeah. Put it on my tab,” he said through gritted teeth.
The two of you fell into an easy silence as you packed his wound and applied a layer of thick gauze before taping it onto his skin. You tried to ignore the very pronounced dips of his abs, but how could you when they were right there? The second you were done taping down the edges, he was fighting to stand up.
“Woah,” you exclaimed. Your hands landed on his shoulders and you pushed him back into the seat. “You lost a lot of blood so I wouldn’t try to get up too quickly.”
“I need to get back out there,” he argued. “Thanks for the help, but you did your job. Now I need to do mine.”
Your face went deadpan and you stared at him with pursed lips and raised brows. “Okay, fine. But if you go out there and ruin my handiwork, you will have to live with the guilt of knowing that you were a dick to a retail employee.”
Red Hood’s helmet stared off into the distance for a moment before he grumbled out a “fine” and settled back in the chair. A triumphant smirk settled across your face and you started to gather up the trash you had tossed around you when patching him up.
“Let me grab you a juice and some crackers to help with your blood sugar. Any kind you want?”
He sighed. “Apple, please.”
When you returned to the back of the store, the chair was empty except for a single one-hundred dollar bill and a business card. The card was face down, blue ink marking the empty white space of the back.
Call her, it instructed. You flipped it over and read the name printed on the front. Dr. Leslie Thompkins.
“Huh,” you murmured to yourself. You were definitely telling your roommates about this the second you got home.
Tag List: @mcrmarvelloki @gone-batty-fics @someoneimsure @perpetual-fangirl900 @visagebrise @cursedandromedablack @alexxavicry @the-wayward-daughter @raging-trash-of-mind @kat-nee @khaylin27 @igotanidea @princessbl0ss0m
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even on my worst days
for @steddiemicrofic's october prompt 'suck' (the first of many)
rated: T (probably the only one not mature or explicit)
wc: 480
cw: discussion of depression
tags: a bad day, hurt/comfort, getting together
👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻
This day sucked.
He still had four hours left before he could be alone.
And two of those hours would be spent in therapy.
Because he was depressed.
According to the fancy doctor that was on call for the Hawkins crew, Steve had always been depressed, but now needed to learn to cope with the trauma he faced on top of that.
Or whatever.
His day started with his alarm clock not going off, making him late to work on the one day that Keith opened with him. After he got chewed out for 20 minutes about being responsible, he realized he forgot his lunch at home, and a dull headache was already starting behind his eyes.
Two customers in a row called him an idiot for not having the movie they wanted, followed by a kid knocking over their entire horror movie display because he got "scared."
By the time he cleaned up, his head was pounding, his stomach was growling, and Keith was yelling at him about Brent never showing up on time for his shift, as if that was Steve's problem.
Steve didn't get along with Brent, but he'd never been happier to see him when he did show up for his shift, replacing Keith.
"Steve?"
Steve's eyes focused back on...
"Eddie? What are you doing here?"
Eddie looked around, making sure they were alone at the counter before leaning in to answer.
"It's therapy day. Brought you a cookie."
Steve could kiss him.
He wanted to kiss him.
So far, the only thing about this day that didn't suck was Eddie standing in front of him holding a cookie like he did before all of his therapy appointments.
Instead of kissing him, Steve started crying.
"Shit, Stevie-" Eddie pulled him around the edge of the counter and against his chest. "Hey, what's wrong?"
"Sorry. Just a shitty day. Probably making yours worse by crying about it."
"Nope, not at all. Kind of happy to be holding you, actually."
That was just unfair. Eddie was always just being way too nice and Steve didn't deserve it.
"You want me to stay with you until therapy?" Eddie whispered against his ear, sending a shiver down Steve's back.
"You don't have to-"
"I asked if you wanted me to."
Steve pulled back, but Eddie's arms remained around him.
"Will it help the day suck less if I stay?" he asked again.
Steve nodded.
And this time, instead of crying, Steve leaned back in and pecked him on the lips.
It was quick, it had to be since there was a customer still floating between aisles, and Brent was supposed to be back from his break any minute.
But it was something.
Eddie smiled at him, his eyes softening, losing the concern almost entirely.
It looked like his day might turn around, especially if he gets to keep kissing Eddie.
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Can you please make one of Muntant mayhem x reader? I bet you will do a awesome job on it! By the way love your content! <3
Beauty in the Bodega: part 1 (Fluff)
MM!Leonardo x reader
Part 2
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A/N: Thank you so much!😊💕💕 I’ve actually been wanting to write for Mutant Mayhem for some time now, but I just haven’t had any ideas until now💚 Inspired by when Mikey comments on Leo’s crush on April with: “Here he goes again”, and Donnie’s: “Every girl, man”, implying that MM Leo has had quite a few crushes in the past💙😏
Hope you enjoy!💚🐢
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During a grocery run to the nearest bodega, Leonardo sees a girl that makes his heart skip and his insides feel warm.
Warnings: Spelling and Mutant Mayhem cuteness💙
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The sewers beneath New York City were a chaotic blend of echoes as the four brothers moved stealthily through the shadows. With a memorized grocery list in hand, they moved silently and stealthily, just like their father had taught them to, each of them knowing exactly what to get.
Leonardo led the way, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of trouble. His younger brothers, Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael, followed closely behind, their ninja senses sharp as they navigated the labyrinthine tunnels, until they made it to the familiar ladder that led them to the world of the humans.
As they reached the surface, the brothers climbed the nearby fire escape before sprinting across the roof, until they found themselves on top of the building that housed the small bodega. Leo surveyed the area, ensuring it was safe, before nodding to his brothers. With practiced ease, they slipped in through the ventilation system.
In the vent just above the store, the four turtles found themselves staring down at the mostly empty store. The only human being, the ever absent minded cashier at the cash register, who was busy with a very infuriating crossword, mumbling about a word that was causing them a lot of problems.
With a quick nod from Leonardo, the brothers crawled out of the vent and split up to cover more ground. Donnie took care of the toiletries, while lip syncing to the music playing in the bodega. Raph was busy finding kitchen and cleaning supplies, while Mikey was digging his way through the best junk food. Leo found himself in the snacks aisle, contemplating the various options. He remembered what his father had told him before they went out. Make sure the Doritos were party sized. Party sized Doritos. Remember that Leonardo.
The bell above the entrance to the bodega rang, altering the cashier and the brothers to a new presence in the small store. All four of them knew what that meant - hide. With lightning fast speed Donnie disappeared up into the vent, Raph found a spot among the cleaning supplies, and Mikey hid up above on top of the long lamps. Leo stayed on the ground, hiding behind the shelves, relieved when he realized that the cashier still hadn't noticed them.
Through the shelves, he caught a glimpse of the person who had just entered the bodega, and his heart almost stopped at the sight, making him drop the Doritos bag. Of course he had expected a human, but he had not expected one looking like you did. Your presence, seemingly ordinary yet captivating, drew Leo's gaze. He couldn't help but watch as you moved through the bodega, selecting items with an easy grace.
You came into the store, humming to the music that was playing in your headphones, totally oblivious to the eyes of Leonardo that were watching your every move.
Leo’s brothers, scattered throughout the store, noticed his distraction and exchanged knowing glances. Raphael, spotting Leo's fixation, smirked and made eye contact with Donatello, who joined in the silent communication with a playful grin.
Leo tried to regain his composure, tearing his eyes away from you for a split second, as he moved to a different shelf, before you managed to see him. His heart was beating, not just from the fear of getting caught by a human, but the thought of how close you were to him. But as you moved away to a shelf further away, Leo couldn’t help but follow along, making sure that he was staying hidden.
Leo watched as you gathered your things before walking up to the cash register. You placed your stuff in front of the cashier, waiting as they groggily started scanning your items. Leo and his brothers used this as an opportunity to get the last they needed, before hurrying back into the vent, all while the cashier was focused on your items.
With all of their groceries in bags, they hurried through the vent and up onto the roof, just in time to see you leave out the front door of the bodega with your newly bought groceries, once again humming to the music in your headphones.
“It feels like / Skuba duba dabda dididaj / Skuba duba dabda dididaj / I love you / Another cliche baby”, you sang along, doing a little dance as you walked.
Leo watched you with a smile, his heart skipping a beat at the sight. There was just something about humans, especially the ones like you, that just warmed his heart. Carefree, dancing and singing down the street, without having to worry about who was watching. How he wished he could do something like that, with someone just like you.
Raphael couldn't resist a teasing comment, hitting Leo’s arm when he saw him staring after you. "Well, well, look who's got heart in his eyes again. Leo, you've got a thing for grocery shopping now?"
Donatello joined in, smirking. "I think I saw a spark between Leo and that cereal box".
Michelangelo laughed. "Maybe it's love at first sight. Or should I say, love at first snack?", he said and pulled out a pack of oreos from his bag, causing both Donnie and Raph to hold their stomach in laughter.
Leo tried to brush off their comments, a faint blush visible under his mask. "It's nothing. Let's just go home".
“Booooooring”, Donnie groaned out loud, as he followed Leonardo’s lead back to the sewers. But his brothers weren't about to let him off the hook that easily.
As they made their way back home through the sewers, Leo’s brothers continued to tease him, comparing you to all the other girls that have caught his attention over the yes. Was it really so bad that he dreamed of getting a girlfriend one day? All human teenagers his age did the same, so was it wrong of him just because he was a turtle.
As they were about to round the corner before the entrance to their home, Leo stopped in realization. He had forgotten the Doritos.
“Oh shit”, he mumbled, before giving his bags to his brothers.
“Yo, what’s happening, man?”, Raph asked in confusion.
“I forgot the Doritos”, Leo said in a hurry. “Tell dad I’ll be back in a minute! I’ll hurry!” And with those words Leo was down the sewer before any of his brothers could protest.
Leo made it to the ladder and pushed the sewer cover off, only to stop dead in his tracks. Right in front of him on the alley floor was a perfect party sized Doritos bag, with a note taped to it.
Leo’s first thought was that he should run. The fear that a human had caught him burning in his throat. But he didn’t run. Instead he looked around to make sure he was alone, before he reached out and grabbed the bag, bringing it down to the sewer. Once at the foot of the ladder, Leo took a look at the note taped to the bag. It was hard to read with his shaking hands, but he managed.
“Hey stranger! I think you dropped this at the bodega, so I thought I would bring it to you. (Y/N) <3. P.S. You and your friends are quite noisy once you get up on the roof;)”.
Leo felt like fainting. A human had brought him the Doritos that his dad had asked him for. Not just any human, but you. The pretty human from the bodega.
Heat creepy up his cheeks, as he took the note and hid it in a pocket on his belt. Thinking back on Raph’s comment, Leo couldn’t help but giggle a little. He might have a thing for grocery shopping now.
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A/N: MM Leonardo with his crushes gives me “Cliche Love Song” by Basim vibes. Also the song used💕
#tmnt#teenage mutant ninja turtles#tmnt leonardo#tmnt x y/n#tmnt x reader#tmnt donatello#tmnt raphael#tmnt michelangelo#tmnt raph#tmnt donnie#tmnt leo#tmnt mikey#tmnt mutant mayhem#tmnt mm#tmnt x you#tmnt mm x reader#tmnt mutant mayhem x reader#mutant mayhem#tmnt 2023#tmnt mm leo#tmnt mm mikey#tmnt mm donnie#tmnt mm raph#tmnt mm leonardo#tmnt mm michelangelo#tmnt mm donatello#tmnt mm raphael#tmnt mutant mayhem leo#tmnt mutanty mayhem leonardo#tmnt mutant mayhem raph
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hey! i just broke up w my bf of almost two years today and have been really sad.
I wanted to thank you for your works bc there helping me get through this. your hotch x reader works are keeping me sane
idk if your interested but maybe a request of reader breaking up with their partner and is very sad was bc they were so busy w the bau and life so they think its best and hotch is there for her and comforts them. he has feelings for them but doesnt want to make a move bc yk newly single. but he does little things to make her feel better bc he likes to see her smile :)
this is completely self service so you dont have to write but i love you works i think ur my fav writer on here :) i hope all is well love 💜
hi lovey! first off, i'm so sorry that you're going through a breakup. I hope that this can help even just a little bit, please take care of yourself and eat something yummy <333
--
Today holds new experiences for both you and Aaron. For example, you've never seen him in sweatpants before, and he's never seen you with 4 hours worth of tear-induced eye bags.
As luck would have it, when you turn into the tissue aisle, the metal bars of another cart smash into your own. They weren't going fast, but you were, hellbent on getting what you need and getting out again, so the screeching of metal on metal only makes your headache worse.
"Sorry," You rush, keeping your eyes averted as you yank your cart away from the other. You keep conversation short, but the voice that comes from the person you'd just rammed into makes you stiffen instinctually.
"Y/N?"
It's Hotch.
It's your boss, the man who you try extra hard to be nothing but professional around. The man who's seen you only in perfectly dry cleaned pantsuits and neat hair is seeing you in pajama pants and crocs with a nose so swollen it looks like you've been stung by a bee.
"Hotch," You cringe, nodding politely as you try maneuvering your cart around his, "Sorry for bumping into you. I was in a hurry."
"I can see that," He grabs onto the bars of your cart to stop you from pushing it anywhere, and you chance a cautious look up at his face; his brow is knit in concern, and his eyes are shining with the same look. But your glance upwards reveals that his son is with him, a boy no more than four years old sitting in the cart and looking at you with a tiny hint of terror on his little face, something that probably stems from your no-makeup zombie look. He's mid-chew on a tiny handful of popcorn that he'd probably begged his dad for at the front.
"What happened?" Aaron asks, pulling your attention back to him, and you're slightly relieved he doesn't go for 'Are you alright?'. Clearly, you're not.
"Uh," You sniffle, chuckling dryly, "Bad breakup. Just- getting some tissues, that's all."
"Oh." He hums, hand loosening on your cart, "I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"
"Um," You glance around the store, knowing not many people are there, but it would still be weird to open up a therapy session in the TP aisle, "No, it's okay. Thank you, though. Really, I appreciate it."
"Okay," Aaron nods, though none of the concern has left his expression, "But if you'd like to some other time, please remember I'm here if you need me. Even if it's late, if you need help I'll give it to you."
His sincerity brings a fresh wave of tears to your eyes that he smiles sadly at, and you smear a hand over your eyes to get rid of them, "Thanks, Hotch."
"Mhm," He hums, looking ready to let you go until his son hooks a chubby fist into his shirt.
"Hm?" Aaron looks down, and leans his head next to Jack's when the little boy tugs him closer.
They huddle for a moment, Jack whispering into Aaron's ear, and the man's hand tightens around your cart once more. Just when you thought you'd escaped.
"I think you should." Aaron nods, straightening up, glancing over, and nodding his head towards you, "Go ahead, buddy."
Jack looks up at you with that same hint of apprehension you'd seen earlier, but he digs a fist into his popcorn bucket and extends the hand to you. You actually feel your heart melting, the organ liquifying and dripping through your ribcage to pool like goo in your stomach.
"Uh- maybe," Aaron reaches for the bucket, intent on giving you a handful that hasn't touched sticky toddler hands, but you take Jack's offering without hesitation.
"Thank you, honey," You croon, and he drops the kernels into your open palm, "That does help, popcorn makes me much less sad."
"Daddy makes it for movie night." Jack's voice is soft and sweet, and you smile, sniffling weakly once more.
"Really? That sounds fun, what movies do you watch?"
"We're watching Monsters University tonight," Aaron informs you, then his posture straightens as an idea blooms in his brain, "Y'know, if popcorn makes you less sad, I think you should come and have some with us."
"Oh," Your eyes widen slightly, and you shake your head on impulse, "No, that's okay. I couldn't-"
"I'm asking you to." It's the firm voice Aaron uses whenever he's giving someone orders around the office; you suppose he can't separate his work life and home life completely.
"I don't like the thought of you being alone," Aaron admits, eyeing the ice cream already in your cart, "How about we pick up another pint and head to checkout?"
"I'll be okay," You reach for a package of tissues, extra large, "Don't worry about it, Aaron."
You don't see it, but Aaron pinches Jack's side lightly, spurring the boy into action.
"Please come over tonight," Jack begs, and you swear he's making his eyes shiny on purpose, "Mike Wazowski is funny, and you can't be sad if you're watching something funny."
Aaron raises his eyebrows at you, and you see the faint hint of a smirk playing at his lips; got you.
You take a deep breath in, speaking on the exhale, "Alright. Um, can I bring anything else?"
"Pajamas, maybe." Aaron hums, "Movie nights are always better in pajamas."
You glance disdainfully down at your outfit, ragged pajama pants and a sweatshirt, "Check."
"Perfect," Aaron chuckles, finally letting go of your cart and turning it towards the ice cream aisle, "Let's go, buddy, if Y/N's coming over tonight, you need a bath. She doesn't wanna sit with a stinky boy."
"I'm not stinky!" Jack insists, looking like he's never been more offended in his life.
Aaron leans in, theatrically sniffing at the space near Jack's shoulder. He bugs his eyes out, turning his head to the side and fake-coughing, "Woah."
Jack roars with laughter at his dad's dramatics, feet kicking at his Aaron's stomach, and the sound of his giggles make the popcorn you're munching on taste a little bit sweeter.
#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner imagine#aaron hotchner scenario#aaron hotchner oneshot#aaron hotchner one-shot#aaron hotchner one shot#aaron hotchner headcanon#aaron hotchner headcanons#aaron hotchner hc#aaron hotchner hcs#aaron hotchner fanfiction#aaron hotchner fanfic#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner blurb#aaron hotchner drabble#aaron hotchner dialogue#aaron hotchner fluff#aaron hotchner x reader fanfiction
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Steddie Week 2023
May 22nd Prompt: Hunger
Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7
@steddie-week
Steve wakes up slowly, rolls over to look at his alarm clock, then bursts out of bed in a rush of limbs and sheets and curses.
3:42 blinks back at him. Sometime during the night the power had gone out, and Steve knows it is well past 9, when he was supposed to be opening at Family Video. He pulls on his jeans and a clean shirt, stuffs his feet in his shoes, runs a brush through his hair, and grabs his vest on his way out the door, sparing half a glance at his kitchen, but not having time to eat.
If it comes down to it, he thinks, there’s always the candy.
He gets to Family Video in record time, breathing out a sigh of relief when he yanks on the door to find it still locked. That means he’s the first one there. Keith might notice when he goes back through times this week to figure out pay, but Steve’s hopeful he’s gotten away with it this time.
He clocks in, computer reading 10:01 (an entire hour late, whoops), and takes a breath as he looks around the store. Robin’s scheduled to come in at three, meaning he has five hours alone.
No one comes in for the first hour. Steve finishes logging returns and winding back the tapes.
Halfway through the second hour, the bell above the door jingles, and Steve raises his voice from where he’s putting away tapes. “Welcome to Family Video!”
“Either you’re hiding or you’ve officially started haunting this place,” a voice calls back, and Steve laughs as he walks out of the aisle.
“Hey, Eddie.”
“Hiya, Stevie.” He grins. “Tell me if this is too forward? But I noticed the power went out last night and figured if I know you as well as I do, you slept in and missed breakfast.” He hands Steve a brown paper bag, creased nicely at the top.
“Lifesaver,” Steve gasps, opening the bag. Three muffins. He sniffs them, then groans. “You’re perfect, holy shit, thank you.” Banana nut, his favorite. His heart skips an odd beat, then again when he realizes Eddie’s blushing, pulling a piece of hair across his face.
“You’re welcome,” Eddie says quietly, chuckling slightly. “I guess I was right?”
“Yeah, I woke up, like, half an hour after my shift had started, immediately panicked, and got here as fast as I could. I don’t need another write-up.”
Eddie nods, a smirk crawling onto his face. “How about waiving the fees for your favorite customer?”
Steve makes a show of looking around. “Dustin’s here?”
Eddie just laughs. “I can’t even be mad at that one.”
“Steve,” Eddie says, eyes wide, adorably serious. Steve tries to school his face accordingly, but he can’t really feel his face. “I’m hungry.”
Steve thinks about it. “I am too,” he decides, then thinks some more. “Is there pizza left over?”
Eddie shrugs, looks at the blunt in his hand, then shrugs again, taking another drag. “Chips?”
“I have chips,” Steve agrees, grabbing for the blunt. “C’mon, share.”
Eddie hands it over. “Steve,” he says again, “I’m a genius.”
“Yup,” Steve agrees.
“We should watch a movie.”
“Oh my god,” Steve breathes. “With snacks?”
“Yeah. Yeah, with snacks, c’mon, help me, help me!” He pulls Steve up, laughing when Steve does.
“Eddie,” Steve says. It’s his turn to be serious. “What if we call Argyle? And Jon?”
“And they can bring pizza,” Eddie breathes. “Stevie, I think you’re the genius.”
“Yup,” Steve agrees again. “I’ll call. You get snacks. And movie.”
“Fuck off,” Eddie laughs, resting his head against the wall. “There’s no way.”
“I swear! That’s exactly what she said! And then she tried to blame me, like it isn’t all automated.” Steve huffs a breath.
Eddie shakes his head. “You have way more patience than I do, man.”
“That’s not true. We have different types. I could never sit like you do, painting your figurines.”
Eddie snorts. “I zone out and wake up four hours later. I don’t think that counts as patience.” He sighs. “As fun as this has been, Steve, I’ve gotta go get ready for my shift. I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. What time does your shift start?”
“Six.”
“That… Eds, that’s in twenty minutes.”
“No? I’m looking at a clock right here. It’s 4:40 right now. I’ve got an hour twenty.”
“Eds,” Steve says, sounding pained. “Daylight savings.”
“Oh, shit,” Eddie breathes. “Shit, shit, shit, you’re right, shit, fuck, okay, I’ve gotta go, love you, bye!”
He hangs up before Steve can say anything else, stuffing his feet in his shoes and grabbing his keys before racing out.
He’s halfway to work before he realizes he’s hungry. He lays his head on his steering wheel at a red light, breathes. “Just five hours,” he tells himself. “I can make it five hours.”
Half an hour in, he’s not so sure. His hands aren’t as steady as they should be, but he hides it from his coworkers, takes another few deep breaths, and tries to trick himself by drinking more water.
Ten minutes later, a familiar maroon Beemer pulls up. Eddie’s heart thuds in his chest as he goes out to meet Steve.
“Sorry I’m late,” Steve grins. “I think I got caught by all the lights possible.” He grabs something from the passenger seat. A brown paper bag.
“You didn’t,” Eddie breathes.
“I did,” Steve admits. “I hope turkey’s okay.”
“Turkey’s fantastic,” Eddie promises. “Freakin’ food for the gods, when I’m this hungry.” He opens the bag. A sandwich, a small bag of chips, an apple. He laughs. “Jesus wept, Steve, I brought you three little muffins!”
“Yeah, and I meant it when I called you a lifesaver.” He tilts his head. “I’m curious about something, though. If you meant it.”
Eddie pauses with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Meant what?”
“Gotta go, love you, bye.”
“Oh.” Nausea makes its presence known. He brings the sandwich down. “Steve, I-”
Steve’s fingers land on his forearm. “The truth, Eds. Please.” He’s whispering, eyes big and hopeful, and Eddie feels some of that same hope filling him.
“Yeah,” he whispers back.
Steve grins again, steps back. “I’m picking you up tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”
“Okay,” Eddie whispers, watches as Steve drives away.
“Hi,” Eddie says breathlessly, opening the door before Steve could knock.
“Hi.” Steve chuckles. “Ready?”
“Yeah. Where are you taking me?”
“Where do you wanna go?”
Eddie bites his lip, slides into the passenger seat. “Dinner? I’m starving.”
Steve grins at him as he puts the car in gear. “Me too.”
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