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reportwire · 2 years

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Andy Warhol and 'Get Out': The Week in Pop-Culture Writing

Andy Warhol and ‘Get Out’: The Week in Pop-Culture Writing

30 Years After His Death, Andy Warhol’s Spirit Is Still Very Much AliveR.C. Baker | The Village Voice“How much responsibility does a mirror bear for whatever beauty or ugliness it beholds? Warhol loved both the heights and depths of American culture, and reflected it back at us through his work, which remains resonant to this day. Here is the spin he put on the concept of American exceptionalism…

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areislol · 5 months

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men i trust

ft— various male genshin x gn! reader

warning — mutual pining (?), smitten men, fluff, modern! au, mentions of sex (it's a party/club), mentions of drugging/spiking drinks, mentions of a junkie

a/n— they're the men you can trust fr, another shitpost of mine....

wordcount. 1.9k

synopsis. an alternative title, them holding your drink at a party.

In the midst of pulsating music and vibrant laughter and chatter at a lively party, you along with a friend you've bought stood next to one another near a couch, dancing to the beat with just a little effort.

The thumping bass and flickering lights seemed to swirl around them as they engaged in a conversation, after a couple of minutes you turned to him with a soft smile.

"Hey, do you mind holding my cup for a moment? I need to go to the bathroom!" you yelled over the loud music and chatter, pointing at your cup to indicate something to him just incase he didn't hear you.

He gave you a swift nod in response, "sure, take your time," he replied, extending his hands to accept the cup. You left him momentarily, weaving through the vibrant crowd toward the bathroom.

He stood by the couch, holding your cup as he eyed his surrounding, silently judging the swirl of people around him that were fucking on the couches.

the overly cautious/chivalrous pal, the type to grip onto that cup like his life depends on it. he will shoot glares to whoever's way if he needs to he is NOT messing around.

he takes the responsibility seriously and might even accompany you to the bathroom to ensure a safe return but since you insisted on going alone, he (reluctantly) let you go alone.

his palm is covering the top of your cup (don't worry he washed his hands) as he watches the people in his area like a guard dog, he won't even hesitate to threaten and fight whoever asks to take YOUR cup with absolutely NO shame whatsoever.

but his aura and built itself scares off people (which is why nobody disturbed the both of you) so he doesn't really have anything to worry about but even so, it won't hurt to be cautious.

he watches the people like a HAWK, it's scary actually. to see someone already (somewhat) intimating watching their every move, it ruined their vibe. but if ruining the vibe to make sure no creep does anything to him and your drink then so be it, not like them scurrying away will affect him in any way.

he treats your cup like it's precious jewel, so what if you could go get another if he accidentally dropped it? (he didn't, somebody bumped into him CURSE THEM which resulted into him dropping it by how big the impact was) so what if it was just a cup? it's YOUR FIRST cup!!!

oh did i mention how they won't hesitate to threaten and or fight somebody? oh well they would if they have to, not that they WANT to but the thought of a free man roaming around and spiking people's drinks doesn't sit right with him, what if you were a victim? he would never forgive himself if that ever happened.

which is why he always accompanies you to parties/clubs and nearly EVERYTIME you go out. not that you're complaining though

"hey, you there. pass me that cup.. ya know, from a guy to a guy, eh?" a drunkard 'pst'ed at him, eyeing the cup in his hand that he knew was yours. the drunkard really didn't think he couldn't see the shameless stares he was giving at you, did he?

he only glared at the drunkard (who by a coincidence looked like a junkie as well, it really pulled the pieces together), his eyes narrowing at him. he stayed silent, not wanting to even speak to him and answer, he wasn't worthy anyway.

as the drunkard kept on persisting and was inching closer and closer to him he knew enough was enough and would not allow that man to take one step closer to him and your cup (i mean it held your favourite soda so). "take one more step and i swear you will not live to see another day." the man, clearly confused and scared, stopped in his tracks.

"oh you're their boyfriend, uh? .... that shouldn't matter. you know what to do to help a man in need right? no need to threaten me!" the drunkard let out the most disgusting, vile laugh he had ever heard. he was now irritated. "you think i'm joking huh? would you still think i'm joking if i fought you right now?" his tone was sharp and lethal, he was not having any of it.

that man dare would spike your drink and even shamelessly ask him (not your boyfriend sadly) to pass you your cup? abso-fucking-not. before he knew it the drunkard was on the ground, and although drunk and dazed, was pleading for him to not have mercy on him. "p-please! have mercy on me i swear on my life to never do that ever a-again p-please!" it was a funny sight to say the least, to see him cry and beg for mercy. as he should.

"you better swear on that life of yours, if i ever see you in here asking another man to spike someone's drink you bet i'm beating your ass again. and i promise i won't let you live to see the light."

— ALHAITHAM, WRIOTHESLEY, capitano, diluc, WANDERER, pierro, DAINSLEIF

the reliable one, he is never drunk, barely really. even if he did drink he knew how to control it, he makes sure he's sober when being with you!!! he's fierce when protecting your cup and tries to be friendly/passive but if he needs to be, he will be violent, sigh... they were asking for it.

you know your cup is in safe hands. he is trustworthy and reliable when it comes to protecting your things when you ask for it.

he is positive that nothing will happen, for the couple of hours you've been there no trouble has stirred in the club so he was sure that nothing would happen as he patiently waited for you.

he sits up straight on the couch, holding the cup with his hands, his foot tapping on the ground. as he waits he notices from the corner of his eye someone scooching closer to him. at first he wasn't worried although he was a little on edge but you know, nothing much. but when they got too close for comfort he moved to the side, now focusing on the man.

"uhm, if you could please not come so close to me, thank you." he tried to polite, not wanting to anger the man. he looked sober, so he wasn't drunk nor on drugs. "why not, young man? hey whad'ya say..." his gaze drops to the cup in his hands, he immediately clenched the cup, creeped out. "$10 for that cup?"

"... you.... you do realize that this isn't mine right? why do you want the cup anyway?" at this point he wanted to walk away and never see him ever again but he was in too deep now, plus, he needed to wait here for you. the man chuckles and dismisses his question. "you needn't worry young man, take it or leave it."

without any hesitation he immediately refuses his offer. "no." his answer was blunt and cold, he wasn't messing around. the man slowly backed away upon hearing his tone, grumbling about how men these days don't take the bait.

he takes their role as the holder of your drink very seriously. you can trust that he'll keep a keen eye on it until your return.

but.. if by any chance they are drunk and the only person you trust to hold you drink, you still have faith in him of course! but to be honest when they're drunk they're a little bit... too much so it's okay, nobody will dare to come and talk to him.

— TIGHNARI, KAVEH, xiao, ZHONGLI, THOMA, pantalone, kazuha, AYATO, baizhu, albedo, gorou, NEUVILLETTE

the photographer guardian, they're armed with their phone and take a snapshot of your drink, proclaiming themselves the official cup guardian. they protect your drink yet ensure you have a visual record of your drink's momentary protector.

when he sees that your back is towards him he wastes no time in taking out his phone and snapping a picture of the cup before taking a selfie of him holing the cup to his face, just barely covering half of his face. he took many photos to say the least.

he posted it on his instagram story as well, to the poor soul's finger, take it easy on yourself as you vigorously tap on the screen to get rid of all of his stories.

and the captions? my god the captions. "haha guess who's the cup guardian rn?" "?!?!?! i wonder whose cup this is..." "look at me and this cup, wow... i'm like guarding it so hard rn"

what did "guarding it so hard" mean? no idea. obviously he takes his job seriously as well, but why not have a little fun? i mean you trust him of all people to hold your cup, to protect your cup from being tampered with. so yes, of course he will protect it with his life! if anyone was to come too close for comfort and eye your drink suspiciously, even just a little glance at your drink will put him on high alert.

he tries not to ruin his vibe at the club and refrains from arguing with the person but will not hesitate to throw hands if necessary!! he mumbles under his breath about how annoying this woman was, she randomly walked up to him and began to flirt with him in the hopes of inching closer to him and then maybe spike your drink.

trust me, he has a lot of experience with these types of people, people who flirt or make small talk in order to get closer to the person and then spike the drink without them noticing, unfortunately many people fall for their trick.

"ah, no. what are you trying to do? do you take me for someone stupid?" he's clearly offended that this person thought that they could really trick him. "you really think flirting with me will do you any good? spiking drinks are we?" he tsks, glaring at the woman. she scoffs and gets up from the couch and walks away angrily, her plan had failed.

when you come back and see him taking photos of him with your cup he immediately puts his phone away and acts like he did nothing. "huh? photo? pfffffff WHAATTT no never. no." you know he's lying. like c'mon you LITERALLY caught him in the action.

but please ignore all the notifications on your phone where he mentioned (@ed) you in the pictures he took, it was stupid, yes.

— CYNO, CHILDE, dottore, kaeya, LYNEY, heizou

begins to act feral and barks.. i mean it works so... that's all that matters right?

.... honestly, don't even ask me why or how. they saw one tiktok of someone barking at a man to scare them off and it worked so why not try it out? the second the suspicious man begins to make small talk with him (he looked around 40 years old, a junkie? mayhaps) he doesn't pay too much mind, if anything he exchanged a couple of words

but when he senses that something is off he tries to steer away from him, pointing at random things and trying to get the man to focus on another thing but alas, it did not work. he would do everything to keep your cup safe, so even though his way of keeping your drink safe is a bit silly he only means the best.

"WROOF BARK MEOW GRRRR" oh my days the attention he brought to himself when he began to bark? hello? it's so embarrassing but aye, it worked! the man, clearly terrified now began to back away and cursed at him. "you weirdo!" he yelled before running off. he only laughed it off, yes, he had no shame.

— ITTO, VENTI

note: i just woke up and i forgot i needed to write (9 am help)

taglist: @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato @v4an @imetsk @fiannee @sunnyf4lls if im missing anyone please tell me because i have an inkling feeling i missed a few..

liking + following + reblogs are very much appreciated!!!

another note: not proof read so if you found any spelling/grammar mistakes PLEASE tell me

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moonbeammist · 20 days

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The Peasant's Secret (Part 1)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Dune characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

PAIRINGS: Feyd Rautha x Fem!Fighter!Reader

AUTHORS NOTE: I drew heavy inspiration from the Dune Soundtrack, especially the Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen Suite by Hans Zimmer (avail on youtube atm)- truly sets the mood and tone for the story if you wanna have a listen. I appreciate this community of writers/readers! Any feedback and thoughts are most welcome! This is going to be a multi-chapter fic.

WARNINGS: (Mostly for 2nd Chapter): (Adults only 18+) profanity, extreme violence, gore, sadism, masochism, dubious consent, erotic undertones, heavy petting, reader is a fighter who get's extremly hurt, bigotry against the poor, very immersive, intimacy, touching, feyd-rautha is his sick self, public humiliation

SYNOPSIS: Hailing from the Planet Caladan as a rice cultivator who somehow ended up at the Harkonnen Arena, You know two things to be true.. 1. You are peasant scum and 2. You are going to try something that's never been done on the battlefield.

WORD COUNT: 2.2k words

You were in a colorless oasis. It wasn't really an oasis in the scenery sense; it was an oasis in the sense that it felt like a bottomless void, a strange, deafening dream. It was an oasis because it didn't feel like reality. A desolate vision to where no judging eyes would befall you as you threw your whole self, your body, into its ultimate test. That’s how they all made their mark here, isn’t it?

You reflect on Giedi Prime's obscure, bone-dry alternate reality to your home planet of Caladan - you were of peasant descent in the lush, grassy, biodiverse settlements. You and your mother had strengths in labour as rice planters, trading their services to the wealthy nobles in exchange for military protection. A life of labour and sweat in the rice fields, the economy depended on their work, as such, they had little free time.

Stepping foot into the outdoors, the crunch of your cheaply-made, scraggly brown boots is heard as you line up with the rest of the prisoners. The earth smelled of crust, rot, and blood. You somewhat know where you're supposed to end up as Harkonnen soldiers round you up, but at the same time, you haven’t got a clue where you’ll be settling before battle. Wide, dark tunnels arch over the sand like a protective roof against the beating black sun. You've been given the finest privilege to represent your low-status family members in a brutal and bloody ceremony where this pale, ghostly Harkonnen House cuts you down, down into the dirt. A death deemed worthy.

A death is worthy when you die with passion because you’re trying - kicking and screaming. It's a beautiful way to go because you feel everything.

The height of your human complexities is shown at the forefront - pushing yourself, testing yourself.. You who initially thought fighting was for those who have a reason to fight, like for political gain and power, defending your home and planets among the stars. However, you have never felt so alive, representing the absolute bottom of the barrel. What joy it would be to see an enemy fall from not hand-to-hand combat, not brute force, but peasant trickery.

This is worth something.

That’s what you tell yourself. What else can you cling to? You were living for the cultivation of rice before you came here.

Horns erupt in a deep, haunting bass. The ground is shaking. Shaking with such strength that your feet stumble forward, knees scraping the grainy, white sand. Your hands bite into the sand. A guttural song emits from the speakers suddenly, the force of it hitting your chest like a bang. Your body stutters.

Your fellow no-name fighters eyes snap at your movements. Hushed chuckles erupt over the heavy bass. You feel slightly embarrassed as you quickly stumble back up and rub the grainy sand away from your knees and palms. Your eyes narrow.

This is all of your first times, all of your fellow fighters' first essential phases into proving yourself worthy to Harkonnens. Granted, you were vermin first, something to gawk at, something like cattle. As far as you heard from your briefing on the way here, this whole spectacle was based on a test round. If you pass your initial testing round, then - maybe, just maybe, you can live in comfort. There was not much more elaboration than that. Either get cut down, sliced down, gutted down - or prosper. So why do you feel like you're the only one on edge? You’re in your head too much.

Because I might fucking die.

You swallow that thought down, burying it deep in your stomach, where it should stay.

Underneath the arena, there is a place where the Harkonnen soldiers stop - a small, enclosed burrow tucked away from sight, away from the audience members that fill the seats of the large dome-like sphere of the arena. Through the dark, enclosed area you can make out the bleached atmosphere stretched and rounded out, seeing several egg-like craniums darting up and down in the stands. Their eyes were like inky, beady pools of onyx - almost insect-like. They were thrashing in excitement, the low murmur of chatter and whooping heard.

You look around to your peers. There is nothing really notable about any of you. Dressed in meek wool, burlap, or loin cloth. Prepped with various weapon satchels latched onto waists or knees. You have no advanced shields or armour, that is true. As suicidal as that may seem against these elite brutes, It’s what you represent that really matters. The peasant trickery you have up your sleeve.

You were an only child born to common people. In the small moments, you would take to the hills with your mother and run and play. Your mother's long, flowing hair would crack like a whip against the wind behind her, in a game of “cat and mouse," as she would call it. You would try to grasp at the ends of her hair - your mother's high, sing-songy laughter echoing in the distance as you chased her.

You did not know your father - just that he was a passing tradesman who fell in love with your mother’s quirks and tenacity for adventure; in the odd breaks she could have them between planting rice grain. They spent 6 months together, you heard, and it was passionate. But he could not stay on this planet.

Your mother did not know if he was alive. But despite him leaving, she spoke fondly of him. “He defied appearances. They thought of him as a simple, dull man in the trades, a grunt. But his intellect was his greatest secret.”

You supposed that maybe you were that small reminder of him to her, as her description of your father shadowed your mother’s slow moulding of your personality over the years. A weak, feeble rice labourer by appearances, always dressed in brown, murky colours to disappear. She did not want anyone to notice you at first glance; let that be your first safety. If they must stumble on you or pester your forgettable existence, you must keep up the act at first glance. You were scared, you were begging for your life like a common peasant. If they continue to prod and seek to damage or harm you, they would pry open the bottle of secrets that came spilling out of you in this fight-or-flight scenario.

You had a lot to learn and a lot to process as Caladan civilians. The threat of Caladan’s as well as other planets' potential hostile nature was something you were keenly aware of, a foot on your back of sorts, as you couldn’t do anything formidle to stop an enemy.

The peasants, not permitted to use weapons or obtain shields or anything of the sort, could only offer you certain wisdom that was passed among the peoples. One they passed to your mother’s watchful eye and then onto you. They call it the peasant’s secret.

The art of dodging.

“Remember the game of cat and mouse?” You remember your mother’s voice barely over a whisper as she lay beside you one night in woolly sleeping bags on the soft greenery beneath you. The weather was hot enough to enjoy a night outside. The flow of the river’s stream is heard against her.

You haven’t used the peasant’s secret in awhile. You primarily used it against your mother and your fellow people, as they would take turns throwing you into mock battles. They didn’t have any weapons, but they did collide, push, and throw themselves into your body at full speed, so you had to react quickly.

They did push you to the limit. Bless them. Until you were an exhausted heap of limbs on the ground and had the wind knocked out of you.

You knew that wasn’t as valuable as practicing it against someone who genuinely wanted to kill you. You didn’t know if the peasant’s secret had successfully saved someone’s life against a brutal attack or if it was just used as a quick get-away.

So yes, you could fall into the trap of thinking you knew what you were doing when, in reality, it was based on instinct. Of course, the arena was a circle. A never-ending loop. Eventually, even though your stamina was now crafted to be well above average, you would eventually get tired. The peasant community of Caladan had a careful, pinpoint focus on the art of dodging rather than hand-to-hand combat or brute force, which made for a very interesting opponent, if you could even call it that. Most of the time, if you could, you were told to outrun them first. So your speed heavily improved. If they were just as fast, then you could begin your dance.

Now, you could finally put it to the test. To see how you fare, to see if it could actually prevent you from getting sliced and diced by the Harkonnens in the arena—albeit for a while. The main thing to keep in mind, as your mother had warned, was to keep your opponent on their toes, snapping not only their mental state but their body. Then, when the time is right, you steal their weapon and use it against them. Today you were permitted a small dagger, strapped and holstered on the outside of your thigh. Although you weren’t concerned about it, you told yourself you would use it as a last resort when they weren’t suspecting you to. You didn’t know how to dance with a weapon; you only knew how to bob and weave without one.

Count Fenring, the Siridar-Absentia of your homeworld Caladan, while the Atreides occupy the planet Arrakis, had dealings with the Harkonnens prior to your descent here. You were never meant to come here. But Count Fenring had called upon the rice labourers one day for a strange proposal. Gathering in the high-esteemed buildings and feeling out of place, your people had looked upon Count Fenring’s narrow, proud face. You knew him to be conniving and manipulative in nature, a renowned assassin, and the Emperor Shaddam’s right-hand man. He was neutral toward the labourers; as long as they kept up on the plantation of their planet’s rice, he had no issues. He would often make dealings with the noblemen and women of Caladan; it was very rare that the rice labourers were added to any conversation.

“House Harkonnen of Giedi Prime is seeking entertainment, to those willing-" Count Fenring’s voice boomed, sitting atop his makeshift throne.

His voice is cut off by your thoughts at the Planet’s name. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen of Giedi Prime, called your Count “The ambassador to the smugglers” in spice production.

He continues. “I know you do not get to leave your trusted duties among the fields very often, but consider this a gift of sorts - whoever is able, and willing to be “battle entertainment” to the Na-barron of House Harkonnen, Feyd-Rautha, will be permitted to win your chance at freedom to travel to a new planet, a new experience.. You don’t ever have to return.”

An audible chorus of gasps are heard amongst your peoples. Hushed angry whispers fill the room. You gape at the vagrant display of lack of remorse for human life. You knew little, but House Harkonnen enjoyed pleasures in gore and sadism, is what you did know. What’s in it for your Count? This has to do with spice dealings.

“Freedom to die?” a male voice questioned loudly. “You dangle freedom in the air as if House Harkonnen has any, and to dangle us in front of the Harkonnen brutes like meat!”

The crowd got louder and louder in frustration and opposition. The Count’s voice bellows as his army hits their swords to the ground in a clang to signify the rice labourers to quiet their naysayers. “Enough. To those who are not interested, you may leave. You are not forced to stay. To those that are, please remain.”

A number of your people shuffled out in a hurry, their bodies a large mass squeezing through the royal entryway. You blink. This is downright morbid. You had never considered such a thing before, as you only knew your planet to be worthy of laying down your roots until the end of time.

You feel your mother reach for your hands. They are warm, and so is her eyes as she peers into the core of your being.

Your planet is beautiful - access to bodies of lakes, rocky mountains, majestic trees and budding flowers, delicious rice...

“You should go.” she mutters. “Live for us.”

Her words a grim truth. Brutal honesty. And that was enough for you.

A handful of the peasants stay alongside you. Your mother places her lips upon your cheek in a chaste kiss. Your tear ducts well with water as her hand leaves your grasp. Somehow, you know it’s too late to turn back now. You don’t know what made you follow Count Fenring onto the ship and not look back. A chaotic chance for something other than field work? A plunge into absurdity?

You could try absurdity for a while, you decided.

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blueywrites · 1 year

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trouble

modern au, emt!eddie x fem!reader. the four times you aren't hurt and the one time you are. pure fluff, a little drama, mentions of blood, non-graphic depictions of injuries. (15.8k)

For @newlips' Milestone of Love celebration. Congrats, lovely! 💙

fun fact: the scenario described in Scene 5 is actually pulled directly from real life, minus the pretty metalhead (unfortunately 😔). Also, blame my fatigued brain for not mentioning this last night, but HUGE thanks to my loves @myosotisa @fracturedarkness @abibliophobiaa and @hauntingbastille for all your help and ideas!! Couldn't have done it without you bbys 🫶💙🌻

The sun is beating down on your head, conjuring a halo of sweat that stings your eyes. You’d thrown your hair up into a claw clip some time ago, but it’s coming loose now as you’re jostled by elbows and knees. It’s all claustrophobia, all heat, all overwhelming sensations— the tang of sweat and alcohol on the back of your tongue, the thrum of bass rattling your ribcage, and the roar of guttural screaming ringing in your ears.

You can’t get enough.

You’re a dot of pastel sweetness in a sea of undulating black, the only person at this concert wearing a straw crossbody bag and a dainty summer dress. Though it’s July and nearly ninety-five degrees out, everyone else is dressed in black and chains and ripped denim, sweating even more heavily than you are, thick black eyeliner running as they sing along to Spiritbox’s ‘Blessed Be.’ Your best friend Josie is the same— dark hair shaved on the sides but matted with sweat as it spikes down her back, though her denim cutoffs and fishnet stockings are marginally more practical than the black jeans many others are wearing. You’re practical, too; despite the tiny flowers on your dress and the sweet diamond studs in your ears, your white Converse are just as scuffed as the heavy boots around you.

The band Spiritbox is one of the only interests you and your best friend have in common. Since elementary school, you’ve been the visual equivalent of a sun to her raincloud. Though your tastes differ, your personalities mesh seamlessly, leaving you still thick as thieves; despite going to different colleges, you’d both returned home and found jobs nearby, picking up exactly where you’d left off four years before. It’s obvious why Josie would like this band— she thrives on everything metal and alternative. You typically gravitate toward indie music, but you really love the contrast of Courtney's delicate vocals and the heavy driving music punctuated by Mike's guttural growls. The screaming unlocks something primal inside you, and you bob your head and shout until your voice breaks, sounding just like everyone else.

Your attention is drawn from the stage as bodies to your right compress together when a pit starts to form further up. Instantly, you know what that means; you’re still singing along, but you stop when Josie’s slippery hand finds yours, pulling you in that direction. Her olive green eyes flash eagerly as she glances back at you, and you communicate your acceptance through an answering smile. Josie squeezes between bodies to find the edge of the mosh pit, where she deposits you before diving head-first into the fray.

This isn’t your first Spiritbox show, and you know what to do: you brace, resisting the push of the crowd and jutting your elbows to maintain your space as you watch more dark-clad figures join the writhing, thrashing mess. You split your attention between the pit and the stage, content to keep an eye on your friend and let the coiled aggression of flung bodies stir you further, accentuating the music. You have no desire to mosh, and Josie knows that, but you enjoy watching while she shoves and bounces off others, sharp limbs swinging wildly, staggering with sparkling eyes and a broad grin—

The deafening music muffles the sound of a thick elbow connecting sharply with Josie’s face, but the visual is so jarring that you could swear you hear the crack.

“Josie!” Your hoarse cry cuts through to the closest two thrashing bodies, who halt at its urgency. Despite how violent a mosh pit appears to be, as soon as the moshers realize someone is hurt, the aggression dissolves on impact. You reach out your hands as a chain of helping hands deposits your friend before you with haste.

You guide her immediately through the crowd, which parts almost eagerly at the sight of her blood painting the ground, pressed into the grass by heavy boots. You wince at the hunch of your friend’s shoulders, the visible pain on her face; one of her hands covers her nose but does little to staunch the sticky flow of blood. Josie relies on you to direct her, watery eyes nearly scrunched closed as you emerge from the press of damp bodies at the back of the crowd, dodging around stragglers, eyes scanning for a white canopy and red emblem designating the first aid station. It’s over on the right, peeking over that sea of black, and you head that way.

When you get there, both of the young men there are standing like statues facing the stage, showing you a mop of unruly light brown waves and a long ponytail of dark frizzy curls that might look feminine if it wasn’t for the obvious broadness of his shoulders.

As you reach the table with Josie, the taller man with the ponytail is the first to notice your approach. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into belted pants, all black on black on black. In fact, he looks more suited to join the crowd than to tend them with the smattering of tattoos on his pale arms and the shaggy bangs that feather his forehead. And he glints with silver— a silver chain around his neck, rings of silver through his ears, even a silver septum piercing with spiked ends that peeks from the bottom of his soft nose. He’d look just like another groupie if not for the paramedic sigil on the breast of his shirt.

Despite his aggressive appearance, his brown eyes are warm as he abandons his view upon spotting you, dark brows flashing up as they scan Josie’s body with a clinical air. “What happened here?” he asks, and his voice is pleasantly smoky, friendly and casual as he pulls on rubber gloves with practiced motions.

“She got hurt,” you supply, relinquishing your friend to him so he can guide her into a folding chair. Despite the inanity of your observation, the man doesn’t react beyond a little twitch of his full lips as he kneels in front of her. Josie also doesn’t offer more explanation, merely grunting as the paramedic gently but firmly pulls her hand away from her face.

You cringe as her arm is moved aside to reveal the mess of her nose and the front of her saturated t-shirt, but he doesn’t bat an eye, wiping her face gently with dampened gauze to clean the drying blood away. As he works, eyes trained on the movements of his fingers, he asks, “What was it, doll? Did you catch an elbow to the face?”

The pet name could have been awkward, but he says it so casually that it doesn’t feel slimy like a come-on would. It just feels like part of his personality to call people names like that.

“Yeah, in the pit,” she grumbles, and he tips his head sympathetically, curly ponytail swaying.

“That’ll do it,” he says. Once Josie’s face is clear of blood, he hands her some dry paper towels, motioning toward her shirt and telling her with some humor, “I’ll just let you handle that part.”

She chuckles wetly, scrunching the fabric in her fist with the towel to press out the blood. As it transfers to the paper, the paramedic clears his used supplies into the biohazard bin before returning to his place, kneeling before her, warning her quietly that he’s going to touch her face before he does it.

You watch, hovering a little awkwardly near them as he palpates her nose gently with the tips of his fingers. He seems to have a way of putting people at ease with the cadence of his voice. It’s casual, almost preternaturally calm, but musical, too, engaging in a way you wouldn’t expect. He remains careful while examining Josie’s nose, even as he grows distracted as a new song starts. He starts glancing over toward the stage, moving through the motions clinically, detached despite the warmth and humor in his voice when he says cheerily, “Well, it’s not broken. That’s a relief, huh?”

She sighs, olive green eyes melting to confirm that it is, in fact, a relief. “Yeah.”

A smiling flash of white eyeteeth and then he’s standing again, skirting around you without really acknowledging you as he digs around in a box of supplies. He returns with an icepack, cracking it to activate the gel inside before wrapping it in more paper towels. “Hold here,” he instructs, showing Josie where to hold it, replacing his sure fingers with her more ginger ones.

“Thank you,” she says, standing and flanking you as he peels off his gloves, folding them inside each other before leaning back against the table with his hands braced behind him. Your eyes are drawn to the tendons of his forearms, pale and dotted with ink.

He doesn’t reply to her thanks directly, though his deep brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “You just had to go gettin’ hurt during the best song of the show, didn't you?”

His tone is exaggerated to ensure she knows he’s teasing, and it’s only when she chuckles that his full lips split in a pleased grin, attention turning again toward the stage as a particularly wicked guitar solo begins.

You pipe up then. “It’s only the best song in the show if they don't play 'Holy Roller.'”

“No way they don’t play 'Holy Roller,'” he retorts instantly, brown eyes flashing in your direction. The loose curls around his jaw lash his chin as his head jerks in a not-so-subtle double-take, and those eyes widen as he realizes it was you and not your friend who spoke. His gaze flicks you up and down quickly, taking in your sweet floral dress and your white converse. When his eyes catch yours, the curl of his lips reveals a level of intrigue. “And here I thought you were just the chaperone,” he says, again with that teasing, musical cadence that seems characteristic.

There’s the temptation to be offended, but this guy seems harmless beneath the ink and frizzy shag; the wolfishness of his smile doesn’t bely the warmth in his eyes. Guessing that he can probably take as much as he dishes out, you scoff, quirking a brow and pursing your lips in mock offense. “Maybe you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people. I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.”

A barking laugh pierces the air between you, and despite yourself, you can’t suppress a smile. Rather than being put off by your challenge, he seems delighted; the manic widening of those plush lips crinkles the corners of his eyes. His smile instantly brightens his face as he tips his head toward you. “Touché,” he says before straightening up, pushing off the table to jam his hands in his back pockets.

The sudden weight of his stare has your skin prickling despite the heat of the July sun; you turn from it quickly to ask Josie if she’s doing okay now.

She pulls the icepack from her face, scrunching her nose to test out the pain. “Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, I wanna get back out there.” She scowls, craning her head as if she’s looking for something.

“Back to our spot, you mean?”

“No, back to the pit,” she replies incredulously as if it’s obvious. Your brow crinkles with a mixture of dismay and wry fondness, but you know better than to offer resistance. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that Josie takes your reminders of caution as a personal offense. As you start to walk away from the medic tent, falling into stride together, she shoots you a sour glare, grumbling, “This is what happens when you feed me jello shots.”

Your outrage is instant; you spin on your heel, stopping short to face her and gripe right back, though she doesn’t slow when you do. “I did not! Actually, you stole my jello shots, Josie.”

“Ah, I get it now. You look like an angel, but you’re secretly trouble.” You hear that teasing cadence behind you, and you turn to find the paramedic standing beside his companion once again, body angled toward the stage but head tilted to eye you slantingly. He looks amused, and you’re torn between blushing and pouting, protesting and giggling, so you just freeze, doing none of the above. Unbothered, he twists and bends smoothly to root in the cooler behind the folding table. Your eyes are drawn to the cords of his pale neck and the flash of silver in his ears.

“Here,” he says, straightening and offering you two water bottles held together in one broad hand. He drops the joking tease, all professional concern once again. “Take some water with you. Make sure you keep hydrated if you’re drinking.”

You backtrack quickly to take both bottles from him, smiling as you meet his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” you say.

“You got it,” he replies, but you don’t hear— you’re too busy hurrying to catch up with Josie, who’s cutting a path right back to the pit, stubborn as always.

The walk from the company parking lot to your office building is two long blocks away and takes a brisk five minutes, eight if you’re not in a rush. And you’re not this morning. The sweltering August heat has decided to grace your town with a brief reprieve; all the typical ills of summer are eased today, leaving behind a pleasant dry heat, a slight breeze, and bright sun in a puffy-cloud sky. You relish your brief stroll in the sunshine and find yourself wishing your cubicle faced the park across the street, if only so you could torture yourself with its tantalizing view, yearning to instead be seated on a bench shaded by the cherry trees.

Your gaze drifts that way as you walk along the sidewalk, and a bright spot of yellow catches your attention. As you draw closer to your building, the shape discerns itself into an old man swaddled in a canary-yellow raincoat, the plasticky hood caught between his hunched shoulders and the back of the wooden bench. Beneath the open raincoat is a checkered shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and a bowtie that looks to be his Sunday best, though it’s currently Thursday. His loafer scuffs the concrete beneath him as he swings one foot absently, gazing up at the puffy-clouded sky.

Another individual relishing this unexpected gift early in the morning. You smile softly to yourself and turn from the old man as you grasp the handle, pulling the heavy glass door open. A blast of cold air unleashes upon you, and you shiver your way to the elevator. As the aluminum doors slide open, the park slips from your mind, evaporating like dew from grass.

Four hours later, the brrringing of phones and the fuzz of light office chatter have fully replaced the sound of early morning birdsong in your ears. Your eyes flick to the bottom right corner of your laptop just in time to see the forty-nine tick to fifty. The sight brings relief and a timely grumble of your stomach, and you close the lid of your laptop decisively. The promise of a cobb salad from your favorite nearby lunch shop hastens your steps to the elevator.

When you push open that heavy glass door once again, the air is warmer, and the street is more active now, but the sun on your skin is just as welcome. The park and its cherry trees call to you as they had this morning, and your eyes find that bench you’d been yearning for once again. It’s empty now, almost beckoning for you. You indulge in the sight for a moment despite your hunger, lush green blooming behind brown wood, visible between the cars that zoom past.

And then the tiniest sliver of canary yellow peeks from beyond a bush.

You were about to walk on, but you pause then, craning your neck to try to catch more of that color. A small shift and you see it again— the canary yellow of what is undoubtedly the sleeve of a raincoat.

Is that the same old man from this morning? Even as you question it, you know the answer; you know it must be him. You frown, puzzled, wavering as you’re torn between two impulses. Your stomach pangs hollowly, reminding you of cobb salad. What business is it of yours what a stranger does? You imagine how silly you’d feel wandering over there to bother him for no reason. But as you watch him, he hobbles further into your sight, resting one unsteady hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. Your heart stirs, and you find your feet moving of their own accord to the crosswalk.

You approach him slowly at first, with the caution one might use when edging toward a wild animal. His back is turned to you, revealing a head of thin gray hair haloed around a sizeable bald spot like candy floss. Hesitantly, you inch closer, feeling a little ridiculous as he fidgets there in the grass just off the path, one hand still tremulously holding onto the trunk as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His eyes are darting over the bushes and paths restlessly, as if searching. You’re just deciding what to say— or even whether to say something at all— when he turns his head and catches sight of you with watery eyes.

His brows jump as he registers you, and his pruny mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” he says, sounding delightedly surprised. “Hello!”

You feel a bit caught out, heat rushing to your cheeks as he pivots slowly to face you, one hand still stuck to the tree. But you’re committed now that he’s seen you; you might as well follow through on your impulse. “Hi, sir,” you try, “are you looking for someone?”

The old man doesn’t answer your question. Instead, very matter-of-factly, he says, “My knees are hurtin’ me.”

It has you reaching for him almost automatically, hooking your hand underneath his elbow. He welcomes your help unhesitantly and without complaint, shifting with your coaxing grip. He feels so frail beneath your fingers, almost weightless; when he lets go of the trunk to rely on your stability, you hardly notice the difference. He barely lifts his feet when he walks, loafers dragging in the grass, and you edge with him toward the path with tiny shuffling steps. Stepping from the grass to the concrete feels laborious as he trembles with the effort.

As you lead him patiently back toward the bench from this morning, you can’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing by the tree. And then, you can’t help but wonder how he even got here to the park, considering how much effort it’s taking him to walk a dozen feet. This isn’t a residential area, and this man isn’t just old. He’s positively feeble.

He clasps your hand as you help him turn and sinks down onto the wood with a bone-weary sigh of relief. Rather than releasing your hand, he pats the back of it with his other, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, continuing to pat your hand as if he’s unaware of it. “I’m ready to go home now.”

You blink with utter bafflement, eyes flitting over the old man’s creased face and his watery blue eyes gazing at you with fondness. It dawns on you fairly quickly that this man isn’t just having trouble finishing his casual stroll in the park. And it explains why he’d looked surprised but happy to see you and hadn’t offered any resistance when you helped him.

Yet you have no idea who he is or where he lives, and your name is not, in fact, Ruthie.

You chew your lip as you look into his placid face. He seems calm right now, but if he’s confused— if something medical is going on— that could be easily disturbed. Gently, you chance a question. “Where is home? Do you know your address?”

His face scrunches up, wrinkles folding on themselves as he squints at you quizzically. His voice gains more strength with its incredulity. “What d’ya mean, Ruth? Born and raised in the same house and you don’t remember our address?” He shakes his head, glancing away as he pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap.

Well, that clarifies it— he clearly thinks you’re his daughter, though you’re probably about twenty years too young for that. Your thoughts whir as you consider how to respond and keep him from becoming truly agitated. “Aw, you got me!” you say, pretending you were pulling his leg. He seems to buy it as his frown eases and he looks back at you with begrudging amusement. Gently, you say, “I just gotta make a phone call, and then we can go, okay?”

The old man’s reply is perfectly jovial, and it fills you with relief. “Tha’s okay, dear. I got my crossword.” He reaches inside the raincoat and pulls out a tightly-folded rectangle from the breast of his checkered shirt, working it open to reveal a creased page from the newspaper. He digs in his pants pocket, and a pencil emerges along with some crumpled tissues and plastic-wrapped suckers that scatter near his feet. You frown, eyes darting between his spilled belongings— or trash— and his face. He doesn’t notice as he settles into the seat, seeming content to wait and work on his crossword.

You have half a mind to pick the candies up so he won’t trip on them, but the phone call you have planned seems more urgently needed. You trail a few steps away to call the non-emergency police number, eyes darting to and from the old man as you provide your location and explain the situation quietly to the operator. “He seems… confused,” you say. “Like, not all there.”

“Is he agitated?”

“No,” you say. “But he thinks he knows me, and I don’t know him. He keeps calling me Ruth when that’s not my name.” Nervousness bubbles at the base of your throat, concern rising for the older man whom you now view as your responsibility. “Do you think he’s okay?”

There’s a pause, and then the operator says neutrally, “It could be a number of things. I’m sending someone out right now to check on him. Are you okay to wait with him until the paramedics arrive?”

You’re already nodding before the question is finished. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“All right. They’re on their way.”

You hang up and glance at the man again, feeling a tug at your heart when you see him holding the crossword so close to his nose, how the paper wobbles in his grasp. He seems caught up in it, which honestly is a relief. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep up the pretense of knowing him if he wanted to talk to you more. Your cobb salad is all but forgotten now as worry prickles in your chest; you stand sentry over this stranger from a distance, keeping an attentive eye on him as you wait for help to come.

It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to arrive, and your heart leaps as it pulls along the curb in front of the park. You jolt forward a couple of steps, fluttering your fingers in a little awkward wave at the blurry figures behind the glass as if they need your help finding the old man in the bright yellow coat, as if they need your assistance at all, really. You feel silly again, cheeks burning as you impulsively change your mind. Rather than meeting the paramedics at the ambulance, you march over and plop down next to the old man on the bench.

He startles slightly when you join him, and you almost feel bad to have scared him, but then he’s smiling at you again. “Ruthie!” He exclaims. “Is it time to go to the cleaners?”

You’re saved from having to answer as you hear the ambulance door pop open, and you follow the old man’s gaze to the figure swinging himself jauntily down from the rig with one pale hand braced atop the door.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Even at this distance, that frizzy shag of curls is unmistakable, though it’s loose around his shoulders now. You remember what you’d said at the concert almost a month ago: ‘I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.’ Your heart skips and thumps hard as he comes closer, and you clasp your hands tight in your lap. The tatted-up paramedic with the warm honey-brown eyes and the wolfish flashing grin may be memorable, but a squirm of self-consciousness races through you as you consider how unmemorable you are in comparison. Not that you can blame him, considering how many people he likely interacts with every day.

His eyes remain fixed on the man at your side as he lopes your way, and you lick at your bottom lip as he comes close enough to see the glint of silver in his ears and beneath his nose. “Hey, Mr. J,” he says casually, and you glance at the man sitting beside you, who’s still watching him approach blankly without acknowledgment. When your eyes meet honey brown again, a corner of his lips crooks up in a fond grin. “Well, hello there.” He draws the words out with a hint of teasing, and a smile blooms automatically on your face. “Been out moshing in any more flower dresses lately?” He adds as he closes the distance quickly, and you feel your self-consciousness melt into effusive warmth knowing he remembers you.

“I only mosh for Holy Roller,” you say, and his grin widens before his attention turns back to the man at your side. The paramedic drops to one knee before him, a forearm braced against his other thigh. With his face now close enough, the old man’s watery eyes light in recognition.

“Ed!” he exclaims in a delighted rasp, even more enthusiastic than when he’d greeted you. You turn curious eyes to the curly-haired man in front of you, wondering if that’s actually his real name or if it’s just one bestowed upon him like ‘Ruth’ had been to you.

Unphased, ‘Ed’ repeats his earlier greeting. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.” He maintains that same warm friendly tone, though it seems more careful than the one he used with you and Josie. “How you doin’ lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Mr. Jenkins sighs dramatically, the deep, weary sigh of the elderly. “Ah, Ed. Ya know, it’s my hips,” he says, shaking his head as if it’s a shame. “Dang things are always givin’ me issues. Don’t get old if you can avoid it.”

The paramedic’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I’ll try not to, Mr. J,” he says obligingly. “You still doin’ bingo at the VA on Thursday nights?”

As Mr. Jenkins leans eagerly forward to tell him all about it, you watch the paramedic slip his pale fingers around the paper-thin skin of the man’s wrist, nodding absently as he looks up at the sky. When he checks his watch, you realize he’s taking the man’s pulse.

Subtly, as Mr. Jenkins happily prattles on, the paramedic flashes a tiny flashlight to assess his pupillary response before checking the rest of his vitals, the musical cadence of his answers acting as a distraction while he evaluates him. Your eyes skate over the paramedic’s face— his soft nose, his wide brown eyes, his pink lips, and his strong jaw framed by frizzy curls that hang past his collar. As you do, you feel a surge of admiration for his manner, but you’re not quite sure what about it has you impressed.

As he replaces the flashlight pen in his pouch, the old man looks between you. “Have you met my Ruthie?” When honey brown flashes to you quickly, you shake your head minutely, staring at him and hoping he gets the hint.

After a brief pause, the paramedic finally replies, “Can’t say I have.” Your shoulders drop in relief that he’d caught on.

Mr. Jenkins pats your bare knee with his shaky hand right below the hem of your pencil skirt. Your mouth tightens in a bashful smile as he gushes, “Oh, she’s a good girl. A real good girl. You’d be lucky to find a girl like this, Ed.”

It’s both charming and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this old man’s unwarranted affection, and you feel your cheeks heat with a fierce flush. Beyond your control, your eyes dart to the man across from you to find him smiling— closed-lipped and crooked, so a dimple pops on one cheek. “She sure seems like it, Mr. Jenkins,” the paramedic answers, and your cheeks positively burn.

Mr. Jenkins continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and you avert your eyes to the safety of your lap. It doesn’t offer much of a reprieve, however, as you can’t escape how the sweet, confused old man still has your knee in a vice grip and the guy in front of you is staring right through you with those honey-brown eyes. With an air of authority, Mr. Jenkins announces, “You outta take my Ruthie to the drive-in. They show the double features on Wednesdays, more bang for your buck. And treat ‘er to a milkshake; she loves a good black and white.” He jabs a shaky finger toward the paramedic to punctuate how serious he is. “Ya hear me, Ed?”

Oh, my gosh. It was one thing to compliment you, but setting you up with a stranger has edged this conversation past uncomfortable and into nearly mortifying. Your stomach flutters with discomfort and nerves at the idea.

“I hear you, Mr. J,” you hear him answer, and when you look up, he seems to be holding back laughter; his eyes are crinkled, lips fighting to stay pursed when they want to smile, and his voice is dripping warmth. As he stands, stretching his back, his piercing eyes return to you. “Hey, Ruth,” he says neutrally, “would you help me with this?” He tips his head toward the ambulance and you nod quickly, hastening to follow.

As you fall into step beside him, you become acutely aware of your closeness— the sway of his narrow hips, the jangle of his belt and med-pack, the thump of his heavy boots against the concrete, the faint scent of tobacco and spice that clings to his black collared shirt. Your eyes dart quickly to the curtain of hair hanging by his collar, how soft the curls look from this distance. You turn your chin toward him but keep your eyes on the ambulance. “He’s been there since before eight this morning,” you say quietly, “in the park. I saw him on my way to work. When I came out for my lunch break, he was just standing under a tree.”

You feel the heat of the paramedic’s bare forearm radiate against your elbow as he ducks closer, his voice still musical even in a murmur. “So, what, you thought you’d check on him?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms as you prickle with self-consciousness. The motion has your elbow bumping against his skin, and the heat of it flashes like a burn. “It just didn’t seem right to leave without checking if he was okay. He was confused; he asked me if we were going to the cleaners.” You glance at him, and he’s still ducked to hear you as you speak softly; his brown eyes are so close that you can see the varied shades of brown in them, like the rings of a cedar tree. You swallow thickly. “I think he thinks I’m his daughter.”

“You did the right thing,” he replies, his voice gentle and tinged with fondness. “Mr. J is well-known around here. Sweet guy, harmless. He’s got dementia.”

Your eyes soften as you blink at him, compassion welling up as he speaks about the old man with such kindness. He straightens suddenly, and you realize that you’ve reached the side of the ambulance.

He tugs open the door and calls to his partner, who peers over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, can you call Jimmy, tell him his dad’s in Washington Square Park?”

“Sure thing,” comes the answer, though you can’t really see him.

The paramedic closes the door again, and when he leans back against it, crossing his arms casually and propping a boot against the metal frame, you realize asking you to help him with something was just pretense. For some reason, that makes you glow with that same effusive warmth you’d felt when you first heard him address you again, brown eyes alight with his tease about mosh pits.

“So,” he says, lips quirking in a slanted grin, “I take it your name’s not Ruth.”

You chuckle through your answer. “No, not Ruth.” You scrape your two front teeth against your lip before adding, “It’s y/n.”

He nods, and his curls sway with it. The grin grows fractionally. “I’m Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean,” you add quickly, and your hand wants to stick out to shake his, but a bigger part of you cringes at the impulse. You keep it stubbornly stuck to your side.

“Yeah, you too. Officially,” he says warmly.

A door slams again as his partner gets out of the truck, crossing by the front bumper. He’s tall and a little broader than Eddie— knowing his name has your stomach fluttering with warmth— and his hair is shorter but no less impressive, with brown waves that bob against his forehead as he heads over to Mr. Jenkins. “Steve!” You hear the old man exclaim behind you, and your eyes find honey brown as if by instinct. You exchange a fond grin with Eddie at Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting, marveling at how affection curls behind your sternum for this man who was such a short time ago a total stranger. Mr. Jenkins, that is.

Of course.

And soon, a stranger again he will become, you realize as Eddie pushes off from the door, jamming his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Thanks for staying with him. And calling it in. Most people wouldn’t have done that,” he tells you, and you blush with pleasure at the genuineness you hear.

“It was no problem,” you say. For a moment you just stand there, feeling awkwardness creep up. You shift your weight to one hip and twist your heel; when the gravel grinds loudly underfoot, you stop, suppressing a wince. You’re desperate to move on, so you blurt, “I’d better get back to work.” You pause, adding, “Will he be okay?”

“He’ll be fine.” Eddie sounds so entirely assured of the fact that you believe him immediately, nodding with relief. He squints at you, jerking his chin to look at you sideways, and his dark hair sways as he does. “Hey. You didn’t have lunch, did you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He pulls one hand from his pocket to wave absently in the air. “You said you left to go get lunch but checked on Mr. J instead, right? So you didn’t get to eat.”

You fumble to reply, but he’s already spinning, pulling open the door to the ambulance and hauling himself up. He bends over the seat, black pants pulling taught over his thighs and butt, and you quickly look away.

His voice comes muffled at first. “Here—” There’s the heavy sound of his boots hitting asphalt and then a crinkly rectangle is being waved at you. “ —have a protein bar,” he finishes, brandishing it toward you.

Your brows crinkle. “Oh, I’m really okay—”

He cuts you off, kindly but firmly. “I insist.”

You take it from him gingerly. It’s a Cliff bar— peanut butter and chocolate. You meet wide honey-brown with a thankful smile. “This isn’t your lunch, is it?” you tease.

Eddie scoffs, waving you off. “Of course not,” he says, rotating around you and hopping up onto the curb, but the twinkle in his eyes and the dimple of his cheek leave you without confidence.

There’s the impulse to question him further, but he doesn’t give you the chance; he starts walking backwards toward the bench with meandering, though purposeful, steps. “See you around,” he says, saluting you with two fingers tipped against his temple. You wave mutely, and he flashes one last parting grin before turning away.

You stand motionless for a moment, staring at his back until you catch sight of his partner throwing you a curious glance. That snaps you out of it, and you hurry to the crosswalk.

Yet before you tug open that heavy glass door, you can’t help but glance back one more time. Between the flashes of passing cars, you see Eddie: he’s sitting next to Mr. Jenkins on the bench, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees, bobbing his head with big swings of his dark curls as the man shows him his crossword.

This time, when the cold air blasts you in the face, you stay warm.

“You really do like black and white, huh?”

Your eyes dart up to catch brown. “Hm?”

Your date folds his hands against the tablecloth, twining his fingers together. His lips twitch up into a crooked grin as he motions with his chin. “You’re wearing a black blouse and a white skirt. Last time we went out, you were wearing a black dress and a white cardigan.”

You blink, brows darting up. “Oh!” you say, glancing down at yourself. He is indeed correct— you’re wearing the same colors you had on your first date with him, entirely by coincidence. He leans back as if expecting you to be impressed that he’d noticed, and you smile, brightening your voice even further. “That’s right!” you say, tipping your head and lightly teasing him. “Well, aren’t you observant?”

He preens under your attention. “I try to be,” he says smoothly. “It pays to be observant in my line of work.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “Speaking of, how go things on the fifth floor? I rarely venture down there.”

“Oh, you know…” He keeps up the flirtatious banter, mirroring your position: broad hand cradling his strong chin, elbow planted on the table. “Just convinced Synegen to sign over all their marketing needs. No biggie. All in a day’s work for us fifth-floorers.” His brown eyes twinkle. “Maybe you’ll have reason to come down more often now.”

Daintily, you sip your wine, which burns pleasantly warm down your throat as your eyes rake over his features: long, alkaline nose, square jaw, dreamy brown eyes, and a neat, high fade. “Maybe I shall, Matt,” you smolder, and his grin widens.

This is your second date with fifth-floor Matt— as Josie refers to him since you’d met him in the elevator of your office building— and it’s going quite well if you do say so yourself. Typically, you wouldn’t agree to a date with a guy you’d just met, but Matt’s boldness had a certain charm about it when he’d caught the elevator door to keep it from closing and hit you with that white smile and a proposition of dinner. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was handsome and clearly built even under the slacks and dress shirt.

As he’d pointed out, you’d worn black and white on your first date but had felt slightly underdressed at the swanky place he’d whisked you away to. You hadn’t been expecting all the bells and whistles, though to your relief, he’d seemed pleased to have impressed you rather than disappointed. The conversation had flowed well between you, and he hadn’t been too forward at the end of the night, leaving you with a pleasant impression. When he’d called to ask you out again— of course within the permissible four to seven days post-date, and no sooner— you hadn’t had any reason to say no, which is why you find yourself at yet another swanky restaurant, Italian on this occasion. And you’re dressed a little more formally this time: black silk blouse, tight white skirt, and Josie’s tall black strappy things that she affectionately calls her ‘stripper heels.’

They look great, but your ankles are aching like a bitch, and you haven’t even gotten your food yet.

“And how are things going for my favorite copyeditor?” Matt asks, taking a sip of his drink, and you blush lightly under his attention.

“Well…” you draw out the word, letting the music and the clinking of glasses around you fill the silence. “Did I tell you about Doris?” He shakes his head, and you’re just about to launch into the story of your accident-prone coworker’s latest kerfuffle when the waiter materializes at your elbow, holding two gleaming white plates.

“Tortellini?” he cuts in smoothly, and you smile up at him as he places it down in front of you. “Scallops?” he confirms with Matt, who immediately picks up his utensils to dig in as you continue your story.

You poke around at your food as you talk about Doris’ misfortune, and Matt nods and emotes appropriately throughout your recollections. “—I don’t know how she manages to get herself into all of these situations, the poor woman.” You shake your head sympathetically, taking a bite of tortellini. It’s wonderfully cheesy with a delicate sauce, and your brows jerk in pleasant surprise as the flavor bursts on your tongue. You chew and swallow quickly to exclaim, “Wow! This is really good.”

Matt is nodding eagerly, threading his finger between the collar of his shirt and his throat, pulling at it absently. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s delicious. This place is amazing. You know, I actually—”

He breaks off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. “Sorry,” he says, and you smile reassuringly. “I was saying that—” His voice weakens suddenly, and as he clears his throat roughly, your brow tightens in concern.

“Are you okay?” you ask, putting down your fork upon seeing how he tugs again at his collar.

“I’m totally fine,” he assures you, “just have a tickle in my throat.”

Despite his quick hand-waving to dismiss your concern, it doesn’t alleviate that prickle of foreboding you feel building as your eyes scan his face, which looks suddenly more flushed than it did a moment ago. “Are you allergic to anything?”

Matt tips his head, gesturing with his fork and knife. “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but not to this.” He sounds perfectly confident in his assertion, but it doesn’t mollify you. Above his thick fingers, which are still plucking at his collar, pink splotches crawl up his neck.

The foreboding builds insistently, and you know he can detect the new edge of urgency in your voice. “Do you have an EpiPen?”

Somehow, almost inexplicably, Matt still doesn’t look worried. He scoffs, shaking his head even as he concedes, “Yeah, I have one, but I never carry it around with me. Look, I know what not to eat, y/n. I’m not a child—”

You’re not listening because you’re already on the phone with 911.

“I think my date is having an allergic reaction. His throat is itchy, he’s coughing and clearing his throat, and he’s getting flushed.” You glance at him to see his eyes narrowed at you and his mouth open in indignance. “And his lips are swelling,” you add.

Matt pokes at his lips, and you look away as the operator assures you EMS is on their way to the restaurant. “Should I stay on the line?” you ask, gaze darting as you listen to his instruction, even while Matt groans and rolls his eyes.

“You’re being dramatic,” he’s saying, but you ignore him, lowering the phone without hanging up.

“He suggested some fresh air would help. Come on.”

Despite his lunking frame, you’re hauling him out to the sidewalk in your strappy heels with a determination he seems reluctant to truly resist. He could easily break out of your hold, but he lets you manhandle him out into the slight chill of this early September night. You undo the top three buttons of his shirt to loosen the pressure on his neck, working around your phone, which is still clutched in one hand. You suppress a huff at his salacious smile. “I mean,” he chuckles, “if you just wanted to get me out of my clothes, honey, you didn’t have to do all this.”

You shake your head, holding the phone up to your ear. “Yeah, I’m still here,” you say to the operator, “we’re outside now. He doesn’t seem to be any worse.”

Matt’s shoulders sag as he rolls his head, coughing lightly through his words. “I’m not gonna get worse because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He lifts his arms and lets them slap against his thighs, exasperated. “This is such a waste of time—”

The white and red ambulance turns the corner, and you step around your date to flag them down. “They’re here,” you say breathlessly to the operator. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up.”

The vehicle slows to a stop in front of you, and you step back from the curb as both doors open. They close one after another, like the strike of lightning and the boom of thunder following it. The boom of thunder crosses around the front of the bumper, eyes locked on you. And he’s got a beautiful head of hair— thick, luscious brown locks, expertly messy.

Your heart leaps as you recognize him, hearing Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting echoing in your ear. Because if he’s the boom of thunder, then maybe the lightning strike is—

“I shoulda known you’d be here, Trouble.”

You turn toward the voice, heart pounding despite the quizzical scrunching of your nose. Eddie interprets it correctly, his grin brightening his honey-brown eyes as he clarifies, “As I said, you look like an angel, but since we keep runnin’ into each other like this, it’s official. You must be nothing but trouble.”

You flush at the teasing tone of his musical voice, cheeks pinking, and as his grin turns wolfish with delight, you know he’s noticed. Abruptly, he looks away, and you follow his gaze to Matt, whose brows are furrowed lightly. Eddie’s tone loses the teasing quality, though it remains pleasant. “So, what’s goin’ on here, big guy? You think you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, pulling out the flashlight from his pack.

“No,” Matt says firmly, though his voice sounds more hoarse now. “She thinks I’m having an allergic reaction. I’ve just got an itchy throat.”

Undeterred, Eddie steps up to him. “Open your mouth,” he instructs calmly, and begrudgingly, Matt complies. His tongue lolls as Eddie peers inside. “What did you eat?”

“It was a pasta dish,” you offer, watching as Steve hovers nearby while Eddie feels along Matt’s throat with gloved hands. “Scallops, prosciutto, peas, um… white wine sauce. I don’t know the rest of the ingredients.”

“Any known allergies?” Steve asks, and everyone looks to Matt for the answer.

“I already told her,” he says with an air of long-suffering, “I do have a food allergy, but not to this—”

Eddie interjects calmly but firmly. “What are you allergic to?”

Matt sighs. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”

There’s the briefest moment of stunned silence, and then Eddie tips his chin, pinning your date with his dark eyes— still calm, still pleasant, but with an air of unattestable authority. “Sir, you are having an allergic reaction. Hey, Harrington?”

“On it,” comes the immediate reply, and Steve is digging in the med-pack at his hip, guiding Matt to the back of the ambulance. You watch Matt’s eyes dart wildly, though he allows himself to be pushed along in his bafflement, stuttering questions and weak protests as he goes. You recognize the bright orange cap of the EpiPen as Steve pulls open one of the ambulance’s back doors; distantly, you hear him prompting your date, “Hop up here for me, would you?”

You hear a jangle close by, and the sound pulls your eyes from the ambulance to the man still standing at your side. His arms are folded behind his back now, his full lips dimpled in a secret smile. In Josie’s tall heels, your face is closer to his, and you nearly feel the brush of his wild hair against your blouse as he sways closer with his upper body so he can mutter at you with glittering eyes.

“Really?” Eddie says, and the ghost of his breath stirs the hair beside your ear. Your body prickles with heat, stomach fluttering as he straightens again, quirking a brow and looking highly amused. For some reason, you feel called out, raw and exposed, and you cross your arms and narrow your eyes despite the deepening heat in your cheeks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you retort. “I don’t give my dates quizzes on animal classifications during the vetting process.”

“Well,” Eddie lowers his voice, and the timbre makes you shiver, goosebumps prickling your arms. “Maybe you should.”

You scoff. “He’s a marketing genius. I think that makes up for it.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches before his dark eyes widen. Your gaze is drawn to his eyelashes, which are enviably long. “So,” he asks casually, “did you enjoy that protein bar?”

You’re left reeling from the abrupt change of subject, but you place the reference quickly. “Sure,” you say, tipping your head, a little bemused as to why he’s asking. “It was fine.”

Eddie’s brows jerk in exaggerated offense as he claps a hand over his heart. “Just fine? First, you eat my lunch, and now you tell me it was just fine?”

Your mouth falls open in incredulity, face utterly indignant as Eddie grins broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your reaction. In the vehemence of your feeling, you step closer, smacking his arm with a familiarity you aren’t entitled to, though you don’t notice as you protest, “You told me it wasn’t your lunch! What the hell, Eddie?!”

He cowers away from you playfully, dissolving into husky chuckles that are both goofy and undeniably endearing. They settle in your stomach, and you feel your lips curving of their own accord. You can’t deny how good it feels to hear him laugh, and you suddenly want more. “Honestly!” You lean into it, advancing on him as threateningly as you can in a blouse and miniskirt, though you know he sees the mirth dancing in your eyes. He backs up a step, playing into your game as you huff, “You’re so—!”

“I can drive myself to the hospital. I don’t need you!”

The shout cuts you off, and your smile dies abruptly as you and Eddie look toward the source of the disturbance. It’s Matt, your date, scowling as he hops down to the asphalt. He’s arguing with Steve, who pops from behind the ambulance to follow him to the sidewalk.

“Sir—” Matt’s ignoring him, stalking toward you with intent. “I can’t force you, but I really must advise you not to drive yourself.”

Matt whirls on him, pointing a finger in his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. You just want me to take the ambulance because you’ll get paid more. It’s all a big scam.”

Steve’s brow scrunches in an incredulous wince, and embarrassment curdles in your stomach as you watch Matt’s face transform into smugness. “See?” The triumph in the curl of his smile is entirely undeserved. “Can’t argue with the facts. I’m onto you, buddy.”

Exasperation, embarrassment, and self-consciousness mix potently as you feel the weight of Eddie’s eyes on the back of your head like a physical presence. Impulsively, you blurt, “I’ll just drive you in your car, Matt. Come on.”

Matt shoots Steve one last dirty look as you bustle over to him, crossing your arms as he levels Eddie with the same. “They’re just doing their jobs, Matt,” you say, tone bitten a little short as you lead him to the entrance of the restaurant.

“What’re we going back in there for?” he asks, and you blink at him.

“...We have to pay for our food and get our coats,” you say patiently, trying very hard to remain composed. Matt grumbles but pulls open the door for you, and as you pass through the threshold, you hear one last raspy, musical call follow you.

“See ya, Trouble!”

You hasten toward your table as Matt scowls, questioning you suspiciously. “Hey. Why does he keep calling you that? D’you know that guy?”

You just sigh heavily, plastering on a smile as you flag down your waiter to explain the situation. And as you drive your date to the hospital, only one thought follows you.

Leave it to a crisis to reveal peoples’ true natures.

Truthfully, the unfortunate shellfish incident was a blessing in disguise. After taking Matt to the hospital for further treatment and listening to him gripe on the ride home, you’d waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling he may have stirred within you without a shred of resistance. In recounting the tale to Josie, crowded together on the settee in her one-bedroom walkup with half-drunk Trulys in hand, you’d both reached a consensus on the following conclusion:

That bullet was well and truly dodged.

“Enough about fifth-floor fools,” Josie quips, scootching closer as you sip your bubbly and hissing with eagerness, “I can’t believe it was that same guy again! How many times have you run into him now?”

You hide your smile behind the can. “Three,” you say, keeping your voice carefully neutral. But you can’t fool Josie; she’s known you longer than anyone else, aside from your parents. She’s nearly your sister— you spend half your time sleeping at her apartment on the weekends since it’s closer to downtown, and many of the belongings littering the tiny square of her place are yours. Sometimes you feel silly for still living with your parents, but you remind yourself it’s a perfectly reasonable way to save money until you can afford your own place. And you’d move in with Josie, but her apartment is really only meant for one; you end up squeezed into her twin bed or cramped up on the settee whenever you spend a drunken night there, and that's not a permanent solution.

Josie swoons against you. “It’s so romantic,” she gushes, and you squirm at the unexpected sentimentality coming from your raincloud friend. “It’s like fate’s bringing you together.” When she eyes you suddenly, the glint of craziness has you shaking your head before she’s even gotten the words out. “You know, I’m feeling some mashed potatoes. Don’t you want mashed potatoes?” You don’t respond, and she barrels on. “Yeah, I really think you should go, like, chop some potatoes. And then, you know, just accidentally let the knife slip—”

“Josie!”

“What?! Like, don’t cut deep,” she defends, drawing her index in a slanted line across her palm before grinning suggestively. “Just deep enough to need stitches so you can ride him—” she feigns innocence— “sorry, Freudian slip— I meant riiiiiiiiide him in the back of his ambulance—” She bursts into laughter at the horror on your face when she salaciously repeats the same phrase, delighted to have tricked you into thinking it was a mistake the first time.

“Josie!” You snap again, face flooding with heat as she cackles, deriving great pleasure from your embarrassment. “I’m not going to cut my hand open just to hope Eddie shows up. That’s so stupid.”

“Aw,” she pretends to pout, “well, how else are you gonna see him again?”

You scoff, shaking your head, cheeks still tingling with your blush. “Who says I even wanna see him again?” you grumble, turning away from your best friend and chugging your Truly to ward off her response.

But you can’t deny that meeting Eddie three times did, in some way, feel… maybe not like fate, but like more than a coincidence. And in the days following your failed date with Matt, you find your thoughts drifting to that musical voice, those honey-brown eyes, the brush of your elbow against his hot skin, and the way his plush lips formed the letters of the nickname he’d given you:

‘Trouble.’

You’d eagerly waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling you’d had for Matt, but suddenly, there's a paramedic-shaped absence in your life that you feel every time you walk from the parking lot to your office building and glance across the street, eyes lingering on that bench beneath the cherry trees.

After a week, you acknowledge it, accept it, and allow yourself to secretly indulge in the crush you’d formed on the heavy-metal knockoff with the septum piercing and the most endearing laugh you’d ever heard. It lingers in the back of your mind, prompting you to slow the roll of your shopping cart in the bakery aisle of Trader Joe’s and pause beside the package of adorably-named Peanut Butter Brookies. As you pick it up, examining the half-peanut butter cookie half-brownies, you can't help but think of the protein bar with the same flavor.

It's silly. It's inane. It's entirely over the top, and you’d absolutely die of embarrassment if Josie found out. But before you can let yourself buckle with self-consciousness, you quickly add the package of baked goods to your cart and roll on. And on Monday morning, you slip it into your laptop bag.

A thank-you gift for a lunch sacrificed, carried around just in case.

Monday bleeds into Friday, and still, the brownies remain ungifted, perfectly intact inside their hard plastic casing. You check the expiration date, which wasn’t for another two weeks, and they taunt you on your parents’ counter, mocking your whimsy. Still, when your dad comes sniffing curiously around, you feel a spike of instant dismay and snatch them before he can break the seal. He looks entirely baffled as you carry them protectively up to your room.

“Wha—” You ignore his confusion as you tramp up the steps, depositing the brookies back in your bag. You sigh, a sound of long-suffering exasperation with yourself and your own inanity. One more week, you resolve. If I don’t see him this week, I’m forgetting all about this.

And it appears, as Friday rolls around again, that you would need to abandon your silly crush on the paramedic you’d bumped into thrice in three months. Your laptop bag thumps against your thigh as you push open the heavy glass doors of your office building, emerging into the brisk chill of late September, tempered by the golden light of the deepening sun. You allow yourself to sulk, indulging in your disappointment until you reach the glittering blue paint of your Honda Civic. Fate is a fickle mistress. You sigh as you unlock the door and flump into the driver’s seat, depositing your laptop bag onto the floor on the other side of the console. You allow yourself an ironic smile, shaking your head at the notion of fate as you start the car and idle as you tap the phone icon on the screen, intending to call Josie to discuss your plans for the weekend.

Yet when you hit it, it doesn’t pull up your contacts as expected. Instead, it pulls up the list of Bluetooth devices it remembers, and you scrunch your nose at the words ‘y/n’s iPhone’ on the screen, wondering why it wouldn't just connect automatically. But when you tap it, waiting impatiently until the request times out, you realize what the problem is.

You must have left your phone in your cubicle.

Another sigh, this one longer and far more exasperated at the thought of trekking all the way back to the office after a long work day. You briefly consider just going home without your phone, but it’s Friday, and that would mean languishing without it for the entire weekend. A momentary inconvenience now is not worth the giant inconvenience that would be.

You groan as you pull your laptop bag back into your lap, petulantly pulling the strap over your head as you lock your car and begin the walk back to the office.

All looks the same as it had ten minutes before— the golden sun is still glinting off the windows you wish your cubicle faced, and the cherry trees are still swaying gently across the street.

The only thing not the same is the ambulance sitting stationary against the curb across from those heavy glass doors.

Your footsteps falter in surprise for only a moment before incredulous giddiness has your heart racing. There’s no fucking way, you think, stamping down on your excitement as you maintain outward composure, walking calmly up to your office building despite the fluttering you feel inside. You even whisper temperance as you pull open the door, wincing as that typical blast of cold air hits you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell yourself as the clacking of your heels echoes hollowly in the lobby. “There’s no such thing as fate—”

The elevator dings cheerily, and the stretcher emerges first, revealing a pair of familiar leopard-printed flats and the rich darkness of your coworker Doris’ pudgy legs. You stop, eyes going wide as her torso, chest, neck, and head are slowly revealed. Her half-moon glasses are slightly askew, the crystal chain clinking against the heavy earrings dragging down her drooping earlobes as she’s maneuvered gently into the lobby.

Your mutterings about fate are abandoned immediately as you rush with concern. “Doris!” you exclaim in dismay. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?”

She draws steadily closer as you stand in the middle of the lobby, her stretcher wheeled by medical personnel. You don’t look at them, eyes locked on your coworker as she grimaces at you. You know Doris is accident-prone, but this is beyond a little coffee pot mishap. Your chest tightens with nervousness at the pain on her face. She grunts, humphing, “Tripped and broke my damn ankle.” She shakes her head as if with disgust. “I told Doug I could’ve made it down myself, but he insisted on calling the ambulance.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is humiliating.”

Your brow crinkles with sympathy, voice going gentle with reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doris,” you say, looking at her encouragingly as she slants a glance in your direction.

She enunciates each word very deliberately, snapping, “I broke my ankle tripping on a damn pencil, y/n.”

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, though the laugh builds up in your chest, wanting to burst out. In your defense, because of the potent combination of Doris’ accident-prone nature, her delivery of that line, and, truthfully, the fact that you can’t help but imagine what it looked like when she tripped over a pencil. Who trips over a pencil?!

It’s not funny. It’s NOT funny.

With the barest shred of merciful dignity, you manage to maintain your composure. “I’m sorry, Doris,” is all you can manage, and you rotate as she’s rolled even with you to keep facing her. The older woman humphs as she passes, and your eyes dart to the back of the large paramedic’s head, running over the bristles of his short hair as he diverts to the wall to hit the switch that automatically opens the door for wheelchairs.

You relax your mouth and let the smile grow as you turn away from Doris, but your heart leaps into your throat as you stop short just an inch from colliding with the second paramedic, who is standing far too close for comfort. Your heart leaps into your throat but drops into your ass as you register the honey-brown of his eyes, the wild curls that frame his pale face, and the scent of smoke and spice as Eddie towers over you.

You freeze, and your belly flutters wildly as his full lips split with a grin. “Hey there, Trouble,” he says, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him mutely until your brain connects with your mouth.

“Eddie!” you exclaim, and in your surprise, you don’t temper your reaction to seeing him. You beam brightly, eyes wide with delight as he falls back on his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. His expression melts into pleasure at the sound of his name so keen in your mouth.

“You know,” he teases, voice pitched a little lower than usual, “you didn’t have to plant that pencil if you wanted to see me again.”

But the implication of his teasing words and his tone skates right over your head because you’re already digging in your laptop bag, singularly focused on the unexpected rush of being able to deliver your gift. “I wanted to give you this—” you pull out the package with an air of triumph, “to thank you for, well… everything with Matt, I guess, but also for the protein bar. I figured you like peanut butter and chocolate.”

You thrust the brookies toward him, and Eddie takes the package gingerly, staring down at it. You watch a couple of microexpressions dart across his face, too quick to decipher, and then he’s crooking a smile at you. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really cool of you.”

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, and as Eddie stares at you for a moment, you suddenly become aware that he might think it’s weird you’ve been carting around a container of food, hoping to run into him. Before you can stumble too far down that rabbit hole, Eddie redirects you, asking casually, “So, how’s Shellfish doin’? Holding up okay now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Your honest answer comes quick and unabashed. “There was no third date.”

There’s a flicker of something behind Eddie’s eyes, and then it’s gone. He leans in, cupping one hand to the side of his mouth as if speaking in confidence. “Y’ask me, I think you dodged a bullet. A man who doesn’t know his mollusks is not a good catch.”

You chuckle at the play on words, and Eddie seems tickled that you’d caught on quickly. A dimple emerges on his cheek, and you feel that low fluttering again. “He was a little too macho for me anyway,” you say dismissively, shrugging and hoping he gets the message that you couldn’t care less about Matt. “He had a big ego, and I didn’t like the way he talked to Steve. It’s like he had to be the big man on campus.”

Eddie snorts, a little sardonic as he replies, “Well, maybe he should date my ex. She loves that tough guy shi—” he glances at you quickly, seeming a little embarrassed of his almost slip-up. “—stuff. She called me a glorified nurse as if that’s an insult.”

You come alive with warmth, choosing to take that to mean Eddie is single. And not only to mean that he’s single, but that he wants you to know he is, now that you said you’re single. That giddiness is returning, filling you up until you might burst; impulsively, riding that high, you say, “Can’t say I agree. Personally, I like a man who has a nurturing side.”

You don’t know where the hell that sudden boldness came from, and you rush with shyness almost immediately afterward as you see Eddie’s brows jerk. For the briefest moment, he looks taken aback, and then he’s beaming that eye-crinkling smile. It’s almost manic, brighter than any you’ve seen on him yet, and it’s utterly beautiful.

“Munson!”

Eddie startles at the sharp, impatient shout from outside, and you realize that it must be his partner calling him. Eddie stutters into action, fumbling through an apology as he jerks toward the doors with your gift rattling in his hand. “No, it’s fine,” you assure him, and when he glances back at you one more time before tugging open the heavy glass, you bite your lip, fluttering when you see the pink on his cheeks.

You watch him through the glass as he jogs over to the ambulance, his long curls bouncing as he disappears from your view. Part of you— a big part of you— is resisting the sibilant whisper that it would be awkward to follow him, and you’re just about to do it when the elevator dings again. You turn toward it automatically, meeting the panicked eyes of your office’s youngest intern, Carrie.

She seems surprised to see you, and her mousy nose quivers as her eyes widen. “You’re back?” she squeaks, rushing toward you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously, “I forgot my phone—”

She clutches your arms, quivering with desperation. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was hoping to catch you in the parking lot—” You’re alarmed to see the sheen in her eyes, the wobble of her lip. “I really need your help.”

Immediately, your hand finds her shoulder, concern welling up to replace all else. “Look, Carrie, it’s okay,” you say, guiding her back to the elevator. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

By the time she’d wavered through her explanation, and you’d helped her fix the “crisis”— a simple jam in the new Xerox made unreasonably urgent by your boss’ exaggerated threat that if anyone broke the expensive copier, they’d be paying for it out of their earnings— you return to the lobby to find the street conspicuously lacking in one unmistakeable red and white vehicle.

The walk back to the parking lot— plus one phone and minus a package of baked goods— is dull and lackluster. Disappointment swoops in your gut as your foolish hope that maybe you’d catch the ambulance down the block is dashed when you reach your car with no such sightings. And you can’t even curse fate because you’ve gotten your wish.

Fickle as ever, she’d delivered Eddie to you so you could return his kindness as you’d hoped. But she’d ignored the secret yearning of your heart, leaving you at the mercy of her whims.

And she wouldn’t oblige you again without a cost.

It’s the burst of an impact you couldn’t possibly brace for. There’s the squeal of brakes and then the sickening crunch of metal. Powder in your mouth as you gasp. A rain of shattered glass. And then ringing, deafening silence.

In the stillness, the moments replay over and over, winding through your mind like a snake chasing its tail, each bone of its spine a single, disjointed thought.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Your mother forgot the cranberries.

You were driving home from the store.

You stopped at the corner of Macopin and Hamberg Turnpike.

Two roads feed into one; the leftmost has the right of way.

There’s a cop car waiting at the left fork.

He waved you on.

You didn’t see the box truck coming around the corner.

He waved you on.

So you went.

The ringing, deafening silence dissolves slowly into sounds— the blare of a police siren, the hissing of a radiator. You turn your head slowly and glance at the passenger seat for your phone, and your stomach lurches at what’s past it: the crumpled remains of the passenger-side door where your vehicle is pinned against the guardrail, and beyond, the sea of trees it’s protecting you from.

There are tiny clatters of glass as you shift restlessly, heart pumping frantically as the shock begins to wear off and the adrenaline kicks in. Right outside your window, the hood of the box truck is bent and warped, and if you were to reach out your shattered window, you could run your palm along the warm metal. The reality then sets in: you’d been hit by a box truck and pinned against the guardrail.

You’re lucky to be alive.

A voice swims, echoing in your ears. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

You try to blink the daze away, to break free of the two thoughts the fractured bones of the snake have transformed into. Thank God I was driving dad’s Suburban. If I’d been in my car…. You desperately do not want to finish that sentence.

You whimper with effort, and the voice returns more urgently. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you call weakly.

The voice comes again. “Are you hurt?”

“I—” You move slowly, shifting your body minutely. A bend of your elbow. A shrug of your shoulder. Something along your collarbone aches like a burn. “I don’t know,” you reply honestly, and your voice wavers with the realization. Slowly, other sensations emerge: you discern sharp soreness in your arm. You wince, and that tightening of your forehead stings. You can’t see your legs; they’re concealed beneath the airbag, and your heart pumps harder.

Suddenly, you’re holding your breath. You’re afraid to shift your legs, afraid to feel a rush of pain, or worse, to try to move them and feel nothing at all.

You turn your head fractionally, eyes straining to see out the shattered window, but the box truck is in the way. “EMS is on their way, ma’am. We’re gonna get you out of here.” You realize then that the voice must belong to the cop.

“Thank you.” You feel your eyes rush with tears. “Is… is the other guy…?”

“He’s okay,” the cop answers, and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief, letting it puff out your cheeks.

“Okay,” you answer in a small voice, and there is no reply.

As you wait for EMS to arrive, you concentrate on doing everything you can to reduce your panic, knowing that the worst thing you can do is allow yourself to freak out. You take slow, deep breaths, resisting the urge to suck in air greedily even as your lungs protest. By degrees, very gradually, the frantic pumping of your heart begins to slow, and the airbag at your steering wheel starts to deflate. And by the time it’s sagging flat against the wheel, you hear the crunch of nearby tires over grass and gravel and see a long flash of red beyond the vehicle wedged against your own. That must be the firetruck. As your body calms, experimentally, you begin to test out some movements, starting with the low-risk ones. Slowly, you bend your elbows until your hands are in front of your face and examine your fingers and arms. There’s a quickly-forming contusion swelling on your left forearm, and anxiety spikes once again until you run your fingers over it. It hurts, but not that badly, and you breathe a sigh of relief that it doesn’t seem to be broken. You feel along your face blindly, and there’s some stinging on your forehead and left cheek, but otherwise, there is no pain. Without moving your head, you unbuckle yourself and pull down the neckline of your sweater. As you feel around, you discover that the pain travels diagonally across your collarbone, and your fingers don’t come away with blood. Logically, the sting on your chest is likely just a burn from the seatbelt.

Higher-risk movements come next. You shift so, so slowly, resolving to stop as soon as you encounter any pain. But you turn your head, and there is none; you wiggle your toes, and they move. You sway your hips, and they obey, and when you lean forward toward the steering wheel, you meet no resistance.

Somehow, you think you’re okay. You don’t anticipate the rush of emotion the realization conjures, and a tear slips to cut through the airbag powder on your cheek.

You hear footsteps and voices approaching then, but still, all you can really see is the bent-up hood of the box truck. Slowly, the sounds discern themselves into words. And it’s a revelation that pulls another tear from your eyes when you realize one voice is familiar.

He’s saying, “The cop said it’s a woman. She’s lucid—”

Your voice comes out small but sweet with melty hope. “Eddie?”

The voice ceases immediately, and the silence is like a chasm. And then you hear your name rasped in that musical timbre. “...y/n?”

You breathe a laugh, shaky with relief. “Yeah,” you croak. “It’s me.” Instantly, the lingering stormclouds— the apprehension, the shame, the acrid, biting fear— all disperse as you picture a bright smile and honey-brown eyes, leaving behind only the tracks of dew on your cheek and the singular belief that now, everything will be okay.

“Harrington,” Eddie barks, “tell those fuckers to hurry up and get this truck out of the goddamn way.”

Every ounce of tension you’d been relieved of is tightening that musical voice now as it goes impossibly harsh. “Hey!” The sudden bite of his shout is shocking. “Let’s go! What the fuck is taking so long?”

A sliver of Eddie peeks at the edge of the window, and his voice gentles again. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?”

“No, I think I’m okay,” you say, shaking your head.

Some grit, some tight urgency returns as he says, “No, don’t do that. Don’t move your head. Just stay still. Stay right there, okay? We’re gonna get you out.”

As bodies flit around in the background, you stare at the sliver of Eddie’s face— the paleness of his skin, the dark curtain of his hair, the glint of silver in his earlobe— waiting for the moment you can see his eyes again. You stare as uniformed men crowd around the truck, and you stare until it begins to roll away, pushed by their combined effort. And as soon as there’s enough room, Eddie is shuffling sideways until his face fills the window, honey-brown eyes wide and just as breathtaking as you remembered.

Before either of you can speak, Eddie is urged bodily out of the way to make room for the firefighters, who try to open the door only to find it stuck. One of them brings over a corded device held two-handed while the other passes you a scratchy orange blanket through the opening of your window. “We need to remove the door,” he tells you. “Hold this up to protect yourself.”

From behind the curtain of orange, you listen to them slowly and meticulously peel away the door of your father’s destroyed car. Eventually, after some long minutes, the shadow beyond the blanket falls away, and you hear the thump of heavy metal hitting the grass. And when hands pull the blanket away, the reveal of dark curls, lanky limbs, and a familiar handsome face fills you with a sense of awe that any magician would envy.

Ta-da.

“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie’s voice is gentle but hoarse, and he’s smiling, but it’s a little tight. You think his face looks pale as he looks up at you; you’re a few inches taller than him where he’s standing on the ground. His eyes rove over you restlessly. “How're you feelin’?”

“I’m okay, I think,” you say again as Steve comes to stand beside Eddie, holding a neck brace. “I don’t think I need that,” you add. “I feel fine.” You turn your head to demonstrate, and Eddie instantly scowls.

“Look—”

Steve cuts in smoothly. “Does anything hurt? Anything feel numb?”

You shake your head, stilling your movement when Eddie jerks forward, jaw clenched tight. “Just my arm hurts, but I don’t feel numb.” You show them the contusion on your left arm, which looks no worse than it did earlier.

You can see that Eddie is still doubtful, but Steve walks you through basic checks. “Wiggle your toes for me.” “Try to move your foot up.” “Now the other one.” “Bend forward.” You follow his instructions easily, and in the end, he shifts back, conceding that you are, indeed, likely unharmed— at least in any crucial way.

Eddie abruptly hoists himself onto the kickplate, planting his feet and filling the space where the door used to be. His closeness is sudden, and your eyes dart over everything— the metal of his belt buckle that’s now even with your bent elbow, the black on black on black of his paramedic uniform, the neck of his collared shirt that pulls further open to reveal more pale skin as he reaches for you. And then he’s everywhere, bending forward until his curls are brushing your cheek and his smoke and spice is in your nose and your stomach is fluttering so wildly you feel you might fly away.

“Hold onto me,” he mutters, and his voice is so close— low and musical and hoarsened by something that sticks in his throat— that your breath catches. His hand wedges between your legs and the seat, and gingerly, you wrap your arms around his neck and lift your knees so he can slide his arm underneath them. When his other arm comes across your back, muscles flexing to test your weight, you realize that he means to pick you up.

“I can just jump down, you know,” you say, and the wheezy chuckle he huffs into your hair is half-amused and half-incredulous.

“See,” Eddie says, and you feel him shift, testing his balance as his arms tighten around you, “this is why I call you Trouble.” The teasing warmth of his voice brings a flush to your cheeks, and instinctively, you duck your head against his shoulder. When you do, and your lips skim the column of Eddie’s throat, you feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hold tight, okay?”

You tighten your arms obligingly and nod, and as the plump of your lips brushes the warmth of Eddie’s skin, he lifts you out of the broken skeleton of your crushed vehicle.

There is no time to worry about whether you’re too heavy or if Eddie will drop you because, before you know it, he’s laying you on the nearby stretcher. His hand finds your shoulder and presses you gently, though firmly, flat to the tilted back. Your eyes dart among the personnel that still litter the grass until they catch on the cars driving slowly past, and beyond them, the fated intersection— the nexus of this entire mess.

Suddenly, Steve is at your elbow. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Yes,” Eddie interrupts before you can reply, and your eyes dart between them as Steve shoots him a weird look. But Eddie doesn’t waver. “She’s going.”

“Only if she wants to—”

“She’s going whether she wants to or not,” Eddie interrupts him, nostrils flared and voice a little sharp. “She needs to be evaluated.”

“I wanna go, Steve.” You head off the storm you can sense brewing between them. “I wanna go to the hospital. Can someone just get my phone and my bag?”

“We’ll make sure all your personal belongings are with you, ma’am.” It’s the cop from before, speaking from a short distance away. You nod, glancing at each of the men as Steve and Eddie continue to stare at one another for a tense moment before Steve mutely takes hold of the stretcher’s metal frame. Eddie does the same on your other side, and together, they load you into the ambulance.

It isn’t exactly a shock when Eddie hoists himself up beside you, shutting the back doors with a definitive thunk. His heavy boots clunk along the metal flooring as he flanks you, sitting down on a stool near your elbow, nearly hovering over you like a stone-faced sentinel. It’s odd to see him like this— tense and wound tight, his mouth pressed into a hard line as his eyes dart over your body restlessly, never settling in one place. He’s always been so calm and casual in every encounter you’ve had with him, and you’d figured that's just what he was always like. You think of how he’d felt carefully along Josie’s nose, occasionally glancing toward the stage as Spiritbox played one of their best songs. How he’d seemed friendly and warm though also detached.

You think, as his lips twist and he rips open the zipper of his med pack, that Eddie is not detached right now. And that thought makes you go warm with its implications.

As the ambulance rumbles to life, Eddie pulls out a small cylindrical object and sets it down on a tray. He pulls on rubber gloves, roughly tugging them down his hands before firmly taking your wrist, fingertips on your pulse point. You watch him wide-eyed as he stares at his watch to count the beats before letting you go.

When his hands find your abdomen, you jolt in surprise, and he pauses for only a moment before pressing down on your belly. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and the part of you that was flattered thinking about what the loss of his composure might mean flares in exasperation instead.

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

Eddie doesn’t look up or stop his palpations. “Could have internal bleeding,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

“I am not bleeding internally, Eddie,” you say, trying to remain patient.

“Who’s the medical professional here?” You think he’s trying to joke, but it falls flat between you since his voice is too tense to hold the same musical charm as his normal teasing.

You sigh heavily, enduring until he’s satisfied. “There, see—?” A sudden light blinds your left eye, and you wince, unable to maintain your composure any longer. “Eddie, what the hell?!”

Undeterred, he checks the other eye in the same way, ignoring your squirming. “I’m checking your pupillary response,” he says. “You could have a concussion.”

And with that, he starts talking. And once Eddie starts, he does not stop.

Your arm is throbbing, the skin on your chest stings, and now your head is spinning with each word that comes out of his mouth. “Head trauma,” “loss of coordination,” “muscle laxity,” “cerebral hemorrhage,” “disorientation,” “amnesia,” “vision disturbance,” “hematoma.” Eddie’s rambling goes on until you finally snap his name. “Irritability,” he says, nodding to himself.

You huff. “No, Eddie, I’m not irritable. You’re just giving me a headache.”

That doesn’t make him stop; that makes it worse. In an instant, he’s standing, not realizing that you were exaggerating for effect. His face is hovering over you as he braces his hands on the metal bars caging you into the stretcher, eyes darting as he questions you intently. “Where is the pain? Is it sharp and shooting? Dull and aching? How bad is it, scale of one to ten?”

You suppress a whine because despite your attempt to dissuade him, now he’s blathering on even more, and his gloved thumb is running over your forehead, and you can’t even enjoy it because his touch is stinging the tiny cuts on your skin. And all you want is for him to stop talking, and he won’t. Eddie just won’t shut up—

Impulsively, you fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, surging up as you yank him down, swallowing his words as you kiss him firmly.

The words stop instantly, but Eddie also stiffens, going completely rigid as you kiss him. And the fact that you can taste him— smoke and spice like Big Red chewing gum— drives home exactly what you’ve done and how unbelievably inappropriate it is.

You release him, flopping back onto the stretcher with your hands curled against your chest as the heat floods your face with such intensity that you fear your flesh might melt from your bones. Hot mortification rushes through you, nearly nauseating as Eddie stares at you, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the dim light of the ambulance and lips downturned just slightly at the corners. Embarrassed isn’t the word for it. The seconds that tick by are nearly unbearable, and if you could, you would sink into the floor, descend to the asphalt and below to the dirt, and then down, down, down through the surface of the earth to melt in its molten core just to escape this moment.

Finally, once you’ve begun to break out into a cold sweat, Eddie says hoarsely, “You sure you aren’t concussed?”

Your brow crumples with dismay, but then he’s cupping your face, his broad palm cradling your cheek, and his hand is warm beneath the latex. And you barely have time to appreciate how those honey-brown eyes soften before Eddie’s ducking to kiss you.

It’s the second time you’ve felt his lips, and now, you don’t panic. You just bloom.

Eddie’s lips are warm and soft and just slightly chapped, enough to make them rasp against yours pleasantly when he shifts his head slightly. You make a little noise against his mouth when he lingers, and your heart melts when you feel him smile. He parts from you just briefly to make it sweeter when he kisses you softly again, and then once more before finally pulling far enough away to gaze at you. He murmurs, and the teasing cadence is back in his musical voice. “Y’didn’t have to get yourself hit by a box truck to see me, you know.”

You feel dazed in the best way. “Yeah?” you say, voice small and delicate and questioning. Eddie smiles, and you lean into his touch as he strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

Your eyes widen hopefully. “So does this mean you’re gonna take me to the drive-in?”

Eddie throws back his head and laughs— not a barking, surprised laugh, or a goofy, husky chuckle, but a rasp of pure relief and delight that has you blooming with pride. You don’t even mind that his hand falls from your cheek to clutch at the railing for support. When he straightens, his curls are wild and beautiful as they frame his face, his honey-brown eyes are twinkling, and that dimple you’re becoming partial to is out for you again.

“Slow your roll, Trouble,” he says fondly. “Let’s get you checked out first, and then we can talk about shakes and a movie.”

The only drive-in movie theatre in the state is half an hour away, and the final showing before they close for the season is next Wednesday, and if that’s not fate, you don’t know what is.

It doesn’t matter that it’s rather a lot colder than it typically is at the very end of November. The inside of Eddie’s refurbished 1979 Chevelle is toasty, and you’re cuddled up under numerous knitted throws you’d gathered from your parents’ house, so the chill of the milkshake on your fingers doesn’t bother you. You set yours in the cupholder beside Eddie’s, strawberry next to chocolate. You nearly double-take when you pick his up and shake it, eyes darting to mischievous honey-brown when you realize it’s already more than half gone. You take a pouty sip, letting the taste of rich chocolate melt and mingle with fruity strawberry in a perfect melding of flavors. Eddie snatches your cup, pursing his lips around your straw and sucking cheekily. The chunky rings that glint on his fingers are unfamiliar but entirely welcome, and so are the battle vest, the green flannel, and the tight jeans ripped at the knees that replace his typical paramedic uniform. Finally being able to see Eddie in his street clothes still hasn’t worn off, and you tingle even as you pretend to glare at him.

“You better not drink all of mine just because you nearly finished yours before the movie’s even started,” you tell him, trying to maintain your glare even though it’s already melting at the charming grin Eddie hits you with.

“Oh, Trouble,” he sighs, eyebrows crinkling in pretend earnestness, and you fight stubbornly against your lips. “I would never drink all of your milkshake. Mr. J would never let me live it down if I did.”

You lose the battle then, plunking his cup back in the cupholder as you grumble through your smile. He replaces your cup smoothly, smacking his lips in an exaggeration of enjoyment, eyes glittering. “Man, your shake really is good, though. If I didn’t like you so much, I might be tempted to finish it.”

His grin turns wolfish as you blush and look away. You’ve only gone out twice, but it's clear by now that Eddie enjoys nothing more than seeing the effect he has on you— the way his words and touches can conjure goosebumps, shivers, and blushes from thin air. Sourly you sit there, wracking your brain for how to get him back.

It comes to you, and your lips curve with a smirk. Suddenly, you know just the thing.

You begin to deepen your breaths, exaggerating the rise of your chest and frowning in confusion. “Eddie? I feel faint,” you say weakly, glancing at him to see the enjoyment fall from his face as he transitions instantly into medical mode.

“What’s wrong?” he says, his typical calm paramedic cadence edged with concern. Your lips twitch as you hear it, but you suppress the impulse, wanting to continue your game. “Sweetheart, is it your head? Do you feel dizzy? What does it feel like?”

“I think…” you pause dramatically, eyes darting to take in his reaction, “...you’ve taken my breath away.”

Eddie’s concern flattens as he stares at you, entirely unimpressed. You just beam, pleased with yourself, and in the light of your smile, the mask of disapproval cracks; the dimple emerges as he loses the battle with his own grin. With faint amusement and plenty of fondness, Eddie says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?”

The giant screen blazes to life in front of you, casting Eddie’s wild curls in a faint glow. The planes of his face soften in the light as the film begins, but neither of you move to switch on the radio yet. You simply gaze at him for a moment— this heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing and a not-so-secret heart of gold. When your sentiment floods your eyes, you watch Eddie’s honey-brown melt in kind. You hum your agreement, leaning over the armrest, and when Eddie meets you halfway, you reward him with a tender kiss. “I really am,” you murmur against his lips, and they brush yours as he smiles.

“Well, Trouble, it’s a good thing I know CPR,” he murmurs. And as the Wednesday double-feature begins, the movie’s soundtrack becomes the delight of your giggles, the warmth of Eddie’s chuckles, and the sweet press of your lips meeting again and again.

ask💌 | kofi🌼 | masterlist🌱

#blueywrites #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #newlipsmilestoneoflove

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mikeywayarchive · 11 months

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Mikey Way: “I was borderline terrified a lot of the time My Chemical Romance was active. I was learning the bass in front of 20,000 people every night!”

By Gregory Adams ( Bass Player ) published June 9th 2023

The reunited emo kings’ low-end ranger reveals why he swapped out his signature Fender Mustang for a sparkling new signature Jazz Bass, learning bass in arenas, and how he overcame insecurity about his chops

Full interview under cut:

My Chemical Romance’s reunion has seen bassist Mikey Way thrumming through the high pomp punk of The Black Parade and Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge favorites with a familiar rhythmic fortitude, but keen-eyed band obsessives have probably noticed the musician is no longer sporting the snazzy, silver-flake Squier Mustang signature model Fender built for him back in 2012.

The good news is that’s because, as Fender have just formally announced, Way has a brand-new – but just as glammy – Jazz Bass out now. There’s a good reason why Way’s made the switch: the Jazz Bass is his first love.

Though he started out on guitar, Way got the hang of a four-string in the mid ‘90s while playing a loaned-out Jazz Bass in his pre-My Chemical Romance project, Ray Gun Jones. He upgraded to a silver-finish Jazz of his own by the time MCR started touring in the early ‘00s, but a trailer mishap led to that instrument getting smashed to pieces on a highway.

Way tells Guitar World that he eventually became obsessed with the short-scale sturdiness of a Mustang bass guitar as My Chemical Romance were writing their 2010 full-length, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, after fooling around with a model Duff McKagan had left at North Hollywood’s Mates Rehearsal Studio. By 2012, Way had his Squier model in stores.

It was during the downtime after My Chemical Romance went on hiatus in 2013, though, that the stubbiness of his Mustang became a little hard to handle.

“I stayed away from playing bass for a little while, which is natural – I was just decompressing,” Way explains. “Then, sometime in 2014, I picked up the bass again, to get my chops back, [but] I noticed that the Mustang felt strange to me.”

After reaching out to the folks at Fender, Way got a grip on his playing by stretching out on the longer-necked Jazzes they sent him. Way’s take on the Jazz Bass is outfitted with ’70s-style single-coil pickups, and a thinline “C”-shaped maple neck the bassist says is super-speedy.

The finish is silver, of course, but Way also wanted an aesthetically inkier black pickguard. The headstock, likewise, pops with its matching gloss-black finish.

Speaking with Guitar World, Way gets into the glam and grunge gods who inspired his love of a good sparkle coat, overcoming performance anxiety, and why a steady attack wins the bass race every time.

What were some of the musts when it came to designing this latest signature?

“I’ve been obsessed with the sparkle finish as far back as I can remember. Growing up in the ‘90s, the silver-flake [finish] was big in alternative music. Chris Cornell had the Gretsch Silver Jet, [Daniel Johns] from Silverchair had one – [with] the imagery the Smashing Pumpkins used, they liked sparkles.

“Ace Frehley, of course, was big into flake finishes, and as a kid, you love the larger-than-life, comic book world of Kiss. [And there’s] David Bowie – the glam rock stuff. That flake finish makes me think of so many different things, but that’s why I love it so much.

“I remember being younger and going into stores and seeing a flake finish and being like, 'Oh my god, that’s an expensive [looking guitar] – I can’t afford that, let alone play it.' It was almost intimidating.”

One aesthetic difference between your Mustang model and this Jazz is that you didn’t throw a racing stripe on this one.

“I thought about bringing it back and keeping the continuity. Maybe somewhere down the line we’ll throw a racing stripe on this. The thing with [seeing a] racing stripe was always like, 'This player is a badass!'”

Is there a psychology behind removing the racing stripe, then?

“The psychology behind it is that I forgot about it. When My Chemical Romance was talking about doing reunion shows [in 2019], I’d contacted Michael Schulz from Fender and was like, 'Is it OK if I make a new bass for this [next] era of My Chemical Romance?' I wanted to take my past and bring it to the future – taking my Mustang and melding it with the Jazz Basses that I loved so much.

“I tried to have my cake and eat it, too. I wanted the thinner neck, and I wanted the silver-flake, but I wanted it on a Jazz Bass. They knocked it out of the park immediately.”

Getting back to how you used to admire those silver-flake guitars in the shops, you actually started out as a guitarist, right?

“So, the story goes that my brother [My Chemical Romance vocalist Gerard Way] had a Sears acoustic guitar when he was 10 years old. We would take a shoelace and make a strap, and we would stand on the couch pretending we were in Iron Maiden. And then it got real around ’93-’94, which lines up with the rise of alternative music. You started to see people that looked exactly like you, and they were playing guitar. They were playing Fender Strats!

“My brother got a Mexican Stratocaster, Lake Placid Blue. I found it not too long ago, and Michael from Fender hot-rodded it. That’s how I cut my teeth – that Mexican Stratocaster [was] my first foray into really trying to learn how to play guitar. I would watch bootlegs of concerts, and watch [guitarists’] hands and fingers – Thom Yorke, Billy Corgan, Noel Gallagher, Jonny Greenwood. I would watch what they were doing. It all started from that.

“Bass came out of necessity, twice. Me and my brother had a band called Ray Gun Jones, I guess in ’95-’96. It was kind of Weezer-ish, or us doing a surf-punk thing [with] a little bit of pre-mid-west emo. At the time we were really into Weezer, Jawbreaker, Promise Ring, Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Sunny Day Real Estate.

“[Ray Gun Jones] needed a bass player, so my brother was like 'Hey, do you want to play bass for my band?' I was already a huge fan – I’d always tag along to practices. The ex-bass player let me borrow their bass. We had 4-5 songs, and I got the rudimentary from that. In that era, everyone was like, 'I want to be a guitar hero,' but I realized I had a natural knack for [bass]. I picked it up right away.

“Then, with My Chemical Romance, it was the same thing. My brother was like, 'We need a bass player,' and I was like, 'Well, this is familiar' [laughs]. 'Here’s the demo; learn these songs.' They weren’t terribly difficult.”

Was that bass you had borrowed a Fender Jazz?

“Yup, I’ve only ever played Fender. I’ve tried tons of other basses from other companies, but it always feels alien to me.”

You mentioned studying the playing of Thom Yorke or Billy Corgan through those bootleg vids. Were there any bassists that you treated similarly, to understand the mechanics of bass?

“Matt Sharp from Weezer. I tried to ape him in the beginning, but my attack sounds vaguely reminiscent of a Smashing Pumpkins recording. I would learn Siamese Dream and Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, and the Blue Album [the band’s 1994 self-titled debut] by Weezer. Those were the three albums that I put the most time into learning. That’s in my DNA.”

How about from a hyper-local perspective. If My Chemical Romance started out playing New Jersey basements and VFW halls, where there any bassists from that scene that inspired you, or that you appreciated?

“Yes! We shared a rehearsal space with this band called Pencey Prep – that was [MCR guitarist] Frank Iero’s original band. John McGuire was their bassist, and he let me borrow his equipment all the time. He taught me fundamentals, and gave me pointers – he taught me a whole heck of a lot.

“I always respected Tim Payne from Thursday, I loved his attack and stage presence. And when I’d watch Gabe Saporta from Midtown, I thought 'This dude is the coolest guy in the room.' He’s got this calm, cool, and collected [presence] that you can’t fake or learn. And then Eben D’amico from Saves the Day – brilliant!

“I would try to learn Saves the Day basslines. They were pretty complex [compared to] what most bands were doing in that scene. Most bands in the post-hardcore scene had simplistic basslines, but Saves the Day did not.

“There’s also Ray Toro, the guitar player of My Chemical Romance. Not only is he truly gifted at guitar, but he’s truly gifted at bass and drums – Ray can do everything. He was instrumental, early on, with showing me the ropes. Ray gave me lessons when I was a novice. I can’t thank him enough for that.”

What kind of pointers was he giving you?

“He showed me proper fretting, or [how to maintain] a steady attack. I got a really great compliment from our front-of-house guy, Jay Rigby. He told me that I’m one of the very few bass players that he doesn’t have to go in and tweak the volume [for]. 'You’re steady, throughout.' I think that’s something that Ray Toro instilled in me: the consistency of attack.

“It’s funny thinking about it, but I was such a novice going into My Chemical Romance that I would bring myself into an anxiety-ridden state of, 'Oh my god, we have a show tonight; I have to start practicing right now.' I would be practicing four to five hours before we played – I’d play the set [in the green room], and then I’d play it again. Other bands would be like, 'What are you doing?' I was so neurotic at that point, because there were so many people around me that were beyond gifted.

“I got pushed into the deep end; you’ve got no choice but to figure it out. Ray and Frank are so gifted that I had to keep up. I didn’t want to ever do the music a disservice.

“That brings me back to the simplicity of the early My Chem basslines. The first album [2002’s I Brought You Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love] was me learning the bass, and somehow [producer] John Naclerio recorded me and said, 'You did a great job,' which I did not expect.

“I thought I was going to go in there and they were going to have to do some studio magic, or someone would come in and play [my] part. I thought of the worst-case scenario, but I went in and did it. I played the bass seriously [enough] by that point.”

What are you generally looking for in a My Chemical Romance bassline?

“What makes it for me is if I do a fill, I’ll only do it once. If you listen to [the band's 2022 comeback single] The Foundations of Decay, any fill on there I only do one time. What’s interesting about The Foundations of Decay is that it’s very loose and run-and-gun. We went in and punched things in for timing, which everyone in the world does, but the meat of that is first-or-second take. Which brings me to someone else who was very instrumental to my bass playing: Doug McKean.

“He’s no longer with us, unfortunately, but he was our engineer from The Black Parade [until his passing in 2022]. He was always a huge cheerleader for me – he instilled confidence in me. He was always good at getting a killer performance out of me.”

What are some of the biggest My Chemical Romance bass moments for you?

“I’ll say that fill in on Foundations. No-one saw that coming.”

There’s a YouTube video out there of someone playing their favorite Mikey Way basslines, some while using your signature Squier Mustang, but one standout in particular is The Black Parade’s The Sharpest Lives.

“What’s funny is Sharpest Lives has a bass solo, and I was terrified of it. I had performance anxiety [through] the 12 years before we broke up – I don’t have it anymore. Somehow when the band got back together, a switch in my brain [got] flipped. [But] while My Chem was active, I was borderline terrified a lot of the time.

“I’m playing with people far above my skill level, I’m playing [on bills] with bands where their bass players are way better than me, [and] our shows were getting massive. We were playing arenas! So not only are you learning the bass, but you’re learning the bass in front of 20,000 people every night. It made me tweak a little, but I think it shaped me into what I became.

“That solo gave me anxiety. It was when we were playing the biggest venues of our career, and it would break for the solo [Way starts singing his ascending bass lick]. I practiced it relentlessly, then it [became] second nature. Later on, it [became my favorite part of the show.”

You’re already playing the Jazz signature in your live show, yeah?

“It’s what I use for the live show. Basically, Fender built [it] for the reunion, and then we made a couple tweaks for when we release it.”

Was there a learning curve at all towards transferring My Chemical Romance songs you’d written on a Mustang onto the Jazz?

“There was Planetary (GO!), a song off Danger Days. I’d guess you’d say the whole thing is a disco beat. It’s dance-y – [Mikey starts singing an octave-popping bassline], I do that for the entirety of the song. I was very happy that I only had to do that on a Mustang, initially [because of the shorter scale]. But going back to what I said, [after] I took a little break, [I] went back to a Jazz Bass.

“I missed the room, or the way my hand went up and down the neck. I wanted to go back to that, so I jumped back in and felt right at home again.”

How many Jazzes are you bringing on the road?

“I bring two basses out, [but] I stopped even switching [during the set]. This is a testament to Fender craftsmanship – that thing stays in tune. It’s got the four-saddle bridge, and it stays in tune so well. I’m a little neurotic so I’ll tune every few songs, but if I went five to six songs you probably wouldn’t even notice.”

What does it mean to you to now have a fully-formed Fender signature model – as opposed to the Squier – and with the body shape you began your career with?

“It’s really a dream come true. It’s funny, in 2002-3 we started touring across the country. I had a Mexican Jazz Bass, but [the band] were like, 'You have to use something with better electronics; better wood. Step it up!' So, I went into the Guitar Center on Route 46 in New Jersey, and at the time Fender had released a special Guitar Center edition that was silver-flake.

“It always bugged me that the pickguard was white – it threw me off, aesthetically, and I was like, 'I’m going to change that pickguard one day.' So, I got that, and I was using that for a while.

“We were out with [Boston emo quartet] Piebald – it was one of our first cross-country tours ever – and one night someone forgot to close the trailer door. We’re driving on the highway, and half the contents spilled out – unfortunately, my bass was a casualty of that.

“But Frank Iero, and his heart of gold, jumped out on the highway in the middle of the night and tried to recover [the bass]. He was like, 'Maybe we can fix it!' I’ll never forget him doing that. He got a chunk of it – it’s in one of our storage units.”

For more information on the Limited Edition Mikey Way Jazz Bass, head to Fender.com.

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enbysanavi · 4 months

Text

RE:V Lords and Mother Miranda with a reader that was in a band

Alcina Dimitrescu

When she figures out that one of her maids has a talent for playing piano, she approached you to ask where you learned.

When you tell her that you had been playing for a few years she offered you extra pay to play whenever she had guests over.

It wasn’t until Bela asked you to tutor her in the piano that Alcina figures out that your skills don’t just lay with piano playing but singing as well.

The curiosity burns inside of her and she asks if you were in a band before you came to work for her.

You hesitantly say yes.

When she hears your hesitation she wants to ask more but decided to let it go for now.

She seeks out the Duke and asks him if he can get any information on you and your band.

A month later and there are a few records delivered to the castle. Alcina sits in one of her arm chairs with a glass of wine as she listened to your band.

She is… surprised when she hears the satanic verses hidden within the music.

When she hears you sing though…

She is in awe

After all she too was in a band herself but that was many years ago.

Your band was more modern and even then it wasn’t liked due to its imagery.

She can’t help but wonder if the rumour of the band members being demons was real

Karl Heisenberg

When the man finds hears you talking with another factory worker about how you used to be the lead guitarist in a band he is instantly curious.

Being someone who only has been hearing old music on the radio for all the years he has been here, naturally he would want something new.

Heisenberg never usually goes to The Duke, much preferring to just get things himself.

So when he returns with a guitar and an amp he summons you to his office in the factory and demands (asks) you to play for him.

You’re confused by finding a guitar in your hands after all this time made you happy to preform even if it was for a scruffy guy like Heisenberg.

He had never heard rock music like that before.

From that moment on he wanted you to play music for him.

He didn’t care what your life was before the factory, he was just impressed that you could play.

Not so secretly he wanted to get some bigger amps and play your shredding outside of Miranda’s lab.

Donna Beneviento

Donna hates loud noises. It scares her and makes her want to crawl into a hole and hide away.

She didn’t like loud music either so when you casually mention you were in a band that has albums that were considered heavy metal, she was iffy.

Angie on the other hand was ecstatic. She wanted to hear you play all of the drum solos that you said you mastered over the course of a few months.

You didn’t want to scare Donna away, especially after working so hard to coax her out of her shell so you came up with an alternative.

You got some vinyl records from Duke and offered to quietly play them for Donna and Angie.

Don’t get Donna wrong.

She loves that you used to be in a band. She loves that’s you are still passionate about music now.

You got the vinyl from Duke and played it for the two.

Angie loved it, she jumped up and down excitedly as she listened to the record.

Donna was more calm with her praise.

She bobbed her head along approvingly and after the vinyl was over she told you that you played wonderfully but if you were to ever pick up drumming again then please don’t do it in the house.

Moreau Salvator

The first thing he knew about you is that you talked a lot about a type of fish.

He was confused on why you liked fish so much but maybe that was why you lived so close to the reservoir.

When he worked up the confidence to talk to you and ask why you liked fish so much you laughed.

He instantly felt bad that you were laughing at him before you reassured him that you weren’t.

You told him that you played an instrument called a Bass but you also liked fish too.

He wanted to know more about an instrument named after a fish and how you became such a good player.

When you told him that you used to play in a band he was excited and asked you to play for him.

You hesitantly told him that the Bass wasn’t really a main instrument even though it was just as important as other instruments.

He never thought that he would relate with an instrument but here he was.

He still wanted you to play for him so you agreed.

Even though the Bass was quiet he quickly grew to like it and you playing it for him.

He even asked for you to teach him one day even though he has webbed hands.

Mother Miranda.

You were just a normal villager when Mother Miranda stumbled upon you.

You wanted to bring colour to the village by playing music at the local pub.

She wanted to know why there seemed to be an extra perk in her villager’s steps.

So she followed a few villages in a disguise to make her look just like any other woman.

When she found you drawing a crowd while playing the guitar she was curious. She had never heard of any villager playing an instrument.

She couldn’t help but follow you to your humble cottage away from the rest of the village.

You had inherited the cottage from an old family friend who’s last wish was for the cottage to be lived in.

Mother Miranda watched you as you played and enjoyed the simple music you played.

When she approached you in a disguise she asked you how you became such a talented guitarist.

You sheepishly confessed that you were only a rhythm guitarist and not a lead.

She couldn’t see why you spoke with such hesitancy. You played well even if you weren’t a lead guitarist.

“I see no band here other than yourself. You are the lead guitarist in this village whether you like it or not”

#nonbinary #donna beneviento #lady dimitrescu #mother miranda #alcina dimitrescu x reader #mother miranda x reader #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #salvatore moreau #salvatore Moreau x reader #donna beneviento x reader

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fandom-freak-123 · 13 days

Note

If I could get a request in, the idea is reader showing the puppets metal music and their reactions.

Your ideas istg, they give me life.

These headcanons can be seen as Romantic or Platonic.

This reader is gender neutral (No pronouns mentioned for the reader).

Welcome home reactions to you introducing them to metal music.

———————————————————————————————————

Wally Darling

———————————————————————————————————

•Just a wide eyed stare

•Mildly concerned for your sanity

•Telling Julie asap

•Scared but also enjoys it

•usually listens to folk music

•“this… is very loud neighbour… the lyrics are… uhm… interesting”

———————————————————————————————————

Howdy Pillar

———————————————————————————————————

•Has to turn the music down

•Really enjoys it but usually listens to pop music

•Asks if you have any tapes with more music like it

•Will listen to it while reading

•He can’t understand the words but he’s enjoying them nonetheless

•“where do you find this stuff? You’ve got to tell me”

———————————————————————————————————

Barnaby B. Beagle

———————————————————————————————————

•Already listens to Metal

•Will recommend you songs

•Happy to find someone else who likes Metal

•Has full albums of metal bands

•Mumbling the lyrics under his breath

• “I used to listen to this one a lot but I haven’t for a long time”

———————————————————————————————————

Frank Frankly

———————————————————————————————————

•Really not a fan

•Prefers alternative and indie music

•Listens to two words

•Never trusts you with music again

•Covering his ears

•“it’s so loud! Who needs that much bass?!”

———————————————————————————————————

Eddie Dear

———————————————————————————————————

•Has a heart attack /hj

•Usually listens to country music

•Trying to understand the lyrics

•Will listen to more until he can understand it

•Spends WAY too long trying to find out the meaning

•“but what is it all about???? It talks about so much but so little”

I’m so sorry it took so long I’ve been lost on motivation for a while along with being really busy, I hope this makes up for the other one!

Farewell my little butterflies!

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batwhisper · 8 days

Text

Introducing my pc bec I’m obsessing over them rn—

Ok so their name is Arjandelle, Arjan for short. They’re nonbinary, short, and also initially a meek wallflower/ghost student type before they met the LIs.

They’re a straight-A student at school; very academically driven yet introverted and withdrawn. Outside of school, however, they’re a lot more lively and more likely to engage in some eccentric/rebellious behaviors though they’d still avoid being seen in that state by anyone they knew at school.

They pretty much live a double life and have an entirely different identity at school compared to how they act and behave outside of the campus.

More stuff about them:

They love to go foraging or herping. Sometimes they’d go with Robin or any of the other kids from the orphanage.

They crossdress often.

They’re shorter than Kylar but they do have some stalking tendencies like him (only if they’re out for blood 👀)

They use their intelligence for skullduggery.

Aside from intelligence, they’re also pretty strong and agile (I maxed out their physique and combat skills whoops)

They’re really into alternative, menhera, and grunge fashion.

Out of all the LIs, they probably would get along with Sydney the least at first because they lack common interests and have opposing ideals (if Sydney’s still pure). On the other hand, I think they’d definitely click with Robin and Kylar easily.

They and a few other orphans have a band together. The band often does gigs in the forest near the temple at night, Arjan plays bass.

They do contemporary and ballet too not only bec it’s fun for them but also to build balance, flexibility, and leg strength.

That’s all probably

#degrees of lewdity #degrees of lewdity pc #dol pc #dol pcs #character art #drawing #artists on tumblr

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chosos-mascara · 1 year

Text

summer

𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 - you and eren don't want to start college as virgins.

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 - smoking, make-out, dry humping, PiV, virginity loss, smut with a story

minors + ageless dni 5k words

Twelve months ago, the last exam had taken place. The day a weight was lifted graciously from the shoulders of the students around you, a day freedom was cast. No longer would you waste nights cramming, or evenings exhausted on subjects you'd cared little about, when they'd have been better spent with friends. This, was where life would begin. Adulthood was on the horizon, so close you could taste it.

A job, good money, no more worries over assessment, homework, or extra-curricular activities (at least, for a little while). A gap year of dreams you were taking alongside your best friend, one you'd meticulously planned with one another, details confirmed as if already experienced. The pair of you had celebrated, a parade of final good-byes to friends leaving for university, drinks to commemorate the past years of your life, and the future yet to participate within. You'd spoken with them too, of the ideologies, the great expectations of the next three-hundred-and-sixty-five days, leaving behind deadlines for nights out, visualizing flashing lights and bass boosted music through intoxication. This was the start of your twenties, after all.

But sometimes, through the consumption of media, we glorify things, scenes from movies blurred with that of real life. Sadly, these experiences do not occur for the average person. Eren and yourself, in particular, working shifts and going home to sleep, were a part of that majority.

Working was dull and unfulfilling, draining energy from you as if you'd been a mere battery in need of a recharge following an eight-hour shift, too tired to do much else. The year of greatness had come and gone, and nothing had changed other than the cycle of four seasons, of which you'd worked on auto-pilot for minimum wage. A soulless stacking of shelves.

The prospect of working along-side your best friend had been appealing in concept, though in actuality it had consisted of working on opposite ends of the store, only able to fit in a mediocre glance while passing one another. On occasion, the pair of you would be rewarded with a break spent in the other's presence. Though as time had progressed, it had become another monotonous part of the day, because it was another half-hour spent in the confides of the workplace, around colleagues twice your age with half the amount of wit, and motivation. More often than not, you'd worked alternating shifts all-together, and despite the fact you'd barely seen one another during working hours, those eight-hours were still harder to get through without him.

Armin was a three hour train journey, Mikasa a plane ride, and everyone else from school had been dotted throughout the country. Just as the pair of you had envisioned the gap year, your peers had plans for university too, intentions to return home once a month for catch-ups and drinks. These, much like your schemes, did not occur. It was more due to the fact they'd moved on with their lives - another rub in the face that the pair of you were still in the same place a year on.

Despite the lack of development surrounding your circumstances, Eren had changed. The differences had become more apparent, now - brown hair longer and tied into a messy bun, biceps peeking from the black uniform shirt had grown in size, as had he. The two of you frequented one another's homes, though the time would be spent playing games or watching movies. Conversations didn't happen too often, and wouldn't stray far from the topic of work. Though, you'd accepted the fact he wasn't a kid anymore, and most likely hadn't been interested in your babbles - not that he wasn't aware of every detail of your life anyway. You'd worked at the same place, lived a few doors down; your lives were practically carbon copies.

The last shift the pair of you would work at what had become an unremarkably repetitive part of life had passed, and you'd been relieved to part with the job. Every minute of the last stretch was one minute closer to the start of summer, the freedom of unemployment and transition back into student-life. A parallel you hadn't expected a year ago. Now, you walked side-by-side, just as you had on the last day of school.

Eren placed a cigarette to lips; a habit he'd picked up from his older brother's visits. Inhaling, amber burned inches from his face, the light dimming as he pulled the stick from his mouth to exhale a cloud of smoke. Late afternoon was turning to evening around you, but the sun was still warming on your skin, crickets singing in the patches of grass slotted between tree and pavement.

It was peaceful. The nostalgia of older times pottering back from school had followed you, simpler times that you'd shared with your friends. The first walk home from work had been so bizarre, turning the road without Mikasa and Armin trailing behind. This stroll home would be the last spent in his presence - Eren had a license now. He'd be driving the pair of you to university in a few months, though you questioned each vision that had come to your mind, because this year had let you down - who's to say upcoming ones wouldn't, too?

Closing on on your street, you'd peered over the familiar wooden door, chipped brick wall separating street from garden. Reaching a hand out, your fingers rested over the latch of the iron gate, paint peeling to reveal the orange of rust beneath. "See ya." A tired voice spoke, moving eyes from the tarmac beneath your shoes to meet his green irises, of which had been scanning over you in contemplation. A final puff of smoke left his lips while he'd flicked the butt behind him, leaving it to fall somewhere in the road. You waited for his good-bye, but as a few moments passed, you'd assumed a simple glance was all you were going to get.

"My parents are away tonight. Wanna stay?" Eren questioned, abruptly. Movements halted as he'd spoken, you turned from halfway down the stone path to look over your shoulder. It had been a while since the pair of you'd had a sleepover. Over the past few months, you'd spent no more than a few measly hours together before the other would return home for food or sleep. But, the glint in the glint in his eye was one you'd recognized from childhood - as if he'd asked you to come play for the first time again.

"Yeah, okay." You replied with indifference, though within your chest your heart had picked up pace, excitement coursing through fatigued bones as the prospect of old times wondered over you. You'd cursed yourself for hoping for anything more than the lousy gaming sessions you'd shared over the past month, but his expression had enlightened a glimmer within you that you couldn't shake.

Rushing inside to shower, you were focused on anything other than the water running over you, instead pondering over the evening ahead. Perhaps you'd find courage to ask him what you'd really wanted to, instead of shallow small-talk. Honesty shared between you, just like you'd used to be with one another.

Cramming clothes into a bag, a charger, a toothbrush, you deemed yourself ready, before long at his door. Hand raised, fist balled, knocking and waiting. Footsteps echoed through his hall, ones that brought a feeling into your stomach as you listened to him approaching you, lock turning. The old oak crept open, revealing your friend behind it, a loose fitted white t-shirt, relaxed black trousers, bare foot. "Hey." Greeting him, a smile on your face, bag slung over your shoulder.

Eren didn't reply, simply stepping back to allow you space to enter his home. You tread through, throwing your bag down in the usual spot, in the corner of the hall. "I got pizza." He stated, walking toward the kitchen. You followed him with your eyes as you'd taken off your shoes, finally trailing behind once they'd been placed neatly alongside his. Floorboards creaked beneath you while you'd passed through the narrow landing, through the unpainted door frame.

Two boxes, one open with a few slices missing, the other still folded shut, sat on the old stained table housed in the corner of the room. Opening the box had revealed a pizza you'd gotten many times before, one you'd considered a favourite. "You did good." You smiled, picking a piece up and taking a bite, glancing up to meet green eyes. He was leaning back against the table, arm folded over the other. He'd always worn a brooding look, one you used to pride yourself on reading, though with age you'd become less able to figure out what was going on inside of his head. "Not hard to remember the thing you always order." He commented, a bite being taken shortly after, an awkward silence airing between you disrupted by quiet chewing sounds. Once he'd finished the slice, he grabbed a remote, turning on the small TV that his mother had situated high on the wall, a source of entertainment in the small, dated kitchen for when she'd had to spend a few hours cooking a meal.

Memories of childhood with the Yeager family flooded through your thoughts, his mother's warming personality when you'd come in from the old outdoors, usually in tears after being picked on by her son. At first, yourself and the blonde had been closest, though with age you'd grown a backbone, no longer giving into Eren's teasing. Once this had occurred, the four of you got long well, a good balance between teasing and empathy, each part bringing their own qualities to mix within the group. Without them, the house had felt a little empty. You'd wondered how Eren had felt, losing what had been like a sister to him as she'd gone to study far from her adopted home.

Sounds of a game show had filled the space, replacing stale silence with soft chatter and laughter. You'd continued to eat, mind wondering while you were perched on the rickety chair, elbows on the table, eyes on the contestants. The brunette paced to the fridge, shoving the crust of a slice into his mouth as he pulled two cans from a shelf, placing them on the table before finally taking a seat - though over halfway through his meal.

"I can't believe we're done." You spoke through chewing, peeling your gaze from the small television to your friend, who'd been hunched over his own box. His eyes remained on the cardboard until he was done with his mouthful, finally flickering up to meet you after swallowing. "Thank fuck, couldn't stand that place." Eren spoke, bitterness raking through his voice as he'd recalled the past year of his life. He too had wished for better experiences, and was left with one of the worse years of his life. "It wasn't that bad." Disagreeing with him was something you'd often done, though as his stare hardened, you fought the urge to take back the words you'd spoken. "What're you talking about? Every day we were just hamsters on a wheel, just fulfilling meaningless tasks without question." The passion you'd heard him express many times before radiated through the words he'd spoken, brow furrowing as he'd looked over you in disgust.

You shrugged, looking down at the food in front of you once more, uncomfortable in the way he'd studied you. Although he was hard to read, his hatred was not. When Eren was angry, it was as apparent as the sky was blue. It had most likely been down to the fact his features had already been so cold, but when he was annoyed, the distaste ran through his expression.

"It was always temporary," You picked at the crusts you'd left in the box, prodding them as if to distract yourself from the male before you. "So, it didn't bother me." Voice timid, you surrendered your own argument, a weak defense as you'd wished upon the conversation coming to an end. "You back down too easy." He'd spoken the words under his breath, tearing his food with his teeth as his mouth was stuffed full. You chose not to fight back, maybe as young teenagers you would've bitten the bait, but now, you had little interest in debating with him. Though, this was most likely a positive, as Mrs Yeager wasn't here to come to your defence if her son kicked off at you.

She'd always been there, even when your parents hadn't been. She'd even housed Eren's brother despite him not being her own, and had been some what delinquent through his years. He encouraged the worst out of her son, but she supported him nonetheless. When you'd questioned her over the decision, she'd simply told you he'd needed a home, just as Mikasa had.

"Wanna smoke?" Eren asked, closing the now empty container before him, standing and brushing the crumby fingers down trouser legs. He wondered to the countertop, grabbing the carton and lighter he'd left there, glancing over to you as he made his way to the back door.

The sun was setting, you could see the amber glow through the gaps in the blinds, peering through to the garden. You stood, meeting him at the half-opened door, following through to sit on well-kept grass. It was always short, littered with daisies, bordered with stones and soil housing a few varieties of flowers. Nothing spectacular, but it'd had a homely feel. Another aspect of his house that had been unchanged since the day you'd first stepped foot within it.

The air was still warm on your sun-kissed skin, a faint hum of music playing a few doors down, most likely that of a garden party. There had been the scent of a barbecue too, one that had always reminded you of summer evenings like this. Eren lit his cigarette, tilting the box to you, allowing you to take one. You pulled one out, placing it between your lips, allowing him to lean toward you and bring the flame to kiss the end of the stick, innately sucking in. The familiar orange glow, a breath in and out.

"Still going to the same college?" You asked, though aware of the answer. He nodded, closing heavy eyes as he exhaled. "Can't get rid of me yet." Eren's voice was low, lids opening to let orbs wonder over the fence surrounding the small corner of the world you'd resided in, one he'd be able to recall blindfolded. You were sure you could, too.

"Do you think," You began with hesitance, watching a bee land a few feet in front of you, mingling in a buttercup. The insect collected a small amount of pollen, flying to the next flower. "-things will change?" The question left your lips, some worry within your voice, as you remained fixated upon the show before you, on the small creature conducting its way of life; fullfilling its purpose. With this, you'd wondered if you were satisfied within your objectives. Maybe everything would be simpler if the two of you had been born another species.

"Doubt it, they didn't after high-school, did they?" His reply was apethetic, and somewhat confusing. Things had changed, maybe he'd been oblivious to that, too caught up within his own mind to think about those surrounding him. "A lot has changed, Eren. Your sister moved countries, Armin has gone off to do some fancy degree-" You spouted, though the vent had been cut short by the slightly louder voice dominating the conversation.

"We haven't changed, though." He brought the cigarette to his lips once more, and as the tip illuminated his face, you'd realised how quickly the sun had set. It'd been minutes, but a curtain had still fallen over the garden, night nearing. The bee you'd peered over was now gone, most likely making its way back to the colony.

"Guess not." You replied, for the first time that evening you'd actually agreed with a statement. It had felt as if the pair of you had lagged behind your friends over the past year - they were all done with their first year of university, and yet, you were in the same place you'd been since high-school.

"Talking to anyone?" You asked between drags, the cigarette burning a little too close to your fingertips. The question made your chest tighten, anxiety rising as you'd awaited the response. You hadn't known why - he was free to see anyone he'd pleased, though deep within the confides of your brain had been a tinge of jealousy whenever you'd pictured him with another. Most likely a sisterly instinct, as you'd grown alongside him, though you'd been unable to deny your small crush on your childhood friend.

Eren never appeared to respond with his body language, only words. It made interactions with him a little stressful, as there had been no way in which one could predict what he'd say before the words were pulled from his chest. You'd simply had to await the response.

"Nah. You?" He replied, to which you'd shaken your head, finally parting with the burning paper between your fingers, flicking the nub to the other side of the garden. Sighing, your back hit the grass beneath you, gaze moving to the sky above. There was a deep blue painted overhead, a glow from the newly risen moon, stars dotting the canvas with a bright burn. The lawn was cooling over the skin on your back, arms situating themselves beneath your head, tickled with the nature under your skin. Eren mirrored your actions, the warmth of his body grazing yours as he laid beside you. He was longer than you, but he'd positioned his head to sit beside yours, to see what you'd seen.

"Do you feel like everyone's moving through life but us?" You inquired, tracing the small white glows to search for constellations - though you hadn't been too sure on what you were looking for. "Sometimes, yeah." Eren's voice was soothing, but you'd felt your stomach churn as he shifted beside you, a reminder of how close the pair of you had been laying. His tone was something you'd wished to hear more, longing to spend more time like this, alone with the world.

"Can I tell you something?" You'd been aware your continued questioning had probably held some annoyance to him, though within the moment, you'd felt at ease. The dynamic between the pair of you had complimented one another; you would talk, and he would listen. Others may assume his lack of dialogue had been due to disinterest, though you'd understood it was simply because he'd had little to say.

"Go ahead." He spoke, a sigh escaping his lips as you opened yours, curving them into an embarrassed smile as you spoke; "I'm still a virgin." Admitting your secret had left a tense strain over your mood, a small giggle erupting from the silence as if to aid the strain. The lack of response from your friend had left a bad taste, and with hesitance, you turned your head, praying that the impassive expression you were met with would reveal something of use. "Really?" Eren had sounded intrigued, though manner still cold. "Yeah, kinda pathetic, right?" An exhale had replaced the awkward laugh, though as he hadn't mirrored the innate response, you grew concerned over the topic.

Sex, and relationships, hadn't been something you'd discussed with him for some time. He'd assumed you'd delve into such thoughts with Mikasa, likely sparing no detail as she'd been forced to listen to one of your unforgiving rants - yourself assuming he'd boasted about under-cover experiences with his male friends.

"Sorry," Exhaling, you brought a hand to temple, face screwing up as you'd mentally cringed at the discourse. "Was that too deep?" The relationship between you had been a little hard to understand, and you'd been unsure where boundaries had laid. At times, it was as if the two of you were strangers, though evenings like this, he'd felt at one with you.

"Nah." His reply was late, allowing you to mentally fuss over the stillness following your admission, awaiting a response. "I am, too." He'd mentioned nonchalantly, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. It'd made sense - the pair of you were rarely out without the other, but with Eren's appearance and charm, it was questionable.

"Oh." There had been difficulty formulating a response other than the small sound you'd made, and you'd recognised the discomfort he must've felt when the subject had been introduced to begin with. "Well, at least I won't be the only one in college with a v-card." An attempt at light-heartedness, though again, he hadn't laughed. Instead, he let his thoughts brew until he'd formulated a comment.

"Or, we could just lose it before college." He suggested, to which, instead of an awkward giggle, a genuine exhale of amusement passed through your parted lips. "How do you suppose we do that?" You moved the hand that had rested at your forehead to reside on your chest, the other arm still supporting your head. "Might be easy for you, but no guy would wanna fuck me." The response was solemn, even if you hadn't intended it to be. It's not that you had doubts within yourself; it was your confidence had let you down when it had come to an interest in a member of the opposite sex.

"God, you're so thick at times." He sighed, mentally cursing as you'd furrowed your brow, turning to him in annoyance to question what he'd meant, but before the words could spill from you, his lips were pressing against yours.

The movement had left you in shock, eyes open, his face atop yours. Though, as he lingered on you, adjusting to support himself with his forearm, the realization sunk in. After analysing the situation, riding out the wave of surprise, your lips moved in synchrony. The taste of burnt tobacco had radiated between the pair of you, a small hint of pizza, though mostly, the flavour you'd focused yourself on had been him. With a decade of friendship, you hadn't imagined yourself able to do this - to taste him. Though now the permission had been granted, you didn't want to stop. The way his lips danced with yours had felt as if you were made for one another, mouths created purely to accompany their counterpart.

The action had ignited a swirl in the pit of your stomach, radiating desire through you, to create a pulling between your legs. One you'd felt during fleeting moments of self-pleasure, though this had been the first time an action of intimacy had created the sensitivity. Eren's nose bumped with yours, a string of spit building between the two of you, a sheen over lips, though ignored. His skin felt smooth as you'd ran your fingers across his cheek to cup his face within hand, adjusting the arm that had been a pillow to your tired head to rest at the back of his head, intertwining his hair between digits.

He hummed as you'd lightly pulled at his hair, sinking his head lower with yours to deepen the kiss, while you'd tugged at the strands at the nape of his neck, fingers snug between bun and head. Eren's arms caged around your body as he pulled himself between your limbs, the summer dress you'd modeled falling upward, exposing your wettened panties to his clothed cock. You'd felt his hardness as he'd rocked himself over your slit; another feeling you'd yet to experience until now. A moan caught in your throat at the contact, hips bucking upward and legs curving to wrap around him. The kisses grew sloppier between you as the new sensation arose in the places between legs, frenzied humps against one another, a tightening in your stomach.

The eager whines from your lips fell straight into his, hands desperately clutching, tugging at his hair with maneuvre. His bulge massaged against your slit feverishly, building up a tension in your core, breaths between you manic as you shared the moment, savoring how your body had felt on his. This was something you'd never done before; you wondered if Eren had felt the same stir within the pits of his abdomen too, a tingle gracing down your arms, the tickle of the grass on your back as the frantic movements between you had caused the skirt to hike up further, exposing more skin.

A guttural moan left your chest, followed by stuttered gasps from your lips, eyes squeezing closed while your body tensed up, pathetic humps against his cock as you felt your orgasm crash over you, at an intensity you'd never felt before. The ecstasy flowing across your body hadn't been like what you'd given yourself before - it was different. You'd grasped his face tightly, a mess under him, a heat spreading across your cheeks as he'd been a bystander to the otherworldly experience you'd just had, allowing his friend to use his erection to reach her high.

When it had fizzled out, you hadn't time to flush with embarrassment, as Eren had been unbuttoning his trousers with one had, his body-weight supported by the other arm, lips ramming back onto yours. You pushed your tongue into his mouth as you pulled at your underwear, pulling away from his lips for a moment to roll the cotton down your legs, and he imitated the action, knees bare against the grass of his garden, chill hitting his exposed skin.

"Will anyone see us?" You asked, chest heaving. His green eyes meeting yours made your heart flutter, his cheeks tinted with a crimson tone as he guided his cock to sit at your slick, pumping over the shaft. "Nah, they're all old, they'll be asleep." His reassurance was half-assed as his eyes left your face, instead flicking to his cock pressed up against you, slowly teasing himself in. He exhaled, mouth hanging open as he pushed forward. You watched his guise falter, face relaxed as he felt your cunt embrace him, a whine escaping his lips at your warm walls hugging his leaking cock. The amount of friction he'd endured had almost been enough to have him come in his boxers, though he resisted the urge.

After pushing himself into you fully, his gaze flickered down to yours. A smirk played at his lips as he glanced over your blissful demeanor, expression soft as you'd watched him through half-lidded eyes. "Does 't hurt?" He questioned, pulling halfway out before easing back into you. Your breath was shaky as you exhaled, eyes locked with his. "A little." You commented, voice wavering. His movements were slow, gentle pants falling from him as he moved in and out of you with ease. Your tired eyes rolled back, back arching off of the lawn as pain turned to pleasure. Eren took that as a signal you were okay, and sped up, hands gripping at your thighs. It was hard to hold himself back from cumming during the first few moments; the way you'd clenched around him had his dick in heaven, biting his lips to contain moans he'd felt rising through him. He'd only had his hand for the past twenty years, a pussy had felt a thousand times better, tight yet soft, made for his cock to fuck.

You were whining under him, the top of your head kissing the ground as you'd arched back upward in pleasure, your fingers fining their way to circle over your clit. He watched you contort for him, gritting his teeth at the display, fighting the urge within him to just shoot his seed inside you. He'd wanted to fill the virgin pussy with cum, but he'd resisted, unable to allow this to end so quickly. Eren wanted to savor this moment he'd had with you, to watch your body move with his, his cock taken in by your warmth.

Coarse hands gripped at your hips, a cacophony of stuttered breaths and mewls played a synchrony of sounds, an orchestra made up of two. The way he'd held you, how he had loomed over you, the fact you were his first, were all things you'd be unable to forget. His face fixed on you, pleasure written across his features, burned into your mind. This was something only yourself and Eren would share.

"Eren-" His name fell from your lips, another swipe across your sensitive clit, his fingers squeezing the fat of your thighs tighter, until he'd had to halt altogether to stop himself from cumming. You continued to rub regardless, panting and circling your hips, stuttered humps as you worked yourself up again, clenching, tensing, pulling over his member. He groaned, the small motions from your pussy keeping him seconds from spilling. "Inside?" Only half of the question left his lips, thighs clenching to stop his orgasm. "Can I cum inside?" He was reduced to a murmur of words, a mostly incoherent sentence, though your frantic nodding had been enough permission, and he was slamming his hips into yours once more, a loud moan leaving his lips as his chest rose and fell, grunts erupting from his chest. You'd come undone too, for the second time, his name the only thing on your mind as you'd clenched around him, repeating the syllables over, and over.

He lingered for a moment, tracing a thumb over your cheek and pulling out, a warmth dribbling from the hole he'd just evacuated as his seed left you, too. An unfamilliar sensation, though knowing it'd been from him had created a new feeling within you, one familiar to that of arousal, mingling with a sense of accomplishment. A smile crept across your face as he pulled his trousers upward, laying beside you once more. You straightened out the creases of your dress, pulling it over your knees, goosebumps prickling over you as the heat of the moment had died down, cool air over you again.

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sihtricfedaraaahvicius · 9 months

Text

chapter 1.

Note: a brand new fic no one asked for :)

Warnings: none I can think of, we're just getting started here, it's all fluff ;)

pairing: Modern!Sihtric x you (f)

summary: Sihtric, the bass player of your favourite band, suddenly remembers you when you meet again after 7 years.

wordcount: 4,5k

Masterlist

'Wait! Have we met before?'

Seven Kings, one of the most popular alternative rock bands of the last few years, were playing a show in your hometown, which was actually also the band's hometown, but you knew all members had moved away after their break through. When you saw the tour announcement, which only had eight dates, you immediately called your best friend, Gisela, and you were hysterically screaming on the phone. When she finally understood what you were saying, she screamed just as hard. You both have been a fan since the very start of the band's career, seeing them at their very first free show in your city at a pub. And after that, you both went to every show near you, while the band became more popular and the venues bigger.

The band hadn't toured for a whole year and a half, as they had been recording new music and dealt with some personal issues back home. Sihtric, the bass player and your favourite member, went through a divorce last year, while Osferth, their guitarist, made headlines when word came out he was to become a father; of two different children, by two different ladies. It always baffled you how Osferth seemed so shy, yet he was a real ladies killer. Their other members, Finan, the drummer, and Uhtred, the singer/guitarist and Gisela's favourite member, seemed to have no struggles going on. And you were already excited when they announced their new album, a few weeks before the tour announcement dropped.

You and Gisela immediately stressed over the ticket sale. As the band had gotten more popular, the ticket sales became more horrifying. However, you couldn't complain, you always managed to get tickets, but it was always a bit of a punch in the gut you could never see your favourite band up close again. The newer fans randomly started to camp out for shows a few years ago, two days before the actual show sometimes, and you and Gisela drew the line there. You had no problem with getting to the venue early in the morning and queueing, but sleeping outside? For a show? Absolutely not. And so you both bitterly accepted your front row days were over.

Your most prized possessions are the photos you have with all the members, when you met them for the first and last time, seven years ago, when they opened up for a bigger band. You got to meet Seven Kings at their merch table, after the show. They had all been so lovely, which was a big reason why you kept supporting them. You pretty much grew up with them, as you were around the same age, and their music had helped you through various heartbreaks. But your heart was also somewhat broken when word got out that Sihtric got married, years ago. You and Gisela always joked how you belonged with Sihtric, and how she belonged with Uhtred. But then Sihtric got married, and you felt crushed for a day or two, but then life went on. It's not like you ever had a chance with the guy anyway. Uhtred was forever single, always whoring around with the groupies, as was Finan, and well… Osferth definitely too. Gisela said she'd still marry Uhtred if she could, and you couldn't blame her.

When the news broke last year that Sihtric was single again, Gisela blew up your phone with texts. You both chuckled at your delusions of marrying your favourite pretty boys, but never took it seriously, as they were famous, and truthfully, you barely knew anything about them.

On the day of the ticket sale you managed to score floor tickets, and you and Gisela were ecstatic. The show was already in a few months, and the album would be released in a few weeks. You both counted down the days and, when the album dropped, you and Gisela had a sleepover, listening to the record all night while desperately gushing over how good "your boys" looked in that new video, even though you both knew it was shot a while ago, as Finan's hair was short in the video, and you knew it was longer now.

'Did you hear you can win meet and greet tickets?' you suddenly asked.

'For real?' Gisela gasped, 'how?'

'All you have to do is enter your email address on their website, and a few winners get picked at random for each show.'

'Oh my god!' Gisela squealed, 'can you imagine?! We both have to enter!'

And so you both entered the competition. You knew chances were slim, their fanbase was huge, and many fans travelled to multiple shows, so they would try for every show they'd go to. You could only afford to go to one show, the one in your city, which was also the first show of the tour. You kept thinking of trying to get tickets for the last show of the tour, which was two weeks after your show, in a city which was only an hour away from you, but you never got them.

The concert was in two days. You and Gisela were already going crazy with excitement, and when you suddenly received an email from their record label, saying you were one of the meet and greet winners, you were sure your entire city could hear you and Gisela scream.

'Oh my god, what do I wear?' you panicked.

'I need to buy new clothes!' Gisela cried.

'I have to dye my hair! Look at these roots!' you gasped as you looked at yourself in the mirror.

You and Gisela went shopping the day before the show, and you fixed up each other's hair, hoping you'd both look a little presentable among the other fans who had won.

'I wonder how many others there will be,' Gisela dreamed the night before the show, as she stared at her phone, looking at pictures of Uhtred, 'and I wonder what the guys will be wearing!'

'I'm so afraid it will be so rushed,' you pouted, scrolling through Sihtric's instagram, 'and me too, I can't wait to see their new look- oh my god!' you suddenly shouted.

'What?' Gisela jumped up.

'Sihtric just posted a selfie on his story!' you squealed, 'look! Oh my god, he has long hair now! Oh god, that smile!' you cried.

'Oh god,' Gisela snorted, knowing you were a sucker for tall, lean guys with shoulder length hair, 'you won't survive tomorrow.'

Luckily for you, Gisela had the same meltdown when Uhtred posted a new selfie too, revealing his new look as well, and you thought Gisela was about to faint. You both 'awww'ed' at Osferth and Finan's reveals, them always being cute and handsome, and after that, you desperately tried to get some sleep, as tomorrow was the day.

'Is my hair okay?' you asked nervously, standing in front of the venue.

'Yeah, yeah, you look good,' Gisela said, 'mine?'

'You're always pretty, shut up,' you scowled.

You looked down at your outfit; black boots, black skinny jeans, and a comfy shirt of Seven Kings, which was actually their very first tour shirt, which you had always been very careful with. The shirt still fitted perfectly, but you did cut off the sleeves years ago, making it a sleeveless top. You anxiously looked around, confused, as there were only a handful of other fans who also won, and then you all figured there were no more than five winners, each allowed to bring a friend, so it truly was an exclusive thing. Gisela kept pulling at her little black dress. She heard that Uhtred apparently likes ladies in short dresses, so she went for it. You actually had no idea what type of girl Sihtric was into, as he was rather private and quiet in interviews. And his instagram page mainly had professional photos of him, taken during live shows or for promo, and if it wasn't that, it was a photo of another new bass guitar he got his tattooed hands on.

You all froze when suddenly a door opened, and your tickets got checked. Terrified that something was wrong with your ticket, your trembling hands showed the venue employee your papers. You all got cleared, ushered inside, and were told to wait in a comfortable lounge room.

'Okay,' Ragnar, the band's manager, said as he walked in the door, 'first of all, congratulations,' he smiled, and you all cheered quietly.

'The band will come out in a moment,' he said, 'and please… just… behave,' Ragnar sighed, 'no pushing or pulling, there is no need, there's only ten of you and you guys have almost an hour here with them, if you all behave that is,' Ragnar said sternly. 'Also,' he continued, 'no asking for kisses and there will be no boob signatures if you are underage,' he glanced quickly at a few girls who were absolutely no older than 16.

You and Gisela gave each other a sly smile, but you both felt you were too old for that kind of behaviour, so you wouldn't ask for anything like that anyway.

'Before you take your selfies with the guys, we ask you to just chill out and chat, get some albums signed and all that, the more relaxed you are, the better your pictures will be, okay?' Ragnar chuckled, 'those boys are all ugly anyway, so I don't even know why you are all here,' he snorted and left the room.

The younger girls gasped while you and Gisela laughed at the manager's sneer. Everyone adjusted their outfits before you all perked up at the sound of Finan's laughter closing in. And there they were. Finan got in the room first, grinning, wearing a sleeveless black shirt with denim jeans and sneakers. Osferth followed, in his white fishnet top, black jeans and leather boots. You heard Gisela exhale sharply next to you when Uhtred appeared, with a hint of eyeliner, a leather jacket with no shirt underneath, leather jeans and black boots. You looked at Gisela, who was blushing at the sight of her favourite, and you snorted. But when you looked back up, you saw Sihtric, his hair loose and wild, wearing a black leather dungarees with a black mesh shirt underneath, his dungarees tucked in his black Doctor Martens. Your heart skipped about five beats when you locked eyes with his mismatched pair for a second.

'Oh my god,' you breathed softly, grabbing Gisela's hand.

Then Ragnar walked in again and frowned at all of you, frozen on the sofas. 'Well, what are you waiting for?' he chuckled, 'they don't bite!'

'Maybe we do,' Finan grinned.

Then you all jumped up and, as expected, most girls ran over to Osferth and Uhtred, while Finan earned some company too. Because Sihtric was always the quiet one, he took a slight step back from the others, which is why some of the other hesitant fans didn't dare walk up to him, and turned to the other members. But this was your chance, you thought, so you went for it, while Gisela already left your side and stood next to Uhtred.

You took a deep breath and walked up to the handsome, slightly scarred Dane, who grabbed himself a bottle of water and sat up on a table, keeping to himself. When his eyes met yours again as you approached him, a sweet smile appeared on his face and he leaned back.

'Hello,' he simply said, with that soft, low voice you love so much, and he took a sip of water.

'H-hi,' you smiled, trying your best to not show your nerves, 'how are you doing?'

'Nervous,' Sihtric confessed with a chuckle, then tilted his head, 'and how are you, lady?'

'Nervous,' you laughed softly, which earned you another sweet smile from Sihtric.

'Surely not because of me, I hope?' Sihtric asked as he sat up, quickly looking you up and down with a sly smile.

'Maybe,' you half joked, feeling your face heat up when his eyes darted over you.

'Ah, don't be nervous for me,' Sihtric smiled and squinted his eyes a little, 'I like your shirt. Is it an original?' he asked and leaned in, his fingers brushing your shoulder as he felt the fabric.

'It is,' you smiled, 'I got it at the actual tour back then.'

'No way,' Sihtric said with big eyes and let go of your shirt, 'you stuck around all that time?'

'Even longer,' you giggled shyly, 'I first saw you guys at that free show here in the city, at the Irish pub.'

'At Clancy's?' Sihtric frowned, 'damn.'

'Yeah, but I had to leave early that evening,' you said, 'and I got this shirt when you opened up for that other band, you guys were at the merch-'

'Wait! Have we met before?' he gasped softly.

'Eh, actually, yeah,' you felt your cheeks heat up again and took out your phone, showing him the seven year old selfie.

'Gods!' Sihtric stared at your screen. He took your hand in his while you held your phone up to him, to get a better look. 'Yeah… I remember that night, I also remember you now.'

'What? No way,' you looked down at your feet.

'Yeah, yeah,' Sihtric said as he let go of your hand, 'you were the girl who told me you liked the metal chain I use as a bass guitar strap,' he smiled, 'because it reminded you of Peter Steele.'

'Oh my god,' you snorted, 'yeah, that was me. And you told me you stole the idea-'

'From Peter Steele,' Sihtric laughed, 'because I am the most unoriginal bastard.'

You both laughed at the memory, and suddenly Sihtric held his arms open to you. 'Come here, bring it in,' he smiled, 'you deserve a hug for still putting up with our music.'

You allowed Sihtric to pull you in, wrapping his arms around you, and he lightly stroked your back with his big, warm hands as you were pressed against his muscular chest. You could die peacefully now, you thought. You tried to pull back, but Sihtric held on a little longer before he let go, licking his lips with a soft smile when he looked at you again.

'You been to all our tours ever since?' he asked.

'Yeah, but more and more in the back of the venue, as you guys became more popular. I refuse to camp out for a good spot.'

'Ah,' Sihtric clicked his tongue, 'yeah, fandom behaviour got, eh, quite intense the last few years. People camp out, some even figure out our hotels, it's crazy,' he said, 'that's why I'm not that active on social media. You post one thing and suddenly a shit ton of people find out where you are.'

'Sorry to hear that,' you gave him a compassionate look, 'me and my friend also took a step back from the fanbase because of that,' you looked a little sad, 'people have no limits anymore these days. It's weird as shit.'

'Truly,' Sihtric nodded, 'but good to see we still got some decently behaving people who like us,' he winked and poked your shoulder.

'Oh, thanks,' you smiled shyly.

'So, can I sign anything for you or…?'

'Ehh, my ticket?' you smiled sheepishly, 'I forgot to bring my album.'

'You did not,' Sihtric snorted, 'really?'

You gave him a shy nod and buried your face in your hands, to which Sihtric laughed.

'Okay, hold on,' Sihtric smiled and got off the table, towering over you as he put his feet on the ground, and his fingers brushed over your arm, 'come,' he said, 'I'll get you another one.'

You hesitantly moved your feet towards the door Sihtric held open for you.

'But… I don't want to get in trouble,' you looked back at Ragnar, who was on his phone, 'I can just wait here?'

Trouble?' Sihtric shook his head with a smile, 'you won't get in any trouble, come,' he beckoned you over.

He didn't have to ask you again. You followed Sihtric through the empty hallway, to their merch stand, where he opened a few boxes.

'You had a cd or a vinyl?'

'Cd,' you said, 'the coloured vinyl was a little too pricey,' you blurted out by accident, not meaning to fish for anything or come off rude.

'I agree,' Sihtric sighed and looked up at you, 'we told the label to cut down that price. We don't even need that income anymore, to be honest,' he quickly grimaced, 'sorry, don't mean to boast or anything. But yeah, the record looks sick, but that price tag is ridiculous.'

'I agree,' you scoffed lightly, 'but, well, it is what it is.'

'Mhm,' Sihtric hummed as he grabbed a vinyl, 'it is what it is,' he smiled and got up again, 'what's your name, love?' he asked as he grabbed a silver marker out of a drawer and ripped the plastic off the vinyl cover.

You told him your name and stared at the vinyl, confused, then you suddenly realised Sihtric was writing your name on the record.

'W-wait,' you chuckled nervously, 'I… I can't afford that-'

'Shush,' Sihtric hushed sweetly and winked at you, 'I'm giving it to you, so it's a gift,' he shrugged and continued to scribble on the cover.

'Oh… o-okay,' you felt yourself blushing again, 'thank you.'

Sihtric smiled and silently nodded his head while looking down at the record, accepting your thanks. He closed the marker again and flung it in the drawer, then leaned in on the merch table, opposite of you, staring into your eyes with a soft smile.

'Can I get you anything else, pretty lady?' he asked, carefully pushing the vinyl your way.

'N-no,' you said with big eyes.

'Hm, what's your size?'

'No,' you chuckled, 'I… I will not steal any more merchandise.'

'You're not stealing any merch,' Sihtric laughed, 'tell me your shirt size,' he bit down on his lip.

'I will not,' you protested while butterflies marched through your stomach, because of Sihtric's playful voice and smile.

He suddenly made his way around the merch table and, before you realised what happened, you felt his rough fingers touching your neck, as he took the collar of your shirt and looked at the label.

'Got you,' Sihtric whispered in your ear before he hopped back to the merchandise.

He pulled out a sweater and two shirts in your size and pushed them in your hands, along with the signed vinyl.

'Sihtric, I-'

'Let's go, lady,' Sihtric chuckled as he looked around. He placed his hand on your lower back, guiding you with him, 'if anyone asks,' he looked at the pile of merch in your arms, 'you already had it. It's just our secret as to how you got it,' he winked, opened the door for you, and you stepped back into the lounge room.

Luckily, everyone else had been so occupied, no one even noticed that you and Sihtric had left the room for quite a few minutes.

'Thank you,' you said as Sihtric sat back on the table again, and he took another sip of his water.

'For what?' he grinned, then held his water bottle out to you, 'sip?'

Sharing a drink? With the man of your dreams? You'd be foolish if you didn't.

'Eh, sure,' you smiled and took the bottle out of his hand, taking a small sip.

You handed it back to Sihtric, who took another few sips before he closed the half empty bottle again, and handed it back to you.

'Keep it,' he smiled, 'so, you want a new photo? Now that we're both older?'

'Of course,' you said, taking out your phone again, fumbling as your arms were overloaded with everything Sihtric had given you.

Sihtric chuckled and grabbed your phone when he saw your struggle. 'Put the stuff on the table, love,' he smiled and then pulled you close, his arm around your neck, leaning heavily against you, and he flashed a sly smile as he snapped a few photos.

'Those good?' he asked, swiping through the selfies, keeping his arm around you.

'Yeah,' you smiled, feeling lightheaded at how close you were. You could even smell his cologne, which had hints of mint and cedarwood. You were absolutely smitten.

Sihtric handed you your phone and took a step back, his hand still on your shoulder, but before either of you could say something, another fan finally walked up to Sihtric. You noticed her and you stepped away, but Sihtric's eyes lingered on you before he looked at the other lady, and he somewhat reluctantly let go of your shoulder.

'I'll see you around,' Sihtric said with a sweet smile.

You returned the smile and walked up to the other members, joining Gisela again, who frowned at your arms full of merch.

'How did you get that?' she asked with big eyes as the other men were busy chatting with someone else.

'Sihtric gave it to me,' you whispered.

'Are you serious?'

'Yeah,' you smiled and told her what happened. Gisela couldn't believe it and kept saying how Sihtric must have liked you, but you shrugged it off. 'He's just really nice,' you said.

'Nice, my ass,' Gisela frowned, 'he keeps looking at you,' she said, upset, because Uhtred didn't pay her much attention apparently.

'No, he's not,' you scoffed, then looked over your shoulder and locked eyes with Sihtric, as someone else was talking to him, and a smile appeared on his face. 'O-okay, maybe he just looked now,' you stammered.

'What did he write on that record?' Gisela tried to get a look at it.

'Oh, shit, I have no idea,' you said, completely forgetting about that after everything that happened.

You looked at the vinyl cover and smiled at the way he wrote your name so gracefully, and had continued with;

Hope you stick around for another seven years, and longer...

Love you to death ;)

Sihtric

'Love you to death?' Gisela's mouth fell open.

'No! It's not what you think!' you said, 'you know his guitar strap? The metal chain?'

Gisela nodded, her jaw still dropped.

'He stole that idea from Peter Steele, who was the bass player and singer for Type O Negative,' you explained, 'and one of their most famous songs is called Love You to Death. It's obviously a nod to the first time I met Sihtric, and said the metal chain reminded me of Peter, which we just talked about. Oh my god, I didn't even tell you yet!' you gasped, 'he remembered me when I showed him the photo we took years ago!'

'Oh my god,' was all Gisela could bring out.

The rest of the meet and greet was a blur really. You just couldn't grasp your interaction with Sihtric, and Gisela kept telling you how Sihtric was constantly looking at you. You chatted and took pictures with the other guys too, who were just as friendly as the first time you had met, but your eyes kept wandering back to Sihtric, and you always found him looking at you from across the room. When the meet and greet was over, everyone just waved goodbye to each other, but Sihtric was quick to run up to you, to give you another firm hug before leaving, and said if he found you in the crowd, he'd throw you one of his guitar picks.

And before you knew it, you found yourself in the hot crowd. You were kinda close to the stage at first, but the crowd was constantly pushing and pulling, so you and Gisela moved further back halfway through the set.

As always, the show was fantastic, but when you left the venue you were sad you never got that guitar pick, as you had been too far away. Back home, you both couldn't stop staring at the pictures you got with your favourite member, and you posted your selfies separately on your instagram, tagging all members in their own photo. About an hour later you suddenly screamed, startling Gisela, who jumped up next to you on the couch.

'What happened?' she asked.

'S…S…S-Sihtric liked our selfie,' you wheezed, and just as you both looked at your screen, another notification popped up.

sihtric.kjartansson commented: beauty & the beast x

You felt dizzy and laid down on the floor, while Gisela took your phone to read the comment properly.

'Oh my god,' she laughed, 'he's totally into you!'

'Impossible,' you groaned, hiding your face behind your hands.

'Oh come on, we all stalk their pages, we know none of them ever comment. They rarely even like the posts they are tagged in!' Gisela said, 'you gotta dm him! He's totally flirting!'

'I thought about it, to… you know, thank him again in private but… I don't know…'

'You should!' she said, 'you should send a picture of you wearing one of those shirts he gave you, telling him it fits,' she giggled.

'Should I?' you frowned.

After some bickering, you finally agreed. You put on the comfy hoodie, which was the perfect amount of oversized, and you took a cute picture in the mirror.

You: The merch fits! Thanks for everything. Had a great time meeting you again, sad I didn't get that guitar pick though, the crowd was rough. Great show regardless! :)

You hit send and locked your phone. It was getting late and you were tired, so you decided to go home and sleep, figuring Sihtric would never reply anyway.

The next morning you woke up and you had a near heart attack when you looked at your phone. Sihtric had liked your message and even replied. With shaking hands you opened your dms.

Sihtric: looking good lady x

Sihtric: sad I couldn't find you either, the crowd was indeed rowdy. hope you didn't get stuck in that mosh pit...

Sihtric: let me know if you're going to another show, I'll fix that pick for you x

You gasped, screamed and nearly cried. You screenshotted the messages and texted Gisela, who went feral too, and she asked what you were going to reply with. You had no idea yet, you needed some time to think. You also cursed yourself when you saw he had replied only 5 minutes after you had messaged him last night, while you were in bed already, trying to sleep. You figured he'd never reply again now, after 10 hours had passed by now, and you felt you had wasted the opportunity.

After an hour you finally gathered your courage and replied.

You: I know better than to get near a mosh pit haha! unfortunately last night was the only show I'll be at, I couldn't get tickets for the last show :( better luck next tour maybe!

You locked your phone again and got back under your covers, and a minute later your phone buzzed. You thought it was Gisela, but your heart skipped another beat with you saw it was Sihtric again.

'Oh my fucking god,' you breathed and opened the message.

Sihtric: damn, lady. Definitely hit me up next time you're seeing us, yeah? x

You replied with trembling hands again.

You: will do :) thanks again! x

Right after you pressed send, it showed that Sihtric had seen the message, and he started typing. Your head was spinning, how was any of this even real. Sihtric, out of all members, was the one who used his social media the least. Yet here he was, responding to you within seconds.

Sihtric: no worries love

Sihtric: was lovely meeting you again

Sihtric: how are you doing today then? x

taglist: @clairacassidy @finanmoghra @uunotheangel @hb8301 @bathedinheat @neonhairspray @anaeve @bubblyabs @travelingmypassion @sylasthegrim @bubbles-for-all-of-us @andakth @bel-bottoms @willowbrookesblog @lady-targaryens-world @skyofficialxx @diosademuerte @elle4404 @alexagirlie @sweetxime @solango @gemini-mama @cheyennep3107 @little-diable @jennifer0305 @drwstarkeyy @mrsarnasdelicious @verenahx @urmomsgirlfriend1

#sihtric x reader #sihtric x you #sihtric kjartansson #the last kingdom #the last kingdom fic #sihtric fic #sihtric #tlk #modern!sihtric

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jovenshires · 4 months

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THE BATTLE OF THE BANDS AU OFFICIAL SOUNDTRACK

THE BEST OF THE CHOSEN

the chosen is an alternative rock band, whose members are spencer agnew (lead singer / secondary guitarist), shayne topp (lead guitarist), damien haas (bassist / vocalist), and courtney miller (drummer / vocalist). known for their iconic guitar riffs and heavy bass lines, the band has been accused of relying heavily on their instrumentals to distract from their lead singer's vocal insecurity, to which they have not disagreed. hit songs include "short kings," "i was there man," and "nuclear rain." the band is inspired by the early 2000's alternative movement, specifically weezer, green day, and simple plan.

THE BEST OF FTC

ftc (short for full-time cast) is an indie trio known for their slow melodies and sad lyrics. their songs, typically written by their lead singer tommy bowe, are often explicitly queer, romantic, and yearning, though they also frequently feature themes of self-doubt and internal struggle. other members of the band are amanda lehan-canto (singer / guitarist) and kimmy jimenez (drummer / occasional background singer). with songs such as "creekside killer," "reading of the will," and "bones," ftc is inspired by artists such as boygenius, hozier, and mitski.

THE BEST OF KOLIVTION

kolivition is a hip-hop duo fronted by keith leak jr. (singer / rapper) and backed by olivia sui (pianist / dj / sound mixer). they incorporate r&b, funk, and rap into their music as well, with their soulful beats and psychedelic sounds. kolivition's songs typically revolve around romance in the modern world. the duo's hit songs include "life's a party," "give me all your money," and "bobby from the block." kolivition is inspired by childish gambino, frank ocean, and kendrick lamar.

THE BEST OF COVENTRY

coventry is a female-led punk band consisting of erin dougal (singer / guitarist), heidi ha (singer / drummer), and selina garcia (singer / bassist). they typically theme their songs around female empowerment and relationships - romantic, platonic, or otherwise. their hit songs include "sluts," "sunflower," and "wish i could (say the same)." they are inspired by paramore, no doubt, and veruca salt.

THE BEST OF LET'S DO THIS

let's do this, though a relatively new band, is an enthusiastic underdog pop trio. its members, chanse mccrary (lead singer / guitarist), angela giarratana (bassist / vocalist), and arasha lalani (drummer / vocalist), are clearly tuned into the pop scene and thus make current, upbeat, snappy music that is practically made for the radio, even if it's yet to take off. their songs rely heavily on romance, and are often either explicitly queer or gender-neutral. their top tracks are "i lied," "lost the room," and "coroner." ldt is based off of artists such as conan gray, maisie peters, and troye sivan.

THE BEST OF SMOSH

smosh is a moden reinvention of an early 2000's pop-punk / alternative duo. back after a 6-year hiatus and preparing to win a competition they've already lost, ian hecox (singer / bassist), anthony padilla (singer), and their rotating backup band are re-entering both battle of the bands and mainstream. their music centers around personal identity and how that identity affects one's relationships. though they are re-inventing their sound, smosh was and is still known for their heavy instrumentals and all-star vocals. hit songs include "shut up," "the sun," and "destiny," and the band was based off of twenty one pilots, fall out boy, and panic! at the disco.

THE BEST OF JACKIE UWEH

jackie uweh - also known as the most talented voice of our generation - is an r&b / soul singer who sells out football stadiums with her powerhouse vocals. her songs often feature themes of feminism, romantic relationships, and a continuous journey of self-discovery. this is her first year judging battle of the bands, and, according to her, hopefully not her last. jackie's hit songs include "buggin'," "over easy," and "been with." she is inspired by beyonce, rhianna, and lizzo.

THE BEST OF MYTHICAL

mythical, which consists of rhett mclaughlin (singer / guitarist) and link neal (singer / guitarist) and their fantastic backing band, is a country band notable for having won battle of the bands ten years ago. since then, they have created their own empire, complete with a record label and several signed artist - previously including ian hecox of smosh fame. though they are a country band, mythical is also known to incorporate alternative genres into their music, especially their most recent album, which has been by far their most controversial in terms of sound. their musical themes vary, sometimes instead focusing on story-telling rather than relatability, but typically they utilize love (romantic, platonic, and familial), religion, and self-expression and exploration. their songs include "will it?," "buddy system," and "let's talk about that." they are inspired by james and the shame, noah kahan, and the lumineers.

THE BEST OF TREVOR

trevor (that's it, just trevor) is a soundcloud-based rapper who's honestly just happy to be here. an up-and-coming (read: thus unsuccessful) artist, trevor is a part-time musician and a part-time sound designer and editor. after working on mythical's latest album, he was invited to emcee the battle of the bands and is ecstatic at the chance to promote himself. trevor focuses on the self-described subgenre "meme rap," which views modern life through a comical gen z lens. his songs include "another banger," "silly guy," and "o7," and he is based on yung gravy, yungblud, and danny gonzalez.

#smosh #smosh au #fic #rpf #playlist #edit #mine*#aued*#botbau #oh my god...... whew this took me OUT #writing up all the descriptions my detested. anyway hope you all enjoy! for any of you who picked up on the january 25th clues here's this!#idk when this series will be back?? just bc. that would mean either me having to write it or me figuring out what content to make next #but! botbau is out there for us all now <3 #or at least whats been sitting in my drafts anyway

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maxislvt · 1 year

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Send You My Love On A Wire

Summary: Music had always been a big part of Wanda's life. Her parents loved music and they had passed that love down to her. She would've never thought that loving music would mean music would give her love back

Warnings: making out, a lot of cock blocking, smut, fingering, brief oral

A/N: The first half of this was in my drafts since the beginning of summer and I completely forgot about it despite the fact I never shut up about this concept. Anyways, it's finally here!!! Hope y'all enjoy her

Wanda loved concerts. The loud music, the cheering from fans, and the adrenaline rush came with every set. It was addictive. Her first concert was fresh in her mind. She was only eight years old at the time. Armed only with her favorite stuffed animal and bright red earplugs, she entered the world of music for the very first time. She had spent ample time in her parent's studio, but the concert was an experience like no other. The bright lights, people dancing, and being safely above it all while perched on her father's shoulders. Music had become Wanda's lifeline that day. It had only taken a few more years for her to throw herself into the industry entirely.

Soon, she was the one dancing and singing on stage. It was terrifying at first. Music was the first major life choice she made without her brother. Where she had fallen in love with bass guitars and layered choruses, Pietro fell in love with scene heading and camera angles. Their support for each other never faltered, but the fear was almost unshakable. It wasn't until she stepped on stage that her wings truly spread. Soon she was selling out stadiums in mere minutes and singing her out.

Of course, she was still herself. A little kid that loved music and the people that made it. Wanda still had a few celebrity crushes she couldn't let go of. Most were much older and married, but one, in particular, stood out.

The Thunderbolts was a group that popped up about a year before Wanda had started hers. They were a lot edgier and further on the alternative spectrum than what Wanda usually listened to, but she enjoyed their music nonetheless. Loud, exciting, and aggressive — all things she loved in music. The absolute beauty that was their concept only added to the appeal. Bastardized demigods in one album and humans possessed by unforgiving demons in the next, with the aesthetics to match. All the members put their all into creation, but you just stood out more than anyone. Though you were a guitarist, you'd occasionally take the stage as the main vocalist and would help other groups create choreography as well.

Unfortunately, Wanda could never get close enough to actually to you even if it was just for an autograph or a chance to praise you for working so hard. It was until one of her first real festival performances that she got the chance to meet you. She was apprehensive at first. You were very open about how you took major performances seriously and you were busy getting makeup done or tuning your guitar. Her dear brother, almost equally infatuated with your music, was determined to get an autograph since he couldn't attend the festival.

"Come on," Pietro groaned out as much as he could with a group of women frantically doing his makeup. "I can't be there to get it myself, can you at least try?" For reasons entirely beyond his sister, Petro was convinced all musicians had some secret clique or friendships they refused to tell the world about. "Just use your super good music privileges and get them to sign my shirt! Maybe we'll get a collab out of it!"

Wanda rolled her eyes at her brother's antics. "I've told you before, there is no secret music industry cult! Just catch them at another concern or something." She huffed out. There were a few hours before the start of the show. Maybe he could see you, or at least get her and her brother some new merch from one of the tents outside. "Okay, fine. I'll try, but don't start pouting when there's no signature on it!"

"Yeah," Pietro cheered childishly and gently pumped his fists in the air, careful not to hit the people around him. "I promise I'll make it up to you!"

Wanda chuckled softly before preparing to leave her backstage room. She and her brother were used to sneaking out for the sake of fun and privacy. She coasted through the crowds and stopped by the occasional vendor for snacks or new merch she hadn't seen yet. Her adventures were quickly cut short after she caught up in a line for Thunderbolts merch. Exploring seemed much more enjoyable, but Pietro would kill her if she didn't at least get him a crappy mug with the band's name on it.

"That just doesn't make any sense," said a gruff, familiar voice. "You call my boyfriend Wilson, my best friend Rogers, and my best friend's boyfriend Stark! What sense does it make for me to be ' Buchanan'?"

Wanda brushed it off as a case of her ears being fucked because of the loud noises around her. Maybe it was just a group of friends playing make-believe and telling jokes.

"Because ‘Buchanan’ is a much sexier name than 'Barnes'! Are you happy now, Barnes?" Less gruffly than the first voice but just as passionate about the conversation. “Your boyfriend, best friend, and best friend’s boyfriend have cool last names, and you don’t!”

Okay, no. That way definitely who she thought it was. Bucky and Y/N, members of her favorite band, were standing right behind her. Now was her chance. All she had to do was turn around and say something. Instead, Wanda found herself frantically fixing her clothes and nitpicking at her outfit. After what must have been half an hour, she turned to face you and your bandmate. “Um, hey.” There was an awkward pause as you and Bucky waited for her to continue talking. Wanda had no clue what to say and opted to lift her glasses and give a small smile.

That was all Wanda needed to do before it was your turn to freak out,

“Oh my god,” You whispered in shock, “You’re the Scarlet Witch!” You excitedly bounce on your heels while using your thumb and pointer finger to mimic the shape of the iconic crown. “I am such a big fan- uh, sorry if I’m being too loud,” Your odd ramblings would’ve continued had your friend not been kind enough to elbow you in your side. There was no telling how red your face had gotten within a few minutes, but you were sure it embarrassed you. It was like your brain had short-circuited. “Um, did you need something?” Your hand nervously ran down the side of your jeans.

Wanda couldn’t help but smile at you. You looked good on stage, but your awkwardness was unexpected. Not once did she ever think she’d see the lead guitarist of Thunderbolts would be blushing and tripping over their words — especially not because of her. “Oh yeah! If you guys aren’t too busy, I’d love it if you guys could sign some stuff for my brother. I’ll pay for you guys’ food as payback or sign some stuff back.”

“Deal! On the signing stuff, too. We already borrowed our manager’s debit card.” A mischievous grin crossed your face as you flashed the shiny metal card at Wanda. The ability to play cool and smooth talk people were usually something better suited for Bucky or Yelena. Today though, it seemed it was yours. “We can meet up at our backstage room. Y’know, so we don’t get trampled.”

“Sounds great, but order fast because people are pointing, and I’m hungry,” Bucky said. He never thought being caught up in such tension could be so draining.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Wanda never expected a chance encounter to change her life so much. Having a record with your signature on it was quickly dwarfed by several things. To start, knowing you liked her music as well sent her over the moon. The only thing better than that was being your friend. You invited her to hang out at award shows and even gave her VIP seats at your concerts.

Her favorite moments were the more private between the two of you. When you would call her during late nights at your studio or just to catch up after being busy. Wanda was sure your other friends got similar treatment. That didn't make it any less special. Video calls were even better. It was a privilege to watch you effortlessly glide across the floor of the studio or be there to help you write a song lyric or two. It made Wanda feel special.

Touring made that difficult though. Moving around non-stop and constantly performing meant there was little time for the two of you to actually talk. Being the absolute sweetheart you were, you made an effort to send at least one super-long voice message about your days. Endless rants about Bucky absolutely devouring everything in sight, Ava and Yelena boldly and heated debates about abstract concepts you hadn't a clue about, and whatever else you come out of your head.

Unfortunately, one was unreasonably short. It was the last day of your tour, surely you'd have something to go on about. However, it seemed like anything noteworthy that day was somehow packed into a five-minute voice message. Despite her disappointment, she let it play.

"Hi, Wands," Your words slurred out excitedly. Shuffling and the sound of glass clinking were picked up by the speaker. "I just wanted to tell you how much I love you," The slurring continued, "and I mean really love you." Wind seemingly picked up out of nowhere as you snatched your phone and lay down on the ground. "You're so super pretty and super smart and so super nice! Like a super package!" Most of anything after that was a disjointed statement about Wanda's never-ending beauty and super cool and totally awesome music. A fit of giggles would cut through your ramblings every few minutes, but that didn't stop you. "I really want to be your partner….Wait no, I want you to be my girlfriend. I can be your girlfriend or your boyfriend, I can also be both! I'm super cool with either." You laughed at the thought. "I don't care what I am, I just wanna be it with you. Like, romantically."

Wanda was shocked. Her heart hammered in her ears and her face had gone beet red. Was this a confession she could take seriously? Probably not, but you sounded absolutely adorable and she downloaded it regardless of its validity. In the time it had taken her to formulate a response, you had already sent her another voice message.

"L is for the way you look…like my girlfriend!" The off-key and horribly unstable pitch didn't stop you from professing your love. Despite your obvious intoxication, you serenaded Wanda with the addition of a piano. "V is for very very, uh, extra pretty because that's what you are! Wait no, I missed the O…" The piano suddenly stopped and you hummed. "Oh right! O is for the only one I see- that one's an alliteration!" Your playing picked back up, this time much slower and less on the beat. "Um, E is…I don't remember what E is for — hey! Give it back I wasn't done talking to heeer!"

A struggle could be heard from the phone and for a second there was only silence. You were clearly outnumbered. The only thing that stopped Wanda from worrying was the familiar Russian accent that replaced your voice.

"Ah, sorry Wanda Maximoff. Bucky bet that they couldn't out-drink my dad and you know the both of them are sore losers. Hope you have a nice night."

With that, Wanda was left with her thoughts. It was probably best to just ignore it until you were sober enough to talk about it. You were a prideful person and would probably be very embarrassed in the morning, but there was no way she'd pass up the opportunity to confess. She took a deep breath and pressed the voice record button. "Hi sweetheart," She said in a sickeningly sweet voice knowing it would make you squirm. "I would just love for you to be my partner! I'll call you whatever you want to be called, but don't worry about that until you get home, okay? Just drink a lot of water for me and worry about everything else later. I hope you have a safe trip home, I love you!"

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

You didn't have much time to yourself the next morning or most of the evening. Packing and flying home took all of forever, unpacking seemed to take longer than packing itself, and all you wanted to do was sleep. All that meant it was around 10:30 at night when you had finally checked your phone and listened to Wanda's message. The words filled your head and you could stare at your phone. You attempted to formulate a text in response. Do you apologize for not answering first or do you address the confession first? What if she was just joking?

Your fingers frantically started typing and stopped suddenly when you noticed Wanda typing as well. Then Wanda stopped immediately after you did, only to start again. The cycle continued two more times and only stopped because Wanda got irritated and decided to call you instead.

You answered despite your nervousness. "Uh, hey!" If it weren't for the fact Wanda would reprime you for doing so, you would punch yourself in the face for being so lame. The soft giggle from the other end of the phone was sweet enough to ease the tension in your body. "Um, you're up late."

Wanda giggled again. "I could say the same for you, sweetheart." Her voice was raspy from tiredness. She glanced at the clock on her studio wall and grinned. "Doesn't sound like you took my advice either, why don't you go drink some water before we talk?" It was cruel to boss you around knowing you'd scramble to please her, but it was for your own good. She listened tentatively as you walked from your bedroom to the kitchen and made yourself a glass of water. "So, did you mean it?"

A simple question, but it still made your heart race. You were so desperate to answer that you choked on your in the process. After a brief coughing fit and a few deep breaths, you could speak again. "I really did," You whispered into the phone. You were thankful Wanda couldn't see you at the moment. Though you were sure she'd appreciate your pajama shorts with her iconic crown printed on, you'd never recover from her seeing how flustered she made you. "But I totally understand if you—"

"Then prove it."

"What?"

"Ask me out again now that you're all sobered up."

You paused for a moment, hoping she was just messing with you. When that confirmation never came, you were forced to swallow your pride and confess a second time. "I think you're really pretty and I like you a lot…I would like it if you were my girlfriend and let me take you out on a date sometime soon." Wanda was nowhere in sight but your eyes darted around as if she was.

"I don't get an encore of that lovely song you made for?"

"Now you're just being mean!"

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Being a celebrity in a secret relationship was harder than you thought it'd be. There were only so many times you could get caught alone before the public began to suspect things. Keeping it from your inner circle was even harder. Everyone knew you and Wanda were close, but close couldn't explain all those late nights spent at her studio or the increasing amount of bruises that littered your body.

As if that wasn't hard enough, Wanda seemed to have no concept of secrecy or subtlety. The initial agreement was a month before going public, but that never stopped her from slamming you against every wall she could for a "quick kiss". Of course, it was never just one and they were easily the longest kisses you'd ever had in your life. It didn't matter if you were at a bar or your best friend's party. If she wanted you, she'd take you. Even if that was five minutes before your makeup call.

"Wanda, I have to go," You whimpered before your lover pulled you into another searing kiss. The burn in your lips had already sealed your fate, but Wanda was determined to keep going. Even when your hands had begun desperately tugging at her shirt and she ruined her makeup already, Wanda wanted more from you. "I'll let you do whatever you want when we get home, just let me go for now, please?"

Wanda leaned back and admired her handy work. Her lipsticks had rubbed off on your lips and down to your neck. Your knees had gone completely weak and you were almost out of breath entirely. Even in your desperation to escape her grasp, your eyes pathetically followed her every move. It wouldn't matter if Wanda gave you the freedom you secretly didn't want, you'd fall back into her arms and beg for release anyways. "You'd let me do what I wanted regardless," She said before going back in to make even more of a mess from you. You were wrapped around her fingers and wouldn't do a thing to change that. "I'll let you go in a minute, just be good for me."

You squirmed under Wanda's touch as she began to grope you. "Someone's going to see and I don't wanna get in trouble." Nearly all the conviction in your voice had disappeared and you could barely stand. It wasn't fair at all. "I'll come right back after we perform, but if I'm late for makeup they'll send-"

"Y/n? Oh-"

Your heart nearly popped out of your chest. "Alexei, I swear this isn't what you think it is! We were just..Wanda was…" Your brain flipped through any number of excuses you could come up with to explain yourself, but there just weren't any. A defeated sigh escaped your lips and you prepared for your world to come crashing down.

"This is exactly what you think it is and they'll be back in the dressing room in 2 minutes."

Alexei blankly stared at the both of you. Then he smiled. "You know, when me and Melina first got together we were just as adventurous as you two!" He stretched his arms out for a hug. "There is no reason to be ashamed of your true love for each other! Wherever you two have done, me and Lina have probably done it twice!" His attempts at consulting you never felt to miss the mark by an inch or two, but that was easily the worst yet.

A disgusted groan escaped your mouth as you suddenly sobered up from your producer's ramblings. "Well, that certainly killed my mood. I'll um, see you after my set…if they let me." You quickly ran off before Wanda could you back into her twisted web of lust. You were thankful your bandmates were too focused on getting ready to question your absence. Alexei seemed suspiciously quiet, but anything to keep you from the grilling your friends would give you.

However, with a band as neurologically different as yours, you couldn't escape them for much longer. Even the amazing performance and the adrenaline from engaging with the crowd couldn't save you from the numerous questions and ungodly teasing that looked over your head.

"In front of her dressing room, you couldn't wait long enough to open the door?"

"How long were you gonna keep this from me? I'm your best friend!"

"Did that stupid drunk excuse of a cover really work?? I expected Maximoff to have better standards than that."

You tried your best to keep still as your makeup artist carefully removed the prosthetic horns from your forehead. "I was gonna tell you guys, honest! We just wanted to keep it secret until we were sure about it. Also, it wasn't even my idea to make out, I was tryna get back here in time for the set!" You relaxed once all your makeup was removed. "And yes, the song did work but I'm not exactly proud of that one either."

"Look on the bright side, at least we won't have to deal with their drunk ramblings anymore," Ava said with a dry chuckle. "I think we should be happy, even if Wanda uses you for her demonic witch performances."

"It was one time and she isn't a real witch!"

"Those are just the ones you were sober enough to remember," Antonia said. She was more focused on carefully putting her guitar back into its case. "There was that time you got blackout drunk at the escaping Valentina party and you spent the whole ride mumbling about how cute Wanda's freckles were. Then a month later at Bucky and Sam's engagement party, you wouldn't let anyone play songs that weren't hers and you cried because her voice was so pretty." The girl stopped talking temporarily to put her guitar pics back in the bag the way she liked. "When you two have an engagement party, you do not get to pick the DJ."

"Who says we're having an engagement party?"

"You're going to have one."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Very early into your relationship, you learned that Wanda has a nearly insatiable libido. It was near impossible to keep up with her. She'd spend hours pushing you to your limit and far beyond. Any attempts to give her pleasure in return would land you right back underneath her and start another round. Not even the fear of being caught could curb her lust for you.

"Come on, baby, you look too good not to touch," Wanda whispered as she groped you. Her hands were always on you, but you could always tell when they were about to get adventurous. She knew how to make your knees weak. "Just one time, I promise I'll be quick!" Her fingers danced over your back and towards your belt. Locking you in some random restroom wasn't her ideal location for a quickie, but she couldn't control herself, not when you looked like they at least.

You groaned softly when Wanda licked up the side of your neck. "One is like a million with you," You whispered back as harshly as you could. It wasn't like you would be complaining. There was nothing in the world that felt better than being underneath Wanda while she used you any way she saw fit, but you'd die if you had to do that and immediately be faced with the public. "We can leave early just- fuck, you gotta work with me here, Wands."

"Oh, but if I wait any longer I might not be so nice when we get home," Wanda chuckled darkly. Her hips rolled into yours while she untucked your shirt and raised it. "And you know how whiney you get when I mean. Is that what you want? Do you want me to be mean when we get home?" The smirk on her face proved how much control she had over you. It didn't matter when she got you, she'd win regardless. "Or I can play nice, it's up to you."

Your hips desperately followed hers as she pulled away. "Fine, you can fuck me in the car or something, just not here!" The second the words left your mouth, you regretted it. Wanda pulled you out of the restroom and towards the car without much concern for the people asking where you were going or if you were okay. "Hey, wait- I think I left my jacket!"

Wanda pushed you into the backseat and raised the partition so you two would have some semblance of privacy. "Bucky will get it, just focus on me," She hummed. Her hands went right back to groping you without a care. "Do you know how hard it was to keep my hands to myself? These pants make your ass look amazing, I might not even take them off when we get home." Wanda kept her voice so only you could hear her.

You loved how verbal Wanda was. Having her to talk you through whatever delicious torture kept you grounded. It even made you more confident. "Yeah, must've been real hard because you haven't stopped touching me since we left the house." All your worries began to fade away as Wanda attacked your neck. The only thing you could focus on was the burning feeling between your legs. "I promise I'll be good."

"I know you will, but that doesn't mean I have to rush." Wanda continued to torture you until the car pulled up in your driveway. She barely gave you enough space to get out of the car and she was right back on you once the chauffeur pulled off. It was only a few seconds before she had you pinned against the door."Relax, I won't let anyone else see you," She whispered when she felt you tense up in her grasp.

You relaxed for only a few seconds. Though you had trusted Wanda, she couldn't account for everything. A car could have flown by or maybe a neighbor would suddenly remember to check their mailbox. Unfortunately, you were met with something much worse. The familiar click of a camera was enough for your heart to stop. Your eyes darted over to the perpetrator. Paparazzi. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," You whispered, words laced with venom. Red-hot anger followed through your veins.

Wanda let you push her away, but she followed you into the house. "Fuck, this is my fault. I'll fix it, I swear." She was quick to wrap you up in her arms. Guilty wasn't enough to describe how she felt. The PR and nosiness of her labelmates were the least of her concern. You were so exposed in that photo and god knows how many people were going to see it. Part of her was jealous, but most of her just wanted to go out and rip off that fucker's head. "I promise not to do stuff like that again! I'll call my manager and then my lawyer, and we'll figure out just-"

"We have to go public."

"Excuse me?"

You shrugged. "There's nothing we can do until they post, so we might as well beat them to the punch." By no means were you happy to be interrupted during such an intense moment, but you weren't going to let some rando ruin your relationship. "If you're okay with it, but it's the fastest solution I got."

Wanda thought for a moment. It wasn't fair that you two had to expose your relationship so early. Tabloids and shitty gossip blogs would throw around hundreds of rumors, but she couldn't let them get a head start on that. "Alright, let's do it."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

It had been around a year since you and Wanda had decided to go public. Though you remained cautious, it seemed one scare was all it took for Wanda to stop caring about what the public thought about your relationship. Your most recent interview together was proof of that.

Hundreds of shows, podcasts, and magazines requested to interview the both of you after the reveal, but most were shady and definitely a waste of time. The biggest concern was people being too focused on your relationship in more inappropriate ways. You were thankful Pepper and Tony had an intense vetting process when it came to who was allowed to schedule Wanda. You were a little upset when that hard work went waste because Wanda aired out her — well your — dirty laundry the second she got the chance to.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe how submissive this one is."

The statement played in your headphones over and over again until you were sure you heard your girlfriend correctly. "Oh, no you don't! You're in the doghouse!" You wiggled away from Wanda when she came up to snuggle you in bed. "After that fiasco, you're lucky I didn't change the locks," You huffed out dramatically. "That didn't even answer their question!"

Wanda frowned, but then she got an idea. "Don't tell me you were embarrassed about that. There was so much more I could've told them." A mischievous smirk spread across her face as she climbed on top of you. Her hand gently tilted your head back and she took the liberty of reclaiming your skin as her. Sharp, hot teeth and gets your soft, cool skin. "Oh, I could've told them all about how weak you get when I kiss your neck."Her hands squeezed your thighs. "Or, how wet you get when I touch you like this."

Your face burned from embarrassment, but you couldn't bring yourself to stop Wanda. "That's not…you wouldn't!" Breathing was near impossible as she invaded your every sense. Her blunt nails dragging down the skin of your stomach were almost enough to send you into overdrive. Being at Wanda's mercy was a pleasure like no other. All the thoughts in your head began to fade away.

Wanda's peppered kisses over your stomach. She nipped at the sensitive skin until deep purple marks began to form. Unfortunately, conscious of the press events you'd have to do later in the week, she made sure not to go too high. "Maybe I should've told them about how much you like it when I leave all these pretty marks on your body. Does that sound better?" She giggled watching you frantically shake your head no. "Are you sure, your boxers seem awfully wet?" She pressed her thumb against the wetness leaking through your underwear. "Do you want me to help?"

"Yes, please," You rushed out. Your hips raised up allowing Wanda to quickly remove the barrier between her and your lower half. The fact you had just gotten out of the shower couldn't even stop you from giving Wanda everything. "I'll do anything, just help, please." You looked and felt pathetic when you begged, but you didn't care. Wanda was all you needed at that moment and you'd risk anything to get her.

"I bet they'd have a field day hearing about all the things I've done to this little hole of yours," Wanda teased as her fingers ran through the wetness leaking from your cunt. Her fingers lightly grazed your clit and pulled away the second your hips began to move. "Maybe I'll talk about how much of a needy whore you are for my fingers." She smiled at the way you whined. She slipped inside of you with ease. That slow, filling rhythm Wanda set was addictive. Sliding all the way in, then dragging them out just as slow.

The vulgar gushing sounds from your pussy filled your ears. "Fuck, Wanda please," You begged. It was a miracle Wanda knew you as well as she did. Her teasing words would never stop her from doing her very best to please you. Three of her fingers stretched you out so easily and assaulted your g spot without relenting. "I'm so close, just don't stop!" One of your hands snaked down to your neglected clit only to immediately be smacked away.

Wanda clicked her tongue. "I'll tell them about how disobedient and needy you are too. You know you're not supposed to touch yourself when I'm playing with you," She hissed. Her fingers pulled out and came down harshly on your clit. "Awe, does it hurt? I bet you like it." The smirk on her face never faded watching you thrash around and beg for her to keep touching you. "Shush, I'll let you cum this time but you have to promise not to touch what's mine."

"I promise, I was just- ah!" All the words in your brain disappeared when Wanda's fingers entered your cunt again. A shiver ran up your spine and you instinctively wrapped your legs around Wanda's waist. "That feels so good. Thank you, thank you so much!" It seemed your ruined orgasm had only aroused you more and you were already about to cum again. Your hips bucked up into Wanda's hand and she could only laugh at you.

"Ah, you're so needy. I don't know what you'd do without me," She giggled before leaning down to lick your clit. Her tongue expertly wrapped around your clit as she began to suck. Pleasing you was almost enough to get her off alone. Your slick dripping down her wrist, your falls clenching around her fingers, and your clit throbbing inside her mouth. It was perfect. You were perfect. "Cum for me, show me how good it feels."

A low groan escaped your lips. Everything was too much, but you still wanted more. "Right there, right there, ah!" In a few seconds, everything stopped. The only thing you could feel was the burning hot pleasure deep within yourself coming out of you and onto Wanda. A never-ending stream of bliss that you couldn't even fully process. "Thank you, thank you so much," You whimpered once your body collapsed back onto the bed.

Wanda peppered kisses over your thighs and lower stomach, those less fierce than the ones before. "You're welcome, but we gotta get you cleaned up again." She smiled at the dopey looks on your face. "I know you're tired, but you know how you get when you're sticky."

You huffed out and wrapped your arms around Wanda's shoulders. "You're doing all the hard work, my legs still feel tingly."

"I'd do anything for you, my dear."

#pvntherz #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda fanfic #pop star!wanda

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444rockstargf · 9 months

Text

"boy, look at you lookin' at me" | euronymous

high by the beach. - lana del rey

summary: one night, you caught euronymous's attention when you were up on stage.

p.s. this has nothing to do with the original oystein aarseth. this is rory's portrayal of the character.

bassist!singer!fem!reader x euronymous

contents: slight stalking, enemies to lovers (kinda.), rockstar girlfriend aesthetic. <3

euronymous had seen your posters all over town. people were saying that you were going to be norway's next biggest thing, and that was all it took to tick him off.

he'd originally thought that you were just some little whore who could strum a chord and pop a tit for your fans to go wild for you, but when he saw the crowd for his performances get smaller, and saw your publicity grow just as quickly, he decided to see what you were all about.

he had been keeping up with what some of your fans were saying, helping him find out that your next show was the next day at 6pm, just before sundown, and he knew he couldn't miss it.

he shut down his shop early so that he could make his way to your venue. people were buzzing as he pushed his way through the crowd, only making his resentment for you grow stronger. he got to where you were performing, and just in the nick of time. you were making your way onto the stage, a dark red bass guitar slung across your shoulder.

as euronymous saw you in person for the first time, he snorted out a laugh to himself. you looked more like a barbie doll than a rockstar, your dark red silk dress, black leather jacket, torn fishnet stockings and black boots making you look like a little toy that was meant to be played with by all the lust-filled men in the crowd.

after a few minutes, it was showtime. you did one final sound check, making sure your mic and bass were working. as you made some noise, the entire stadium filled with the sweet sound of your fingers running down the neck of the instrument.

you took a deep breath before starting to sing in the mic. your voice was smooth like honey, but eerie with a little bite to it. it sent a slight chill down euronymous' spine. the sound of your voice mixed with the low, deep notes of the bass was truly enough to set a euphoric vibe in the entire stadium.

he found himself getting lost in your motions, watching your hips sway as you sang and played, your dark red painted lips moving with each note you sang. he felt his body heating up, specifically his cheeks. your beautiful noises were enough to put a man asleep and keep him up all night.

you were like a siren. you could lure in anyone you wanted with your beauty and elegance, only leading them to their own destruction.

the song you were singing was melancholic, but electric. (think "high by the beach" type of vibe.) euronymous had never had a liking for that specific type of music, but everything about you made it the only thing he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.

his eyes were locked on you. he felt as if he was the only one in the room with you, making this moment so much more addictive for him. he'd always believed that "love at first sight" was a bunch of bullshit, but you were making him question everything he's ever known.

as you reached the final chorus, your voice got more passionate, the words you sang making euronymous feel like the song was just for him. he felt a little smile creeping onto his face as he started walking closer to the stage.

you ended your song with a loud ringing note, the entire audience bursting into cheers. people started throwing blood-red roses onto the stage, them landing right by your feet. you blew kisses out to the crowd, thanking them all for watching your show, even though the pleasure was all theirs.

euronymous was so mesmerised by the way your body and hair moved as you walked away from the stage. he only snapped back to reality when you had disappeared into the curtains, heading backstage.

he quickly rushed to an alternative entrance to your destination, but he was blocked by a large, muscular security guard. he glared at the guard before speaking. "i'm her boyfriend. you'd better get the fuck out of my way before i let this get back to her." the guard nodded before stepping out of the way.

euronymous walked past him, flipping him off as he got further away from him. his head was still turned, so he wasn't looking where he was going. you had seen his little encounterment with the guard, and now you wanted to know what was up.

you grabbed him by the collar of his leather jacket, a bottle of red wine in your other hand. he turned to look at you, his cheeks flushing as he saw you from this angle. god, you were even more beautiful up close.

you scowled at him. "boyfriend, huh?" his eyes were glued to your red lips, him fighting every urge to bite them with his teeth. he cleared his throat. "so, your norway's next biggest thing." his eyes travelled up and down your body. he was picturing you in so many unspeakable ways.

"what's it to you?" you bit back. you looked at where your hand was on his leather jacket. you noticed a little badge that read the word "mayhem". you took a good look at his face before a wave of realization hit you.

"wait... you're in that band, right? the most famous band in the country?" you narrowed your eyes at him a little, making sure that you weren't mistaken. a smug little grin crept up on his face. "so you've heard of me. i'm euronymous, head and guitarist of the band."

"well, i guess you've got some competition now." you smiled as you ran your painted nail down his neck. he shuddered slightly. he had only just met you and you already had him completely wrapped around your finger. you had a feeling that he would be a fun little toy to play with.

you turned around and sat on a black couch in the corner of the room. "why don't we sit down and have a friendly little conversation, hm?" the look on your face was anything but friendly, but he couldn't refuse. you poured him a glass of wine as he sat down beside you.

you handed him the glass before putting your lips by his ear, whispering gently. "i think we're gonna have a whole lot of fun together, euronymous..." you gave him a soft kiss on the neck, making his face turn as red as your lipstick. in the span of 1 hour, he had gone from hating your guts to being your little bitch, and this was only the beginning.

author's note: i think this may be my favourite fic yet. im working on a part 2 along with a few other things, so stay tuned! :))

#rory culkin #euronymous #lords of chaos #lana del rey #high by the beach #rockstar girlfriend #444rockstargf #enemies to lovers #enemies to friends to lovers

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joannasteez · 2 months

Text

crying, laughing, loving, lying - australian merlot

pairing: roman reigns x angel (black oc) warning: no warnings. first date fluff. this is an alternate universe work of fiction, so no wrestling will be mentioned. authors note: this will hopefully, be followed by other pieces that show the progression of angel and romans relationship. get ready for hallmark movie realness. music inspo: crying, laughing, loving, lying by labi siffre word count: 3100

some restaurants are made for first dates. for habitual blind daters too skittish to reach beyond that hectic first circle of hell limbo called first base. the 'will it now? won't it finally?', of it all. this ceaseless punishment of lovelessness. and angel thinks that it's all more shitty than bullshit anyways. love is simply an accompaniment and not the whole damn tune. a cappella's are more fascinating anyways. love is more of an accessory. something like bracelets or anklets. a thing to put on that dresses up life a little more prettily. but there is a trouble to it. the labor of coordination far less rewarding than it's worth. and what of the fruitlessness? the defilement and scarcity that rottens the garden. a few ruined by many and now she's at her tenth blind date since the new year, already familiar with the taste of fucking bile.

"you need someone".

but she doesn't. because need implies the failure of survival without it and if after every date her stomach churns—with a fear that she refuses to acknowledge—then that wasn't something she wanted anyways. definitely not something she needed.

but here, amongst white table cloth, she waits. 7:39 pm. slightly too early to be upset because he, whoever he is, isn't late yet. but she wishes very openly that he will be. it'd just be a strike against him. something that eases the guilt of ghosting him when he inevitably asks for another date. and please don't mistake the self assuredness for a too big ego, she just knows these things. it's based all on common occurrence. they bring roses because "all women love roses", dragging their feet in eased and so damn smiley despite being five, ten or even fifteen minutes late and it absolutely grinds her fucking gears. cleanliness is next to godliness but fuck it punctuality is too. he will come with a rose and he will be late and he will ramble about himself and he will stare at her cleavage and then imply that him paying the bill grants access to spreading her open and then the inevitable lump of bile.

it was a song she'd heard and a dance done a thousand times and her head hurt from the thundering bass and her feet from trying to keep pace with such terrible rhythm.

angel wants to leave. wants to finally grant herself the relief of no guilt by stepping away before the burden of ridding her tongue of the bile.

but she can't, because he's here now. sitting down with no rose.

what the hell?

and he is beautiful. a huge mountain of a man. herculean with a directness to his eyes that makes it appear as though he is staring through her skin and into deeper, more vulnerable parts. heat scorching fast over nerves and bones till she grows warm and its concerning. because angel has gone on first dates with beautiful men before. sat with them, spoken to and at them, laughed with and at them, dined with them, but for some gut churning reason, this, feels different. the temperature of the atmosphere is warm. the life in his eyes, inviting.

and for the love of God he doesn't have a rose and it makes angel laugh. small and to herself.

he sits. confused and amused in that awkward way. where the idea of a joke itself makes you laugh, not privy to hooks, punchlines, sinkers and the like.

and for the first time in a myriad of failed dates, angel is taken by his voice. a dark symphony. pitch low and smooth. strong and double bass like.

"can i get in on the joke?"

she wants to shrivel into and like a ball. because it wasn't necessarily funny. it was more so the absurdity of the situation. of course after much complaining and internal deliberation she would be sent someone that would stick her foot in her mouth. at least in regards to the romantic gesture of giving roses.

her throat clears. "sorry, it's just...it's kinda weird. it's nothing".

he squints and it feels like a hole is tearing through her skin. peeling away till its settling warm into veins.

"if you leave me in suspense i'm gonna make you feel like shit about it".

"is that a threat?"

"more like a spoiler".

and now the laugh is bright and clear. nothing hidden and inward about it. and he loves the sound. wouldn't mind if he could hear it a few more times tonight. her sarcasm more laden in her words than the surprise of them.

"because you've never practiced that before".

"in a mirror once or twice, but i got you all giggly so tell me whats funny".

angel sighs. "you didn't bring a rose and for whatever reason, men show up to first dates with roses", waving her fingers away to express the un-seriousness of her amusement. "it's just a thing".

"like... the bachelor".

"yeah", snorting. "sure, like the bachelor".

his fingers, long and thick and just downright massive, rub into his beard. mulling over her words with a bout of sincerity that she doesn't think she's seen in a while. like some actual consideration, and not a half-assed pulling together of thoughts into words to make conversation for the sake of filling in the silence.

"never really approached it like that. it seems more like a burden than anything y'know?", his eyes slipping over the bottle of wine you ordered before he showed, before its doing the same to your face. "flowers do the dying thing and then what? just something else to throw away. feels odd".

"i mean, theres ways to preserve them". because of fucking course she would say this, after making a fuss about always getting flowers. but it was just that weird thing, trying to see the upside in a situation. to heal the downtrodden idealism of it all. "but i agree with you".

"sounds like you want a rose".

"i don't. i just-...". she sighs. flustered. "can we start over".

and he smiles. at her awkwardness and her eyes and the crinkle in her brows as she gathers herself.

"of course".

eyeing the bottle of wine again, his hand reaches out to you.

"roman".

and it fits. encapsulates his everything. name and the air of him reminiscent of old statues built with marble and brow sweating patience. an easy demeanor inherited from stoic warriors of old. fine silk looking hair and a jaw she's sure she can cut against if not for the thickness of his beard.

she takes his hand and shakes. thumb over his veins and wrapped up in the strength of his palm.

"angel".

"are you?"

they both smile. teasing eyes and a playful air.

"sometimes".

he hums short. the song of it uprooted from his chest. hand slipping away from hers but the impression of it leaves a stain on her skin. where his fingers squeezed in the midst of a mere cordial shaking. and his eyes are not shy. taking hers to hold steady and uncompromising. and never has a man held her gaze so well, not since-

"you been here before?"

and it is only the shame of so many dates in such a short amount of time that leaves her tongue dry and her thoughts partial to lying. "uhh", her eyes sweeping over the menu. "no. i haven't".

"any allergies?"

"used to be pescatarian a while back but i stopped. why?"

"i don't want you to surprise me with a closed airways cause i recced you something with peanut oil".

"you've been here before?"

"a few times".

"on dates". more like a statement than a question.

he's busy looking over the menu, like he's seeing it for the first time. "dates, work stuff, a night out. it's a cool spot. convenient". he takes the wine bottle, opening it to pour. humming in delight as he nose takes to smell. "you've been here before though".

"what?"

angels heart sinking way down till it's falling steady out of her chest cavity and into her stomach. taking something similar to a rolling tumble as it goes and it feels devastatingly awful. being caught in a lie has never been a smooth easy ordeal and the urge to get up and leave runs rife under her skin. prickling in a manner that taunts her till her cheeks grow hot white. she wants to hide and suffer in the silence of her own shame. and he's a complete asshole about it, because he lets her simmer into a scorched heat, struck and wordless as a grin plays through his lips. picking up the wine bottle once more. his fingers wrapping about it easy and familiar.

"when i said your last name for the reservation, the waiter called you by your first. which means she knows you, because you've been here a few times". his lips smiling. much more amused than worked up by your little white lie. sipping the wine to taste again. "that and the wine. first-timers spend too much on wine. the merlot here is decent enough".

a forced chuckle toughens up. angel sooting the bridge of her nose with a thumb. un-fucking-believable. "this is fucking embarrassing".

"it's good wine though. cheap as shit but it's pretty good".

"look", she starts. a deep sigh before she makes the effort to meet him. his brown eyes soft still. void of scrutiny. amusement waning but still nothing of judgement. and the niceties unnerved angel. most men didn't take too kind to lies in such a formally romantic setting. it made for awfully fierce energy that led to a frigidness she hated to maneuver. not that she was a habitual liar, but still, it worried her. "i didn't mean to lie... well... i did but-"

"it's alright. i get it. i used to be the same way".

"a liar?"

"embarrassed".

and she knew exactly what he meant without him having to say it. because this probably wasn't his first date of the new year either. the wait staff were probably familiar with him too. his familiarity with the taste of the restaurants stock of merlot making perfect sense. he'd probably, once upon a time, given his fair share of roses. the what do you do for work spiel and the sometimes awkward dance of wanting more after the first date and wrongly reading what he thought were obvious suggestions that a woman wanted him physically. and sometimes thats all they wanted, or at least that's what angel thinks, because some of her dates just wanted sex. no strings or some strings and then it got tangled and messy. always too damn messy. but he was over the shame of cycling through to find "the one". angel had yet to get there.

she clears her throat. thumbs twiddling together. apologetic as she looks to him. "i'm sorry anyways".

roman's silence is heavy. his eyes slipping over her face. noting the details that exist in their guilt. but still even in this, angel is a beautiful woman. thick lashes and slightly hooded eyes. cheeks high and plump. her lips full and surely kissable. especially when she takes them between her teeth in what he's sure to be her nerves overworking themselves with all his staring and his wordlessness. his smile warm and easy again, turning back to the menu. he's had enough of making her feel like shit anyways, for it dampened the mood far too much and he rather you smile again and for as long as they date lasts.

"forgiven and forgotten. the real litmus test is how you take your steak".

"who said i wanted steak".

"one, you owe me for lying".

she gasps. lips pulling up and her knee knocking softly into his. "you said forgiven and forgotten".

"and two", he continues, chuckling. "you said you were pescatarian, meaning you gave it up cause you realized that grass ain't green".

"why are you reading me so well right now, this is crazy".

"wouldn't be good at what i do if i couldn't".

her mouth purses over the wine glass to sip at the sweetness of the merlot, waiting for him to continue. and when he doesn't she finds herself more interested in hearing a man talk than she ever has in all her time of dating.

"which is?"

"i teach and coach".

"okay", her eyes play and rolling. "don't leave me in suspense. be more specific".

and here the fierceness of his features round out to a softness. but surely it cant be those few sips of wine, suddenly freeing up the tight collection of his resolve. the slightest dusting of pink at his cheeks and his mouth smiling smaller. humility bracing him harshly just before her. it was more obvious to her now, he hates talking about himself.

"sports history and college football", barely meeting her eyes. the menu suddenly becoming so very important to him. his throat clearing as his palm reaches to rub up against the thick hair of his beard. " 'm not a head coach or anything, just for the defensive line but its...", and finally he looks to her again. "it's cool".

"don't say just like that. it down plays your passion. i like passion".

the sincerity melting a warmth into him. the air feeling less suffocating for the both of them now as they share a smile.

and the dinner goes smoother than angel had expected. the food cooked immaculately and the wine warming her belly. his passionate talks soothing to her ears and his jokes funnier. the knock of his long legs turning into less of an accident and more of a playful teasing. and by the end of their steaks they're both closer than they started, leaning in to hear more of each others voices. his freckles an endearing scatter against his cheeks. the slick lick of his lips as he talks catching her eyes and by the end of her wine glass she comes to the arresting realization that he's doing it on purpose. slowly but surely ingratiating himself through small touches and that hostage holding stare.

angel, afraid now, feels a disappointment weighing in her. the ending of it all , this little world of quickly built intimacy, nearing quicker than she realized. both of them perusing through the dessert menu. more than slowly to stretch the time.

"you a dessert guy?"

he sets down the menu. her voice bringing him in again. "fuck yeah i'm a dessert guy. they make a bomb ass bread pudding here. best i've had".

and maybe her eyes are suggestive. and maybe they sharpen to pierce through him a little more fiercely and maybe her knee knocks into his when her lips part to speak. but angel does well about pleading the fifth, even with herself.

her eyes looking up through her lashes as she flits them from the menu to him. and she can track the trailing of his gaze straight to her plump lips. "you've never had mine".

"is that an invitation to taste test?"

a shiver breaks over her skin. an undulating warmth at her cheeks. she pushes her menu to the side.

"y'know pastry emporium? the shop on 4th and everling?"

roman's brows jump in an instant, before they pull together. the sudden realization exciting his nerves.

"thats yours?"

"half of it. i co-own".

"i'm stoppin' by there all the time and i've never seen you".

and the tiny world they live in has just become slightly smaller. their existences dancing on the edges of one another for who knows how long before this faithful night of teasing smiles and blood sweetening sips of australian wine.

"i don't mesh too well with the front of house stuff". her knee taking a soft slow lean into his. and maybe the styling and placement of the tables and chairs are purposeful. for moments like these. "but i can make an exception".

"you better". his lips spreading wide and his smile bright. nothing bashful left in his expression as its overtaken by the prospect of seeing you again. "cause you owe me a taste test".

and for once there is no threat of bile to stain her throat, or even the cringing anticipation thereof. and when they're both finally, hesitantly ready for the bill, he takes the responsibility without words. fitting his card into the leather book. appreciation swimming to settle gently in her belly along with the sweet merlot. he tips well too, and his fingers catch soft against her palm, leading her out of the restaurant and into the balmy night spring air. the urge to stick to him creeping in her skin. but the same seems to exist for him because he stands just before her, eyes circling the city, searching and thinking, before they find her face. a small smile on her lips as she looks to him expectantly. his touch grows firmer, as if he's just come to the end of a pending decision. fully taking her hand as he begins to step.

"walk with me". but theres no inflection that implies a question. more of a statement that softly wills her into following.

his hand as warm as his smile and gentle even in its size. he strolls easy too, to help her keep up with the wide steps he takes.

but even beyond the easy going tenderness of him, angel has never felt such a stillness in her nerves before. the city she's seen a thousand times suddenly appearing brighter and less overwhelming. the usual droning no longer a harsh symphony. the pitch and pace less grating. and maybe it's silly, because he's, despite his teasings and his suggestive eyes and interesting conversation, still a stranger. still a man with a world of a life she knows so little about. filled with hopes and dreams and secrets. but that feeling nags still. nestles deep under her skin as it attempts to force out the hesitancies.

roman leads her to the front of a flower shop and her eyes play at rolling.

she tries to pull him away from the entrance. "we spoke about this".

"we did".

his smiling melting her resolve to mush. so bright and unapologetic in how it spreads. he takes her hand tightly, pulling her into the shop.

he orders one rose exactly. giving it to her after he's paid for it.

"why?", she asks. trying to fight the rising heat in her cheeks.

"because i think deep down, you want it. you just don't want it to feel like an obligation. and this right here is all off the cuff. im sure of that”.

and angel's belly flutters. that cliche appearance of butterfly's.

tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @gomussy @spritelucozade @venusesworld @thesamoanqueen @empressdede (if i forgot anyone who wants a tag for roman centered fics, my apologies! just remind me for next time)

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x oc #roman reigns x black oc #fluff #first dates #au #hallmark movie realness #something something romance #eventual smut #eventual angst #joannasteez

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welcome-to-hawkins · 2 years

Text

The Terrible Eddie Munson

Part one Part two Alternative Ending

Summary: Eddie wins the campaign, and gets to keep you as his prize.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: 18+, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), fingering, sex, p in v, vaginal intercourse, missionary, cowgirl, multiple orgasms, cum, multiple orgasms, slight nipple play, I think that’s it 🤣

If you didn’t know any better you’d say the rest of Hellfire knew about the little promise between Eddie and you.

The room was buzzing with excitement, literally, since Eddie had decided that the campaign needed to end with the perfect soundtrack; Black Sabbath.

He had it cranked up so loud that the bass was shaking the walls, the boys huddling in small groups discussing their strategies for todays session.

Well, that’s what they were supposed to be doing. They kept sneaking glances at you and Eddie, like they had been all week, clearly suspicious about the amount of time you two had spent together recently. It made sense, I mean you two weren’t exactly a secret, Jeff had walked in on the two of you in the back of Eddies van and made quick work in telling all of his friends, but given that you and Eddie hadn’t put a label on it yet, what were you supposed to tell the kids?

Like, “Hey Dusty! Just so you know i’m boning Eddie, Dungeon Master and positive male role model in your life, hope you don’t mind!”… not likely.

You didn’t realise you’d been lost in thought until Dustin was clicking his fingers in front of your face.

“Earth to Y/N?”

“Sorry Dus, are we starting?” You looked around to find it suddenly quiet.

Dustin only nodded, filtering into his place at the table solemnly. They were all waiting for you as you took your seat in the middle of the table. You looked to Eddie where he was squatting on his throne, forearms resting across the tops of his thighs as he folded himself into the dramatic pose. He stood suddenly, thick boots scraping across the wood of his seat.

And just like that the campaign begun, and with a wide sweep of Eddies arms the sweet cheesy boy you knew disappeared, replaced with the Dungeon Master.

“Fireball him!”

“Shit, roll again!”

“I need a 14!”

The session was a blur, and before you knew it the party was down to the deciding move. If Dustin could roll a ten or higher they’d defeat the monster and be able to rescue the Princess. If not Eddie… ahem, the monster, would keep you, her. You weren’t sure which thought you enjoyed more.

Eddies eyes locked with yours. Dustin rolled.

Three.

It took the boys fifteen minutes to stop screaming at each other and calm down, all while Eddie sat there with a smug look on his face not bothering to help settle the situation.

That was until Dustin started suggesting that the die were rigged and Eddie looked like he might kill him.

“Are you suggesting that I cheated?” He spat, “that I would EVER break the sacred rules of Hellfire?” Eddie stood, hands braced on the table. Even Erica had the good sense to look scared.

“Okay, that’s enough. Time to go home boys” you said finally, stepping in before Eddie actually killed one of them.

“And I assume you’ll be staying here, with Eddie, again?” Dustin sassed.

“Yes. Now less talking more walking, go home” Eddie asserted.

You did wonder what exactly Eddie had over Gareth to turn him into the clubs personal taxi, but now wasn’t the time to question it.

When the hellfire room finally cleared, with the exception of you and Eddie, the calm was a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the night.

Eddie plopped back into his seat, “So…” he started.

“So”.

“I won” his cheeky grin was back, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been dripping wet all day just thinking about what might happen tonight.

“You did, I do believe that means the terrible monster gets to claim his prize.” Your eyes glimmered as you stared at him, the way the dim coloured lights glowed like an aura behind him.

He hummed, “so eager”, a breath and then “but i’m not taking you for the first time here, as much as I might want to” he moved toward you, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “come home with me, Princess”.

And you did.

The atmosphere on the journey home had been tense, both of you too wound up to make small talk. His hand had gripped your thigh like a life raft, only really serving to dampen your panties.

Eddie led you into his trailer and through to his bedroom, fingers interlinked. He turned to you and threaded his fingers into the back of your hair, tilting your face up to look at him.

“Look, I know what I said about tonight but if somethings changed, if you don’t wanna do this anymore or if you wanna wait, that’s fine, okay? I want you to be comfortable”.

The way he was looking at you, like you hung the moon, made your heart clench. You smiled.

“I believe that if you won I was promised a, how did you put it again? Terrible monster?” Your words were clear, face unwavering, as you told him what he was so desperately hoping to hear; that you still wanted this.

“That’s right, Princess. Thing is, you’ve already met the monster. The only real question is whether you’re actually gonna let me keep you”. His teasing words were laced with doubt.

“Good luck getting rid of me now, Munson” you snuck your arms around his middle, under his leather jacket, “now are you gonna do something, or do I need to go find myself a knight?”

He returned your smile, a moment of tenderness before-

“He rolled a three”

“Yes. So?”

“Three.”

“I’m not following”

“Three orgasms.”

Oh. Oh.

In contrast to the heat his statement has created between your legs, his kiss is soft and slow. His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you grant him access. Your kisses are usually passionate, eager, teeth bumping together and tongues clashing. Always hurried moments together desperate for release. You thought tonight would be the same, tearing each others clothes off desperate for release, especially since the only action Eddie had had until this point was his own hand. Instead he was taking his time, enjoying you.

After all, he won. Why rush the claiming of his prize?

He moved the two of you backwards until you thighs hit the edge of his bed. You shuffled backwards as he climbed on top of you, slotting his body over yours like puzzle pieces.

Your hands grabbed onto his broad shoulders as he peppered kisses down your neck. He sat up on his haunches and tugged his jacket off, you followed his lead starting to discard excess clothing, both of you kicking your shoes into random corners of his room.

You caught his eye as you were both stripping your own clothes off. He was shucking his jeans down his legs and you were tangled up in your shirt, the tension breaking with laughter, both of you realising how ridiculous you looked.

You finally pulled down your jeans, leaving you both only in your underwear, and turned back to him.

He laid you back against the pillows and covered your body with his own. Dark hair fell around your face like a curtain. You ran your hands across his naked chest, tracing the outlines of his tattoos. Naked with the exception of his boxers and cold rings you could truly see him in all his glory; slim but soft, pale skin and toned arms from the constant guitar playing.

Gentle kisses trailed down your neck, stopping briefly at your chest as he pulled your bra off and pressed a wet kiss to each nipple, down your stomach before stopping at the band of your panties.

He sat back, spreading your thighs and keeping them apart with his own. Now resting back on his calves Eddie smoothed his palms up the back of your legs, folding them up over his elbows, and buried his face in your pussy with a wink.

Eddie kissed your sensitive bud through your panties, dropping a hand from your thigh to trace the damp patch on your panties. He tugged them down and threw them onto the pile with his clothes, you debated telling him off before he licked a broad stripe up your centre and you lost all ability to speak.

Eddies tongue buried in your pussy paired with his hands digging into the flesh of your thighs was addictive. Your moans were no doubt echoing around his trailer but you didn’t care, not as long as he kept doing that.

You almost cried when he moved, wrapping his lips around your bud and sucking. He was harsh, unforgiving, and you felt your legs start to shake as they tried to close around his head.

“Ed, fuck, m’gonna-”

And you did. Pussy clenching around nothing, head thrown back, crying his name.

“That’s one”, he kissed you, “so good for me baby, so perfect”Eddie climbed back over you, reaching down off the bed to fish a condom out of his jeans pocket.

“Eddie, please” you looked at him, chin glistening with your juice, hair slicked to his face, “fuck me”.

He grinned, tugging his boxers off. You’d felt him through his pants before, and had some idea of his size, but seeing it bare before you…

Eddie was huge. Seven inches and thick. You reached down and gave him an experimental stroke, doing it again with slightly more pressure when his head dropped back, eyes screwed shut with pleasure.

“Fuck baby… if you do that i’m gonna cum and after all this you best believe i’m gonna cum whilst i’m inside you” he groaned.

He rolled the condom on and lined himself up with your entrance. He kissed you as he slid all the way inside, sloppy and all he could muster with the feeling of your walls clamping down around him.

You clung to him, your arms looped round his neck and legs locked behind his back. Eddie dropped his head into the crook of your neck and gave an experimental thrust, both of you moaning at the feeling.

“Fuck baby. So hot and wet. Feels like heaven”

The pace he sets is slow, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in. Your skin sticks to his, damp with a thin sheen of sweat.

“Eds please… more” you whine, and for once he listens to you.

He balances his weight on his arms either side of your head and starts to go harder. Not faster, harder, hitting a new spot inside you that makes your back arch like a cat in the sun.

You can see him better in this new position, his face directly above yours and the sight is almost better than the feeling itself; Eddies face is contorted in pleasure, his eyes shut and eyebrows drawn tightly together, lips dropped open in a silent gasp.

“God, baby. Can feel you tightening around me, you close? Huh, gonna cum all over my cock?” He teased

“Feels so good, wanna cum for you” orgasm creeping up on you as Eddie sped up, pelvis grinding against your clit with each powerful thrust.

As you clamped down around him and clawed your nails down his back you felt his thrusts start to loose rhythm, a sign he was close.

Your own orgasm triggered Eddies and you watched from beneath him as he came undone. Eddie slammed into you once more, body shuddering as he came, the noise burned into your brain. His forehead dropped against your own, panting as he opened his eyes and said “two”.

Eddie flipped the two of you over, you now sat upright on his lap.

He was still hard, hair fanned out on the pillow below him angelically. You took him in, covered in sweat beneath you, and began to move.

His hands flew up to rest on your hips, teeth dug into his lip, as you set a torturously slow pace.

Your head was flung back as you rode him, tits bouncing hypnotically. He sat up to capture a hard peak in his mouth, sucking and biting.

You felt your slick coating his thighs as you rode him. He lay back and braced his heels against the mattress. Your eyes widened as you realised what he was about to do.

He tugged your hips down harshly at the same time as he thrust upwards, head of his cock hitting your g-spot. He set a punishing pace, tugging you up and down on his cock like a doll.

Your eyesight went fuzzy as you felt your third orgasm approaching. Eddie felt the now familiar tightening around his member and moved his thumb to rub tight circles on your bud.

You exploded, gushing around him as you squirted.

Your body went limp as Eddie flipped you again, fucking your through your orgasm and chasing his own.

As Eddie came for the second time you squirmed, sensitive and exhausted.

He flopped onto the mattress next to you, flat on your backs, and said “that’s three”.

You just about registered him standing to discard the condom and fetch a damp cloth to clean between your legs.

He tugged his boxers back on and pulled his Hellfire shirt over your head.

When he was finally satisfied that you were comfortable he dropped back into bed and tugged you against his chest.

“You did so good for me, Princess”.

You snuggled deeper into his side, throwing a leg across his and looking up at him.

“Hey Princess…” usually confident, Eddies voice was suddenly filled with doubt.

“Yeah?”

“Does this mean you’re my girlfriend?”

You chuckled, heart squeezing at the sweetness he was showing compared to the so called ‘monster’ he fancied himself as.

“I told you, Eds. I’m yours.” You smiled at the idea, and leaned up to kiss him, short and innocently, a press of your lips against his.

“So… is that a yes?”

“Yes, you dork”.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading these!!! Alt ending in my Masterlist and linked at the top of post as soon as it’s out.

Let me know if you liked it or wanna see more!

Send me requests!

Parts one, two and the alt ending are linked at the top!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #joseph quinn

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