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waywardrose-archive · 1 year

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THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY | 11

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

5.8k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs

fem/witchy/goth!reader, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, consensual pursuit and capture, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?

Weird weird?

He shrugged. He liked weird.

In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: Stg, this chapter proves the maxim “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture,” but I tried, dear readers. I tried.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice smokey — from weed or cigarettes, you still couldn’t tell. “Wanna hear the first song I ever learned?”

You perked at the unexpected offer and set aside the spell book you’d been paging through.

“Sure.”

“‘kay, hang on.”

Knowing it was coming, you pulled the headset away just in time to miss the plastic clunk from his side. A distant clatter and footsteps filled the void. He muttered a ‘son of a bitch’ before something heavy hit the floor.

You grinned as you determined his voice was smokey from weed. No doubt about it. He wasn’t the most graceful person when sober. When high, he was loose-limbed, yet uncoordinated. Like a bloodshot-eyed fawn.

Static from the phone announced his return.

“This is gonna be an awkward set-up, but I think you’ll hear me.”

“Cool.”

The plastic clunk came again.

As he strummed the first notes, you recognized “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd.

It was easy to imagine him — scrawny, baby-faced, already jaded — with a guitar too big for him. His fingers struggling to keep pressure on the strings. You wondered who’d introduced him to Pink Floyd. Or was it something he’d heard on the radio? Had he looted an adult’s record collection?

Then Eddie sang, hitting David Gilmour’s inflections. Your breath caught at how much emotion Eddie could put into such simple lyrics. It was as though he were on the verge of something, yet he exorcized it through the song.

You wanted to sing with him, but your chest was too full of that same something. All you could do was listen and feel it.

When the song ended, it was quiet on his end. You had no words — even though you wanted to tell him how much you loved the song, his playing, his voice. You covered the mic with your palm and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. It released a tension that felt like the prelude to a sob.

“You there?” he asked.

You uncovered the mic.

“Holy shit, honey.”

Your voice remained tight, but you stretched your neck to help that wane.

With a smile in his tone, he said, “Yeah?”

“Holy. Shit.”

He chuckled.

You asked, “When did you learn that?”

“Uh... Twelve?”

“No fucking way!”

“Yes fucking way!”

“You’re a prodigy, baby.”

He let out a ‘pfft.’

“I’m serious.”

It was quiet for a beat. You didn’t know how to fill the silence. You didn’t want to push your opinion, though you would repeat it if he argued. Because he was talented.

“I know,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

You hummed. “My pleasure.”

“Is it?”

You felt him waggling his eyebrows.

“Absolutely.”

He let out a breath before saying, “I’ve been working on another song.”

“What is it?”

“Frustrating.”

You gave a short laugh.

“I’ve been struggling with getting out of chords-melody thinking and into vertical-horizontal.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Okay, right, I can play four notes one after another.” He plucked four strings separately. “Or at the same time.” He swept the same strings concurrently. “Same tonal experience. Kinda. The first is horizontal, the second is vertical. Horizontal can be suspenseful, vertical dramatic.”

You nodded while making a sound of assent.

“Old-school composers didn’t think in chords, exactly, either. They saw everything as melody. Like a voice. They wrote a melody, then added a counterpoint melody. A counter-melody. And there are rules for counter-melodies.”

“So, how does that change the music?”

“I mean... It doesn’t. Not really. It’s all perspective to the composer.”

“Which is what you’re trying to change, got it.”

“Yeah, I want a different perspective. I don’t want the rules.” He hummed. “Well, not exactly. Sometimes the rules sound good, but...”

“Breaking them sounds good, too?”

“Precisely!”

“Well...” You bit your lip. “What do you have?”

His tone turned sly as he said, “You just want me to keep playing, don’t you, milady?”

“Guilty, good sir.”

“Is this, like, getting the villain to monologue? Are you planning to distract me while you execute—” His voice went theatrical. “—your diabolical plan?!”

“Now who sounds like a villain?”

“We’ll be villains together.”

“I like the sound of that.”

He agreed with a short hum.

“You know,” you said. “That almost distracted me.”

“...Damn.”

“Get your music, bard, and play me this ditty.”

He laughed, then warned he needed to set up his electric.

“That red and black one?” you asked.

“The very same.”

With a grin, you said, “What a treat.”

“You’re making me blush over here.”

“I wish I could see that.”

“After Thanksgiving?”

“You bet.”

It was quiet for a beat before he said, “Okay, setting up the guitar. I gotta move the phone away from this amp.”

“Oh? You’re in your room?”

“Uh, yeah—” He sounded distracted. “Got a phone the other day.”

You didn’t ask, but it sounded like he’d bought the phone to more easily talk to you. Maybe that was wishful thinking. He could’ve bought it so he wouldn’t have to get out of bed when someone called. Still, the thought he bought it because of you was a nice stroke to the ego.

Scraping and clattering, punctuated by the occasional ‘goddammit,’ made you grin.

Sounding out of breath, he said, “Okay, okay, I’m back.”

“Still here.”

“Alright, no lyrics yet, but yeah—”

The phone clunked as he set his headset down. There came a click, then the electric hum of an amp. His chair creaked. A deep rhythm like a heartbeat started. It dissolved into a sultry metallic shred, followed by the heartbeat again. Then a dark thrum. The heartbeat. The shred again, this time ending in grinding reverb. It went through the cycle once more until it sped into an unrelenting canter.

You knew that tempo, heard the creak of a bed in it. Staring into the black of the nearby window, you could almost see the shabby motel room.

The song was about you and him.

The canter went lighter for a few seconds. He then used that dark thrum to bring the shred back, then the heartbeat.

It was a wet dream. You bit your lip. It was his memory.

Even without the drums to drive the song, or the bass to harmonize, you could imagine how it would sound. It would be heavy, primal, with Eddie growling and crooning the lyrics. You closed your eyes and moved with the song’s pulse, like it was a living thing you rode. It was energy and alive — and a gift. No one had ever given you anything like this.

When the song ended, you opened your eyes.

His headset scraped along a smooth surface. Then it went quiet.

Knowing he was listening, you softly said, “That’s us.”

“It’s Halloween weekend.”

“Yeah.”

“That okay?”

“Okay that you were inspired?”

“Yeah?”

You grinned.

“Yeah, of course it’s okay. Write about whatever you want. I love it.”

He sounded shy when he asked, “You do?”

“Uh yeah, it’s amazing.”

You knew he gnawed on his lip. Oh, how you wanted to kiss him to make him stop and hold his face to tell him you loved the song. You wanted to tell him you loved him, because you did — with your whole heart and mind.

No, he wasn’t perfect. Neither were you. But it didn’t matter—

“You know,” he said, unaware he’d derailed your thought. “When the guys hear this, they’re gonna know.”

“Like they don’t know already.”

Not that you cared, either. Let the whole world know you banged Eddie’s hot ass in a cheap motel.

He snorted. “True, subtlety isn’t exactly my speciality.”

“How self-aware of you.”

“I try.”

You’d already bookmarked a spell for manifesting. In another book, utilizing sex magic to manifest a lover. There was a variation on the same spell for better sex. While you didn’t need better sex or a lover, you could alter the spells to manifest your magic. You reasoned you could use sexual energy for manifestation.

Maybe your magic was blocked, though. You needed a spell to unblock it. Or you needed to call your magic back, which was a lot like manifesting.

You sighed and leaned back in your desk chair. Spells were all fine and good, but if you didn’t have magic, how could any of them work?

No, you corrected. You didn’t need magic to make spells work. You needed energy.

You read the bookmarked spells again, noticing similarities. Combining them, rewriting them for your own purpose, and using your own energy wasn’t a farfetched idea.

In your notebook, you sketched the manifesting sigils. Supplies were simple: candles, chalk, and a goal. You copied the guidelines about breath-work, retaining awareness of your energy as it moved through the body, and visualization.

However, you didn’t know what your magic looked like. How were you supposed to visualize something that didn’t have a physical form?

You stared out the window. The sunset bleached the blue sky nearly white, like the color of faded denim. Thin, mottled clouds turned purple and gold.

Then it came to you: light was energy, but you couldn’t sense it until it interacted with something else. That didn’t mean it didn’t exist before then.

So, if your magic was energy, what mattered, in terms of visualization, was what it interacted with.

Which was you.

Now that your magic was gone, you realized you used it like another sense. You’d interacted with your surroundings with magic. It was how you felt the care in Eddie’s jacket repair and how you made your footsteps silent. However, the major driver was you. Always you.

You asked yourself how you felt with magic. The simple answer came quick: expansive. You’d sensed more. Since the attack, you felt asleep. Like in dreams where you ran, yet lacked forward movement.

Envisioning that expansiveness was manageable.

You stood, tucking in your chair, and rolled back the rug covering the hardwood floor until you had enough space. From the supplies in your closet, you retrieved spell candles, blessing oil, incense, and white school chalk.

It didn’t take long to prepare. After turning off the lights, you undressed by candlelight and anointed your body. You knelt in the middle of your sigiled circle, swirls of chalk smudging your spread knees. Though you couldn’t feel the sigils’ power, you trusted it was there.

You placed a palm on the chalk to connect to the sigils. With the other hand, you reached between your legs. As you idly brushed your clit and the tender folds leading to it, you remembered blowing Eddie. The warmth between the sheets had smelled of you and him. His silky skin had been so warm.

You’d inched his sleep pants to his thighs and kissed his firm belly, his treasure trail tickling your cheek. He’d stirred, yet hadn’t woken. The linen-filtered light gave a tranquil air. There’d been no rush.

You’d rested your cheek below his bellybutton, his clean scent filling your nose. He had smelled of heated skin and salt and your soap. You’d run your hand over his belly, around his soft cock, across the downy hairs at the top of his thigh.

Feeling bold, you’d swept your fingers up his inner thigh; the skin fine and soft. You skimmed the tip of his cock and his sac. His legs had spread minutely, which made you grin. You spiraled a finger around the glans just to see how he’d react.

And it had been mesmerizing.

Though his breathing had remained steady, his cock plumped and reddened. You hadn’t expected his body to be so responsive. If he’d been awake, you might’ve teased him by calling him slutty.

You’d then drawn closer to this growing erection, wrapping a hand around the base to brace it. Saliva had gathered on your tongue, because you’d wanted to taste him.

You wanted to taste him now — and hear his groans.

The thought combined with the memory had you slick.

You stroked your clit to the rhythm of the song he’d played for you last night. You thought of his talented hands — on his guitar, at your waist, holding your throat, clapping down on your ass. He stretched you perfectly, ground against you like he couldn’t get close enough, kissed you as if he wanted you inside him.

You squeezed your eyes shut and focused on your building pleasure. It trickled in like a gentle brook. And it was energy, hot and syrupy. Sweet like honey. You remembered that tremendous feeling of the universe, of being able to tap into it. All of it was yours, and you were in its thrall.

With a whispered curse, you imagined the trickle of energy filling you. It flowed down your spine to pool between your hipbones. It infused your flesh, spilled into your arms.

You opened your eyes to watch the chalk lines flicker with light.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yeah, come on.”

You sped your strokes, trying to recall how Eddie had done it. He’d used fingers on either side of your clit. You adjusted your touch and rocked your hips counter to each forward stroke.

Connection, you thought. You sought connection once more.

“Please...”

You pressed harder, and it was as though your body remembered the scenario of half-lying on Eddie, his body against yours, grinding onto his fingers, his other hand branding one cheek of your ass.

Please, please, please...

“Give it back. Give it to me.”

When the energy swelled and orgasm crested like an ocean wave, you bit back a moan and breathed through it. You thought of the connection to the magic, of using what had been given, of feeling favored.

The chalk flickered once, twice, before going dark. It wasn’t enough. You didn’t have enough.

“No,” you said. “No, no, no.” You curled forward, slapping your wet fingers on the chalk. “Please, come back.”

The candles’ flames danced as the central heating kicked on. Goosebumps prickled over your forearms. The blessing oil turned sticky on your skin.

You sat back on your heels, breathing deep. This wasn’t the end. Perhaps you needed to rework the spell, or take more time to prepare. You couldn’t just dive into a spell anymore. As normal as you’d been rendered, you probably now had to meditate and rest and use the proper moon phase.

Before you did any of that, you needed to wash off the chalk, oil, and come.

At the kitchen table in the morning, Mom announced she and your father were going on a date Friday night. They’d made a reservation at some Italian restaurant downtown. She then reminded you that you were still grounded.

Like you’d forgotten.

You nodded and took another bite of cereal as an outline of a plan came into focus.

Date night meant they’d both have too much to drink. You didn’t want to think about what happened after they came home and retreated to their bedroom. Logically, though, you knew they’d be occupied with each other for the night. In the morning, they’d sleep late, pop painkillers, and want a greasy breakfast.

They wouldn’t notice another person in your bedroom. Especially if that person didn’t park their van nearby. Or if they didn’t drive over at all.

“Just in case,” you said, tentative. “May I have my car keys?”

Your father grunted and folded the newspaper to the side. He looked unimpressed.

“Just for the night, promise.” You glanced between your parents. “What if something happens?”

You gave Mom an imploring look.

To your father, you said, “I won’t do anything stupid.” To Mom: “If there’s an emergency—”

“You call 9-1-1,” your father said.

“Now, dear,” Mom said to your father. “The police take so long to respond. What if someone breaks in? How would she get away quickly?”

“She runs.”

“You want her barefoot out in the cold? It’s almost December.”

He sighed through his nose, lips pursed.

You offered, “I could get us breakfast in the morning?”

His eyebrows lifted, then his expression shuttered.

“No.”

You nodded and finished your cereal. If you argued, your father would likely add another week to your grounding. He’d say you were trying to find a loophole or whining or being a child. Then he’d compare you to the brats his colleagues raised — and you weren’t a brat, were you?

No, you weren’t a brat. You were a witch who’d been violated and had her power ripped away.

You took your empty bowl to the sink, rinsing it with water before leaving the kitchen. The bus would be at the corner in ten minutes. You threw on your coat, shouldered your backpack, and left the house.

You waited outside O’Donnell’s for Eddie, hands tucked between the small of your back and the wall. It was probably overkill to wait. Or it would look like it embarrassed you to ask where anyone could overhear. You could pass him a note during class, but you didn’t want it confiscated. O’Donnell had read students’ notes aloud before.

And what you were going to ask could be misconstrued. Well, maybe not misconstrued. You were asking him to spend the night to help you with a sex ritual.

When he turned the corner, you straightened from the wall. A bright smile spread across his face as he caught sight of you. You smiled back. He scurried over, light on his feet, then struck a goofy pose when in front of you.

His face went serious as he said, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Whatcha doing out here?”

“I need to ask you a favor.”

He leaned in, conspiratorial.

“A sexy favor?”

With a nod, you said, “Yes, actually.”

He tilted his head side to side with a hum, looking more mischievous by the second.

“Alright, let’s go. Van’s parked in the side lot.”

You bit back a laugh as a few students veered around Eddie.

“How about this Friday instead?”

“In the van?”

“In my room.”

His eyebrows rose just as the bell rang.

Multiple sets of sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as students rushed into various classrooms. You both were lucky O’Donnell hadn’t arrived yet. However, the clack of her heels grew ever closer.

You said, “Call me tonight,” and walked into the classroom.

Everyone was too busy talking amongst themselves to notice you and Eddie arrive together.

After taking his seat, he turned to you and asked, “Sure I can’t tempt you?”

You gave him a somber look in an attempt to hide a grin before pointedly ignoring him to get a pen from your purse. It was tempting to leave, because you didn’t want to sit around for the next fifty minutes and take notes.

He sighed dramatically and flipped his notebook to a fresh sheet as O’Donnell began taking roll. He kept side-eying you throughout class, but you kept your gaze focused on the board.

Eddie slung his jacket with vest over the stair rail in your room. He stopped at the edge of the rolled-up rug as you tip-toed around the larger, redrawn chalk circle on the floor.

“Okay,” Eddie said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re going to concentrate your energy on the circle.”

“You want me to jizz on it?”

You shrugged.

“That’s bound to happen.”

“And this is supposed to help you what?”

You sat on the window seat and focused on the sigils you’d drawn earlier. Your hands fisted the thick fabric of your winter-weight robe. You didn’t know how to explain the ritual without convincing him magic was real. He had to believe to help.

“Look, I know this is gonna sound crazy,” you said, mouth gummy. “But magic is real.” You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest. “Magic is real, and I’m a witch.”

You finally glanced at him. Eddie was still and staring. His open flannel shirt hardly moved, as if he’d stopped breathing.

He looked at the circle and back at you.

“You’re a witch,” he said flatly.

“Yeah, I’m a witch.”

“Did you really sleepwalk across town?”

With a shake of your head, you whispered, “Not exactly.”

“Have you done anything to me?”

“I’ve blessed things.”

“What things?”

“The repair on your jacket.” You nodded at it. “Your black handkerchief.”

Sounding suspicious, he asked, “Nothing else? No love spells and shit?”

“No, I... Of—” Your vision blurred with tears. “Of course not.”

You’d definitely ruined his trust. He’d be wary of you from now on and always doubt any feeling for you. Unfortunately, you didn’t know how to prove your intentions. You could only tell him the truth.

You put a hand on your tense chest and said, “I’ve never — never — manipulated you.” You blinked while looking up. “Those kinds of spells don’t work, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Love spells. You can’t make someone love you. It wouldn’t be real.” You lifted a shoulder. “You can cast with love, but you can’t force emotion from another person.”

He sat on the bed, the toes of his sneakers inches from the circle.

It was quiet — too quiet — as though the house was holding its breath. Eddie studied the circle as you watched his profile. The waves of his hair possessed a hint of dampness. You wanted to sit beside him and bury your nose in those waves. You didn’t know if he’d ever let you do that again.

“Okay, so, magic is real,” he said, expression grim as he looked at the circle.

You nodded.

He continued, “And you want me to help you do something magical.”

“I want you to help me regain magic.”

“Because someone took it.”

“Yeah.”

“But you can’t confront that someone.”

“I don’t dare.”

He looked at you, the irises of his eyes dancing as he examined your face.

“What’ll happen if you pull your magic back from them?” he asked.

“I don’t think I can do that, exactly, but I can’t—” You inhaled. “I can’t let them leave me crippled like this.”

He nodded, then rested his elbows on his thighs.

“You know, when you said you needed me for a sex ritual, I didn’t think you were serious.”

You waved your hands in a small arc.

“Surprise?”

He grinned for a beat, then his face turned serious.

“It’s not dangerous, is it?” he asked.

You shook your head before explaining the sigils, the circle, how the waxing moon helped, and what you’d tried before. He brightened when you mentioned masturbation. You rolled your eyes and remarked it was just energy you could manipulate.

He smirked.

“Yeah, that’s not the only thing you manipulated.”

Your mouth twisted as you shook your head at the lame joke.

“I should’ve seen that coming.”

“Oh, you’ll see something coming, alright.”

You covered your face with a hand, trying not to laugh.

“Oh my God, will you stop!?”

Imitating a bad porn soundtrack, he sang, “Bow-chick-a bow-bow.”

Your face heated, though you couldn’t help laughing, and you pointed at the stairs.

“Leave.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands in surrender, yet had a puckish smile. “I’ll stop.”

You smiled at him for a moment. His eyes twinkled, the earlier suspicion gone.

“Do you trust me?” you asked.

Nodding, he said, “Yeah.”

“Are you sure? I don’t—”

“Sweetheart.” He pivoted on the bed to face you. “I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.”

You bit your lip as the tightness in your chest slowly unspooled.

He gave you a reassuring look and sat up straight. You took that as a cue to approach. His hands were cool against yours, calluses coarse across your palm. You tugged him to his feet.

“Thank you — even if it doesn’t work. I really appreciate it.”

He released your hands to cup your face.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said with a quirk of his lips.

You breathed a laugh, but he cut it off with a kiss. His soft lips were sweet from some sugary drink. His skin smelled faintly of sharp aftershave. You slanted your head to deepen the kiss and put your hands on his sides. His ribs undulated with his gentle breath, which fanned over your cheek.

Eddie kissed your mouth open. His tongue brushed yours in a tease. He sucked at your bottom lip before pulling back.

“I’ve missed this.”

“Me too.” You peeked around him to read the time. “But we need to get started.”

“Yeah.” He blinked as if he’d forgotten the reason for being in your room. “Yeah, sure.”

You eased his flannel shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. His bangs partially obscured his face as he watched your hands. Once you’d gotten the shirt off, you tossed it on the bed. The t-shirt underneath — the Metallica one from the first day of class — was tucked into his jeans.

“Can I?” you asked, pinching the t-shirt.

His voice was just above a whisper when he said, “Sure, go for it.”

You pulled the t-shirt hem loose and swept it up his torso. He raised his arms to twist out of it, his hair fluffing even further when he was free. You added the t-shirt to the clothing pile.

Somehow, Eddie looked broader without clothes. Like a reverse wet-cat situation.

You traced the demon-head tattoo on his upper chest. You’d seen all his tattoos before, of course, but you’d take any excuse to touch him. Goosebumps rose over his skin; his nipples hardened. You apologized if your hands were cold since he radiated heat.

He whispered, “No, it’s cool.”

You brushed the black-widow tattoo above the demon's head. She looked as if about to crawl across his chest. Maybe in the future you could get a spiderweb tattoo. It would be her home.

“What?” he asked softly.

“Just thinking about tattoos.”

He hummed, but didn’t push for a reply.

You centered the guitar pick on his necklace and snuck a glance at his face. His lips were red and wet, dark eyes hot, pink mottling his cheeks. That same pink trailed down his neck. You wanted to feel the heat on your lips, taste his sweat, bite his perfect skin, leave bruises on his hips and scratches on his back—

Fuck.

You couldn’t get distracted. Despite how distracting Eddie was.

You smoothed your palms down his square torso and around to his sides.

“Should I take your rings off?” you asked.

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

His left hand trembled as you slipped off the chunky rings one by one. A pale ghost encircled his wrist where his watch usually sat. In comparison, his right hand was tame with simple rings on his middle and ring fingers. You took the rings to your desk, lining them next to your open notebook.

When you turned, he was sitting to untie his sneakers. He knocked them aside and pitched his socks in their direction. You went to him and combed his hair away from his face. He grinned with a contented sigh, eyes going half-mast.

“Are you ready?” you asked.

“As I’ll ever be, baby.”

“Okay, I’ll light the candles and stuff. You get undressed and kneel in the circle.”

He grabbed your hips to stop you from taking another step.

“Wait.”

“What? What is it?”

“C’mere.”

You moved between his spread legs with a hunch about what he wanted. He pulled at the lapels of your robe to have you bend, which you did. You balanced yourself with hands on his firm thighs.

“Yes?” you asked with a knowing smirk.

He glanced at your chest before leaning in, mouth tilting for yours. You couldn’t refuse that wordless offer. You kissed him once more, languid and tender. As the seconds ticked on, your apprehension faded. It was you and him. It was warm and tingly. It was anticipation and familiarity.

You pulled away to look into his eyes. His pupils were wide, fathomless, and full of desire. You wanted to drop to your knees, give in, let him have everything he’d been denied.

Instead, you inhaled a deep, calming breath.

Save it for the spell.

“Are you ready now?”

He re-wet his lips with a nod. You returned the nod before going to light candles and incense. After clicking off the lamps, you turned to see him standing outside the circle, naked, his hands curled around his groin. The dance of candlelight painted gold across his skin. The curve of muscle deepened, tattoos softened, the waves of his hair became a halo.

Though you wanted to touch him, you moved to the opposite side of the circle and found the ends of your robe’s belt.

“Hold up,” he said.

You released the belt, hoping he wasn’t having second thoughts.

He took a cautious step onto the circle. Before the attack, you would’ve felt the contact between him and the chalk. There was no guarantee you’d feel it after the spell, of course, but you hoped you would.

Eddie eased onto his knees as if in prayer. He held out his hands for you to take.

With a deep breath, you clasped his hands and stepped onto the circle. You needed the anchor of his touch as your equilibrium wavered from focusing on him. He said nothing of it, releasing your hands and reaching for your belt. He unknotted the bow you’d tied. The front panels loosened to hang from the slope of your breasts. You swallowed as he parted the panels enough to see you bare from throat to knee.

He smiled up at you.

“Didn’t know you were naked under this.”

“I didn’t think there was a point in getting dressed.”

“Well...” He glanced down. “I’m not complaining.”

With a grin, you said, “I didn’t think you would.”

He pushed the panels farther apart. The heavy fabric caught on your pebbled nipples. He angled forward to kiss your belly. His hands snaked up your outer thighs and hips to your waist. The slow caress made your breath catch and back arch. He nuzzled into the softness of your middle, humming.

Your cunt clenched. He was so close. He could probably smell your arousal. All you had to do was throw a knee over his shoulder and guide his face to your slick pussy.

That wouldn’t be enough, though. Your orgasm alone hadn’t been enough last time. You needed his as well.

“Eddie...” You pet his hair. “Eddie, we can’t. Not yet.”

With a soft groan, he rested his forehead on your belly. “You’re right... Jesus, fuck—”

You shimmied the robe off your shoulders and tossed it onto the bed. It took ample willpower to step back and drop to your knees instead of sliding onto his cock and riding him hard. The hungry look in his eyes didn’t help, yet somehow, you remained kneeling.

“Mirror me,” you said, walking your knees apart and putting a hand on the chalk.

He did as requested, his face close to yours. His erection jerked between his legs. Clear precome oozed down the underside, glossy in the half-light.

“Breathe with me.”

He stared at your upturned breasts as he bit his bottom lip. His chest started to sync with yours.

“Feel your energy.”

“All I feel is... wanting you.”

You nearly whimpered at his confession.

“I— I want you, too. Just put it here,” you said and nodded to the circle.

He squeezed his eyes closed with a quick bob of his head.

“Christ, when can I start jacking it?”

As before, you reached between your legs. You idly brushed your clit and the tender folds leading to it. Unlike before, there was no need to fantasize about Eddie. He was here now. You could kiss him, taste his skin, and smell his musk as much as you wanted.

“Set our pace, honey,” you said.

He fixed his attention on the hand between your legs while holding the base of his cock. You relaxed into position, waiting. A tension, more intense than before, coursed through your body as the still moment stretched. Your cunt throbbed, and you had to swallow back a plea.

Almost too soft to hear, he asked, “Are you wet?”

You nodded.

He drew his fingers up to smear the precome around his tip and over his frenulum. You mimicked him by dipping two fingers in your hot hole, then spreading your juices on your clit. The slide of them had your hips canting back, your clitoral hood stretching. The tension became physical as your breathing shallowed.

He wrapped his hand around the tip, massaging it and twisting his hand. You circled your clit in broad rotations. He rubbed the dripping slit at his tip, and you used his rhythm to tease your hole.

You met his gaze and exhaled. His eyes glowed with lust, cheeks feverishly pink. Your first instinct was to lean forward to kiss him, but you couldn’t distract yourself — or him.

“Ready?” he asked.

You breathed a ‘yeah.’

He gave a long stroke down his shaft and back up. You used the length of two fingers to stroke your clit. The delicious friction had you biting your lip. His graceful hand built a rhythm until it was the same canter from the song he’d played for you.

Something about that made the song, the situation, raunchier and deeper. It would never not turn you on now.

You mewled.

“Good?” he asked, breathless.

“Keep going.”

His breathing sped as he pumped his cock. You matched him stroke for stroke. The tip of his cock was red like ripe fruit, the shaft flushed. Heat bloomed in your chest, over your neck, and spread to concentrate between your legs. Your clit drew in. You had to press harder, but that hardly deterred you. It ramped up the pleasured warmth. It centered in the tightening muscles below your navel, your sensitive nipples, and, unexpectedly, your bite-swollen lips.

You whispered, “Make us come, Eddie.”

“Just a little faster, baby. Show me...”

You quickened your strokes. You rolled your hips against your fingers. Your eyes refused to stay open, though. You tucked your chin as your body tensed. Give it back. Orgasm was right there. Give it to me. You teetered on that knife-edge.

Eddie groaned like the sound was punched out of him. He growled a curse.

The strain in his deep voice made your gut swoop. It was enough to have you tipping into orgasm. You gave in. It felt like falling. You saw yourself falling into the velvety shadow of magic you’d once known. It thrummed around you, airless and sparkling against your skin. It sucked you in like an undercurrent. You reeled until you broke the surface with a gasp so powerful your head fell back.

You opened your eyes. Light reflected off the ceiling, strong and steady. Not candlelight.

The chalk circle shone like a beacon under you and Eddie.

Your chest heaved for breath. You felt as if you filled the entire room. You felt Eddie’s palm on the floor and his connection with you. It wasn’t the same as before, but it was something.

You met his shocked gaze as the circle dimmed little by little.

“Jesus Christ,” he said between pants. “Magic’s real.”

Acoustic cover by Yoni Schlesinger of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" (Schlesinger vocals are more gentle than Eddie's, but you get the idea.)

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things #em tagd #waywardrose writes

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floydmenace · 1 year

Text

fic masterlist!

hey there! you must be new here! i’m izzy, and i write in my spare time when i have ideas that i havent found anywhere else. my brain runs 15 miles a minute which results in many, many things.

i also take fic requests, so dont be afraid to hit up my ask box! the only thing i wont do as a request is X Readers, but i might write some in my own time - but thats a big maybe.

watermour is my specialty and favourite, but i have a strange affinity for crack ships, rarepairs, and crossovers. so if theres a fic that you’re dying to read that no one has written yet, i might be your person!

anyways, without further ado, heres an easy-access list of all of my fics so far, in order from first to most recent :)

*green text is the ship, blue text is the summary

*all fics are on AO3, where i go by the same username

Take This Rock n’ Roll Refugee [E]

David Gilmour / Roger Waters, smut

“You think you’re so sleazy?” David growled, and Roger chuckled breathlessly.

“I don’t think, I know,” Roger replied, an annoying smirk tugging at his lips. “If I wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here right now, with you giving me exactly what I want.”

“You’re mine, Roger. I don’t care if I’m giving you what you fucking want right now – I’m fucking furious with you.”

Fall Apart (From The Inside Out) [M]

David Gilmour / Roger Waters, with mentioned Syd Barrett / Roger Waters, angst

trigger warning: this is a vent fic. mention of S/A and s*icide attempt in a flashback. please read at your own risk.

“Roger, what the fuck are you doing?” David asked with more clarity, worry immediately creasing lines into his forehead.

“I had trouble sleeping, so—”

“Please don’t be trying to kill yourself.”

Whole Lotta Love [E]

Robert Plant / Roger Waters, smut

“Hey, wait, aren’t you the bassist of Pink Floyd?”

Would It Break My Panic? [M]

David Gilmour / Roger Waters, with mentioned Syd Barrett / Roger Waters, angst

trigger warning: this is a vent fic. vague description of S/A in a flashback. please read at your own risk.

“You know that I was with Syd, right? Back in ‘67 and ‘68?” Roger asked to start off, and David nodded. “Towards the end, he progressively became more detached and nutty, which you obviously know, but that’s crucial to keep in mind while I try my best to talk about this.”

Roger watched David frown slightly, and he took a deep breath as he continued on. “Most of the time, whether he was on acid or not, he didn’t understand that what he wanted wasn’t always what everyone else wanted.”

To Love Him Is To Need Him Everywhere [G]

David Gilmour / Roger Waters, fluff

"You’re the sun, and the moon, and the stars. Happy birthday.”

#watermour #watermour fanfic #pink floyd fanfic #pink floyd #roger waters #david gilmour #nick mason #richard wright #robert plant #led zeppelin #pink floyd fandom #led zeppelin fandom

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floralfloyd · 2 years

Text

Masterlist

Started: 8th April 2020

Last Updated: 01/03/2022

Works: 25

Characters

Band of Sisters - The OFC's of Easy Company Masterlist

Band of Brothers

George Luz

Sentimental Journey (George Luz x OFC)

Chuck Grant

Get Well Soon (Chuck Grant x OFC)

Joe Liebgott

A Seargent's Sorrow (Joe Liebgott x OFC Platonic)

Edward ‘Babe’ Heffron

Dick Winters

Floyd Talbert

Frostbite and Kisses (Floyd Talbert x OFC)

Bill Guarnere

Lewis Nixon

Cold Ice, Warm Hearts (Lewis Nixon x OFC)

The Pacific

Bill ‘Hoosier’ Smith

Robert Leckie

War is Over (Robert Leckie x Reader)

Lew ‘Chuckler’ Jurgens

Eugene Sledge

Andrew ‘Ack Ack’ Haldane

Nolan Hemmings

Jamie Finn (Heartbeat)

Young Love (Jamie Finn x OFC)

Jacob Pitts (Coming Soon)

Deputy Marshall Tim Gutterson (Justified)

Cooper Harris (Eurotrip)

Bill ‘Hoosier’ Smith (The Pacific)

Gwilym Lee

A Field of Flowers (Samuel Castell):

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue (Coming Soon)

Since I’ve Been Loving You (Gwilym Lee)

A Winter’s Tale (Gwilym Lee)

Queen

Confidence (Brian May x Reader)

Dreamers Ball Part 1 (Brian May x Reader)

Pink Floyd

Tears Like Raindrops (David Gilmour x Reader)

If there’s someone not on the list above that you would like a one-shot, series, or even blurb about, feel free to ask my inbox and I’ll happily include them if I can. I’m always expanding my genres and characters so keep an eye out.

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hhjs · 3 years

Text

forget me not.

♡ based on — "During times of war. I want to say: I only love you, And I cling you, Like the peel clings to a pomegranate, Like the tear clings to the eye, Like the knife clings to the wound." and the song nightlife by daydream masi.

♡ summary — Hyunjin's unsure of the tingle in his gut, why it's happening. But he thinks, just for a second, it feels a little like hope.

wherein, putting your heart on the line for the sake of doing favours isn’t a frequent component in your schedule. But what happens when this favour is asked for by the boy you may or may not have fancied for far too long?

You accept it.

For a very embarrassing reason, really, which is — you think Hwang Hyunjin needs you.

♡ pairing— hwang hyunjin x reader

♡ word count— 8.8k whoopsies

♡ genre and alternate universe — angst, fluff + hanahaki au.

♡ author's note— this was supposed to be a drabble and then i sort of lost my fucking mind ehe...also this is easily the worst thing i have ever written im so sorry aaa but this is a lil present from my end hahaha

♡ warnings— suggestive content, vomiting, mention of blood. allusions to depression and heartbreak.

Amongst other things, you're extremely bad at saying 'no'. You don't mean the word per se...but the underlying connotation of this very monosyllable which may come at the expense of letting another person down.

It's sort of stupid, you understand, your friends have constantly voiced their worries for your extremely complacent nature more often than you'd think actually. But it all goes over your head. See — old habits really do die hard.

When you're eight, this very defect takes you to dreadful saxophone lessons your mum spoke so highly of. When you're 15, it gets you called to the principal's office for flashing Jeongin trigonometric functions in Mister Choi's pop quiz, when you're older, things are definitely no different.

The passenger seat is occupied, Hyunjin's holding a tangled muffler to his suede jacket clad chest. At 21, he's become someone you used to know. A friend of a friend, Felix's to be very specific. But the man in question, who was supposed to be his ride, passes off this duty for kegstands and you just happen to be the designated driver for the night, shuffling Jisung beside Changbin and Chan, who claims to be 'sober' even though he's half asleep.

Hyunjin is uncharacteristically quiet.

There's a polite smile on rendered your way as your eyes meet. A small curvature along his plump bottom lip, tighter around the edges. Still this simple formality is so beautiful that you feel something inside you come alive.

When Jisung starts snoring, you flip on the radio and Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here comes on.

Your fingers feel numb when they come to tap out a rhythm to the track. It's nice. Tingling guitar riffs swelling, David Gilmour's gruffy voice pours in from faulty speakers. The more the song progresses, the more you find yourself attempting to think about anything that will distract you from the boy beside you, in the flesh no less.

So late at night, the main road is eerily silent. Cobblestones reflecting the sound of tires thumping against its layout, streetlights blinking at you from their drooping heads. Across the street, a baker is tucking away leftover bread and buskers are packing up their beat up guitars, a man in his late 50's pulling his blanket to his nose as he rests a head full of gray hair on the cold pavement.

You glance at Hyunjin from the corner of your eye and find that his staggering smile has completely disappeared. Now there's a distant glaze in his eyes. It's like he's here, in this moment, with you, but at the same time, he's somewhere else.

Under the impression you've done something wrong, you immediately begin to panic. But the thing is, you don't actually know if you should ask. Would it constitute as crossing a line if you had anyway?

Hyunjin covers his mouth with a sleeve, muffled retching building beyond fabric.

The reasonable assumption is obvious. It's not abnormal to be nauseous when you've got one too many drinks in you. He motions for you to pull over, incoherent sentences practically melding together, words forming and dissipating between choking fits.

You scramble to dig out a bottle of mineral water you habitually deposit in the glove compartment, offering him the tissue first. Ears perking up in satisfaction when a garbled thanks escapes his parted lips. But then... something weird happens.

As your eyes flicker to unintentionally glance at the contents discarded on the pitch grey sidewalk, you freeze in your seat.

You were never a big believer of superstition, not someone who buys into myths only meant for the fiction genre. Sure, you can be gullible sometimes...but what's happening falls no way under the realistic category.

The lethal Hanahaki disease, only inherited by some unlucky descendants, every moment in your head prior to this one, was something that's obviously non existent.

Yet... there's so much blood, too much blood attesting to your blatant ignorance. The petals are of a white rose, smudging together in swirls of grotesque crimson in mimicry of a sheen of red sticking to the inner corners of his lips. It has happened before, you can tell, from just how unsurprised he looks.

Hyunjin's stare flits to commit every detail of your to memory, in what only seems a quick study of gauging your forthcoming reaction, though even before you can produce a coherent thought, he says,

"You can't tell anyone." His voice drops a few octaves as though he's afraid your snoring friends in the back might've noticed. "Please."

Hyunjin's face softens by the slightest, contrary to his firm demand, there lies a desperation you couldn't overlook.

In retrospect, what you're about to tell is ultimately a promise that'd come back to bite you in due time. However, see now, you're extremely bad at saying no. Somehow you're even worse when it comes to Hyunjin. So you blink, turn the radio off and say,

"Okay."

—

The pool is preheated. For that you're most thankful.

Frankly, you couldn't imagine what it'd be like being pushed into a chilly body of water mid winter. Not that it's pleasant otherwise, you can't swim.

Well at 15, you hadn't quite learned to. The other kids have scurried inside to hog freshly baked Snowman biscuits Seungmin's mum is renowned for.

Then and you think you'll never quite forget it, Hyunjin's wearing an orange power ranger t shirt, it's darker now that it's wet, his glasses are marked with uneven splatters. His face scrunches up at the sudden splash of wetness engulfing his body. He wasn't planning to get in the water.

"Hold on tight." He says, wounding your arms around his neck, your calves tighter to his sides to support your shivering body. Back then Hyunjin's hair was black, cropped short and swept to the side, he smells like fabric softener and skittles. A water donut is discarded in the middle of the pool.

Everybody you know and don't know, from the birth of superheroes stuck in comic books to valiant protagonists behind fuzzy television screens, has this inherent desire to be saved. From the world, from themselves. No, no, it doesn't have to be a grand gesture, swooping them off of their feet from the grasp of surly men in dark alleys, sometimes it's really just simple. Sometimes people save you in the most ordinary way there is.

The weight of your form on his bright pink water donut while he stood on his toes to merely rest his elbows so the item wouldn't flip, a small act, certified this very claim, had not the nimble touch of his cold fingers, brushing away wet hair from your face, to anxiously ask if you're okay met the purpose. He talks to you like the sound of his voice has the power to injure you.

You nod slowly. Like this, it feels like you're going to be.

Hyunjin pouts, looking perfectly unconvinced. He paddles the pair of you to steel stairs spiraling into the pool, so he can stand without just his nose peeking out of the water, he looks at you once again, a wrinkle between his dark, arched eyebrows and says solemnly, "Jisung's such an idiot sometimes, isn’t he?"

But isn't he your friend? You want to ask. Something stops you though —his tone tells you you aren't the only one to fall victim to Jisung's practical jokes. Not that they were offensive or anything. Han Jisung, the same person who twiddles his thumbs when he wants the last chicken nugget and cries every time you watch Howl's Moving Castle together, genuinely doesn't mean any harm. It's just that...when he's comfortable with people, who aren't many, he tends to do a lot of dumb things. Dumb, endearing things that Minho will kill him for someday.

"A little bit," You mumble under your breath. Heat rising to your face at the possibility of Hyunjin being concerned for you. He sounds almost angry. "Thanks by the way."

It's rather pitiful to remember. Because with time, Hyunjin's world becomes so big that your interaction stands to be too insignificant to not forget. Before you know it, he's the shooting guard of your school's basketball team, just a handsome face who dates better girls, makes better friends. It's superficial and a little sad.

No, no, a little sad is an understatement actually.

To see someone you understood intimately, a boy who always described details too much just to stray from the main story, a boy with too many emotions bubbling to an awfully animated surface; someone who was passionate, sensitive and so nauseatingly big hearted...change into a man who is indubitably untouchable...is tragic. At least.

Yet funnily enough — you can't quite imagine a world without Hwang Hyunjin. His ringing laughter rippling through loud ambiences, his distant humming of Christmas carols whilst he absently skimmed through spines of children's novels and his eyes glimmering in adoration whenever he spoke of something he loved — Without him, you imagine, there would be a massive deficiency in your world, in the world. Like if birthday cakes came with the biggest slice carved out.

Hyunjin grins, a big sort of candid grin that turns his eyes into upturned crescents. His previous temperament long forgotten. Suddenly, this utterly atrocious happening seems to not be so bad. Suddenly you don't mind that Jisung is an idiot sometimes.

"Of course."

—

Hyunjin is not perfect. Hyunjin is no prince charming.

People don't know this. They don't understand this.

He ends up paying for dinner when he's out with a big crowd even though they were supposed to split the bill, he ends up crying when he gets angry and he is an abysmal liar, in every sense of the phrase. Hardly ever succeeding to hide his emotions when he should. When he was a kid his parents reminded him that it's a good thing to be unapologetically himself, that being honest is a good thing.

But as your eyes meet from across an ocean of people quagmired by crunchy leaves, sticky remnants of rain and his ex girlfriend who he now claims to be okay with being friends with, on her toes to poke his cheek whilst Chan's arm wraps around her waist, the soft white roses ornamented on a bow she loves wearing all the time, he thinks it's far from an agreeable trait to have.

Actually whilst you balance a newspaper under your arm and bring your coffee to your lips, it's like you're looking through him, past his skin, his flesh, something secret inscribed on his bones, embedded into his soul. You know everything, you know everything, you know everything.

The thought itself... surprisingly enough, doesn't appal him.

Hyunjin raises his palm in the air, feeling the autumn prickling against his skin. He waves at you.

—

Working at a library can be taxing. But it sure has its perks.

You can just about turn the place upside down and put it all back together without getting in trouble. Albeit another reason, besides your profession could be that Minho owns the place. Frankly, he may or may not have been the only cause behind your employment. It's hard to tell now that your co-workers really do recognise you've a knack for arranging things.

But to you, your job is very personal. A precious thing which relieves you from various worldly tensions. Velvety spines under your roughened fingertips, the burst of minted pages hitting your face every time you walk in, your love for reading, for a world of stories is so immense that you think you wouldn't have traded it even if your life depended on it.

For a disease that's not very well known, it's ironic how an entire section of mythology is dedicated to it. Past closing hours, amongst many novels mounted on your desk, you fixate on the one that made most sense. There's a few things you've picked up in common from all of them though — the hanahaki disease is extremely rare, it doesn't affect all those who suffer from the qualms of unrequited love.

Possible remedy according to findings entail

growths can be surgically removed, if the patient consents to eradication of memories of their loved ones.

Clanking of keys alerts incoming and you pause your tapping pen to look up.

"Burning the midnight oil, are we?"

Minho leans against the doorframe, he's half yawning, half talking and fully concerned for you.

"Yeah, looks like I'm gonna be a while." Your monotonous tone provides that you are not paying a lot of attention. You blurt without looking up. "Are you leaving?"

"No, still haven't finished archiving for that Pfizer project...But I'm going to get a bite to eat..." His inky eyes remain on you as his tone falters, "You want anything?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Wow you're like...really uh invested." He tilts his head in thought, "You seeing someone again?"

You know Minho long enough to know he has a teasing side to him, from diaper days to play dates ending in pillow fights because he kept offering you his last Pringle just to pop it into his stupid smirking mouth — but you have no idea where he's going with this.

So you look up, finally. Furrowing your brows.

"No. What does that have to do with anything?"

He shrugs, "I haven't seen you concentrate so hard since you dumped Jeongin."

Your right eye twitches. Because you know exactly what he's referring to, and simultaneously, for the sake of your well-being, you much prefer being in denial. "What?"

"C'mon. Remember how you always ended up doing his homework?" He reminds you. "It's like when you like someone, you go out of your way to do charitable stuff for them. But...this? Too much. Even for you."

You ignore Minho's comment. To the world, Hwang Hyunjin's place in your life is not significant. After all this is the most natural undulation in the vicissitudes of life — for someone who once was your friend to eventually drift apart, to become a has been. It's too hard to explain why you care. After all this time.

"I was just being nice." You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. "Clearly this concept is lost on some people."

"Sure you are, bud. If being 'nice' is synonymous with whipped." Of course, there's a smug grin gracing his pouted lips that tempts you to fling something at him. Not that you can though. Seeing as Minho breaks out into a full fledged sprint, his singsongy voice a thinning echo bouncing off of shelves and windows and doors.

Still somehow his footsteps manage to travel through walls, permeating into your office with such great amplitude that you could be bamboozled into thinking he hasn't left at all. Or maybe you've stopped paying attention, your eyes zoom in on any other helpful detail you can put to use in wrapping your head around what you have witnessed firsthand.

At the same time, you can't really ignore how hungry you're feeling just from the mention of a bite to eat. So when Minho's shadow forms again on the page you've been 'reading' for the last few seconds you sense a gigantic wave of relief washing over you.

"You know what I changed my—" slamming the book shut, you blink against scanty provision of light, with raise your head and a bleary vision, recognise him in an instant. Except...it isn't Minho. "mind..."

The only source of brightness is a small emerald lamp perched on the corner of your desk, light green catches onto one of the ornamented corners and speckles of golden caress his supple skin gently. You hadn't realised how cold it might've been outside until you see how heavily dressed Hyunjin was, a long overcoat worn over woollen sweater, a Santa hat and muffler pulled to his chin. It's no one other than your boss himself who has given him directions to your office, you know this, Hyunjin has never been inside before.

So when he marvels absently, you sense yourself feeling a little self conscious about not cleaning up. All around you, a comforter and love seat pushed against the window, cigarette butts discarded in ashtray and then...the books strewn before you tell him you practically live here.

For some reason, Hyunjin only seems to loosen up at the spectacle.

"Hi." He says finally.

"Hi..." you arrange the reading materials quickly to one side so you can rest your elbows. A small (successful) attempt made to hide your research. "Something up?" You say, but what you really mean is, what are you doing here?!

Did he suspect you were going to tell on him? Right that's it, that must be it, you tell yourself, believing, knowing, of all the years Hwang Hyunjin has known of you he has never been one to care about your whereabouts.

"I just...um," He starts, forwarding his mitten clad hands. It's the back of a crumpled coffee cup on which straight handwriting reads a bucket list...of sorts. You immediately understand that his coming is an act of impulse. Urgency of living every moment like it's slipping through it's fingers, that he just needed to tell the only person who knows, be it by accident.

Hyunjin clears his throat. "I wanna do all this before I die."

In lieu of giving an instant response, baffled, you gawp at him. Despite knowing, hearing Hyunjin say it out loud somehow makes everything...too real.

It's as though someone's reached inside your throat, pulled your heart out and crushed it with their bare hands. Hyunjin, the boy who smelled like fabric softener and skittles and wore power ranger shirts, the boy with the fantastic smile and cold fingers, is dying. You won't let him. You can't let him.

You thumb along the numbers scribbled in hasty penmanship, look up and blink rapidly, "Okay," you say, a small whisper, barely there words. "That's okay."

Even with the hat covering tips of ears, you could tell the same faint blush coating his cheeks had rushed to that particular area. His eyes drift off to the sight of pens discarded inside a wooden holder because he can feel your gaze on him. "and I...I need your help."

"Alright."

Hyunjin's eyes widen to a great degree, he sits straighter, as if he hadn't expected you to comply so quickly.

And honestly? Neither had you.

It's quiet. Awkward.

"You know it's not like I haven't thought about dying. I just figured I'd get to grow old first, settle down, have kids and all that," A wry laugh escapes his parted lips. "Everything's happening too fast."

You hesitate, thinking he's making a mistake. Frankly he shouldn't feel obligated to give you an explanation.

"You...you don't have to tell me."

"No—I mean...can I?" He gives you a sheepish look, disliking his own whimsical tone, somehow endearing still. You find yourself wondering how long he had to keep his burdens to himself, not just pertaining to his illness, but everything. His dreams, his hopes, his fears. Anything which requires a certain amount of depth. And you almost ask him, the question sitting at the tip of your tongue, yet the realisation rather simple, stops you. Maybe you've mistranslated 21 year old Hyunjin all along — moulding himself into someone who's convenient around people who only liked him for who he appeared to be, maybe even with all that popularity, parties and glamour, he's just...lonely.

You push your reading glasses into your hair, press your knuckles under your chin and hum in consent.

He shifts in his seat, "Have you ever... been in love?"

You release an amused huff. Let your eyes linger on him for a long minute.

"Once."

Hyunjin half expects you to laugh. Poke fun at him for his melodramatic backstory. That's the sole reason why he doesn't tell his friends (funny, for people he considers close, they seem to know not much about him or care to know, that is. ). But you... you look at him with something in your eyes that tells him the rubbish reasons he posited makes all the sense in the world. Hyunjin's unsure of the tingle in his gut, why it's happening. But he thinks, just for a second, it feels a little like hope.

—

Midnight rendezvous.

As someone who has lived a fairly extraordinary life, Hwang Hyunjin's bucket list is bafflingly ordinary. He's more of a finding joy in small things kind of a person, punctilious at best.

Things change. People notice. They hesitate, whisper about you and last night while you were out on last minute cheap wine run, the grocerer, a girl who looks around sixteen asks you if you're dating Hyunjin. Underneath the thinly veiled curiousity, there's something like anger dripping from her words.

You furrow your eyebrows in simple insinuation that it's weird for a stranger to take interest in your life. Maybe it was written on your face, the fact that you're a dying man's beck and call is for reasons far more complicated than it looks.

You go to his parties. Greet him as a friend would and not just for the sake of maintaining formalities. He comes to the library more times than he does, waits for you to get off work so you can check something off the list at least. People notice. People understand. Hyunjin's different around you. He's bright, talkative when he forgets to contain himself. You sense your heart swelling with pride just at the understanding that he can be himself around you.

You drive to the beach, sit in your trunk and drink straight out of the bottle.

Hyunjin laughs a little. Suspends his feet in the air. With time, he's gotten paler, exhausted. "Rough day?"

You hum.

"Very. Our children's collection is usually low in stock around the weekends."

Hyunjin crosses his arms over his chest. Curious.

"And?"

"And if I say I got yelled at by a toddler would you believe me?"

Hyunjin feigns contemplation, even with the realisation that his body is becoming less and less cooperative, he manages to remain perfectly cheerful.

"I can actually," he grins, "At that age, I was a real pain in the ass."

"Were?"

Your smile is just a slight curl against the bottle's mouth as he grumbles under his breath about your 'insensitive' remark.

You think of your life after Hyunjin, think of his absence like a gaping hole you'll never be able to fill out. It makes you sick to your stomach.

—

Bake something from scratch.

Hyunjin's face twists in apparent thought, eyebrows rising. A pink tongue poked against his cheek, whilst he chews carefully, trying really hard not to flash an accidental reaction whilst you clasp your butter and oat flour soiled hands together, some of the batter on your cheek, neck to anticipate his answer like your will to live depends on it.

You ask yourself how it got to this. Why you didn't care that you were awake so early on a Sunday morning with flour powdering every kitchen appliance in sight in spite of being awfully restrictive about who you let into your kitchen. But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter because it's nice like this.

Hyunjin has his hair pulled away from his bare face, a mole under his eye, a small birthmark on the back of his ear.

When you first met, you thought he was a kind of handsome that couldn't be real. Something formidable about it. Only destined to exist behind fuzzy television screens and flashy magazines.

But in retrospect, you realise, that that's not true at all.

If you look close enough, if you really pay attention, there's a softness underneath, something goofy, something warm, the sharp jut of his nose circling into a soft button, his eyes are big, black and his mouth jutted out into a natural pout, he looks innocent, like he doesn't quite realise the extent of his charms.

"It's..." His soft voice pulls you out of your reverie, and you look up to find his eyes glimmering jovially. Every time it surprises you, the lack of regret in them and the abundance of nonchalance. You wonder what it means to love someone like that, to love someone to the point of martyrdom. It shouldn't be like this. "perfect,"

"This is like, the only batch we didn't burn, right?"

You snort, "Yeah." Fully turn to him, "You know what they say, fifth time's the charm."

Hyunjin's laugh, you think, is so contagious that it makes it an imperative to smile in return. In shaky compartments the sound comes, like being 8, laying wide-eyed in a paddling pool and staring up at a crayon blue sky, raindrop rippling beyond all that noiseless water. His eyes curve to upturned crescents, an unconscious hand covering up the seams of his lips whilst he shakes his head. You don't even notice when he starts speaking again.

"Huh?"

"I said you got a little...something..."

You almost lose a fraction of your sanity when his nimble fingers come to wrap around your wrist while you hold onto the spatula employed into the whole snickerdoodle batter mixing business, a liberated hand coming up to gently wipe your cheek. It means everything to you. And nothing to him.

Later, when you're alone at night, really alone, you put your palm to your chest and feel the unsteady beat of your heart. A warning, a reminder. I can't. I can't. I can't.

—

You hold Hyunjin's hair up. His hands resting on the cold toilet seat, he's whimpering and bleeding. It happens every time he sees Haseul, or something which reminds him of her. Like the song.

This time she's drunk. And it's because she impulsively rises to her toes and presses a tender kiss to Chan's lips.

Hyunjin's just a feet away, across students and solo cups and streaks of neon falling irregularly through his line of sight.

He can never confess, not to her. The last thing Hyunjin wants is for her to feel bad for him. To say she feels the same as an act of service. He tells you. You understand. Somehow... you always understand.

They met in college, Hyunjin and she. And Chan was an upperclassman who seemed to be good at...well everything. At first, he couldn't figure out why it never occured to him before, the fact they were getting together maybe before, after or during the length of their relationship.

Though the answer is simple.

Hyunjin thinks the pillar to good relationships is trust. Call him a sappy romantic or whatever but he had seen true love manifest from it through generations before him and his parents and their parents. To think a different fate was woven for him...used to be unimaginable.

How ironic is that?

Hyunjin presses his cheek against your chest because he doesn't want you to look at him when he cries.

Then for the first time....he tells you he's scared. He's scared of what will happen to him. Of what is happening to him.

He's falling apart.

You cradle him, press him closer to your body like you're trying to put him together. People can't fix each other. Not really. But sometimes... they're worth the try.

"Hey...hey...it's alright," You shush him, run your fingers through his hair. Your voice almost breaking, faltering. Still this, this you mean it with every fibre of your being. "It's okay to be scared."

—

Self bleach hair.

It's Christmas and you're late for a late night dinner he's putting together. (As reluctant as he was about getting along with Hyunjin, he seems all too eager to make invite him whenever a get together takes effect.)

His apartment smells like floor cleaner. There's a queen sized bed pushed against an electric blue wall, a Fleetwood Mac poster taped to his door, small reading desk where Canon EOS New Kiss rests, polaroids of things checked off the list littered all its wooden surface.

You pick up the only photo he hasn't labelled, it reminds you that your friendship isn't just based off a pursuit. This is natural. Pizza box discarded between you two, on your roof top. It's a little too dark, you're holding a cigarette between your fingers, you're laughing and Hyunjin looks like he's going to complain the minute he's done taking the picture. (And he does.)

You smile, pressing your fingers against it like the touch could transport you to a simpler time.

"Ready to go?"

Hyunjin rakes a tentative hand through his newly dyed hair, grey (a suitable colour he says.). You can tell he's put a lot of effort into cleaning up, his usual hoodies and sweats alternated with a red satin shirt tucked into dark dress pants and a coat of the same colour. Hyunjin is beautiful. Perhaps even more like this. In fact, the extent of this quality is so Goliath-like that it obliges dolled up attendees to marvel up in awe. While you fully agree with their unsaid ponderings, you really do, you find yourself missing a less sophisticated version of him.

"Yeah, but first..." you fish out a wrapped squarish material from the depths of your pocket. Hyunjin's eyes widen, two bunny-like teeth showing for the extent of his grin.

"You got me a present!" He all but rips it out of your hand, shaking the material eagerly. He’s a Christmas person, a supreme holiday enthusiast if you will. The sheer excitement in him projects itself in every physical aspect possible. Slight jumping on the balls of his feet. "It's a cassette...?"

You speak too much, nervous he doesn't like it. "It’s a Christmas mix. I thought...since you like carols. I know it's a little old school, I'm sorry if that’s not what you were hoping for—"

Hyunjin pulls you into a big hug, wrapping his entire body it feels like; his arms around your waist, he squeezes you tighter against him, "Thank you." He whispers into your hair, it's not just about the cassette, you can tell.

There's a small light bulb dangling from his ceiling, he hasn't fixed it since the first time you pointed it out. You can tell with your eyes closed, you've begun to know more intimately than your own home. It's safe here. A place that deludes you into thinking that he's not running out of time, that even in his absence in the world, whenever you should walk into this room, it would be an imperative to find Hyunjin lazying about in its confines. Familiarity can be quite tricky, can't it?

His gratitude is not unknown to you. It's in the guilty smile that threatens to show every now and then, it's in this and it's in that. In many ways, it is not something you're a stranger to.

And yet the words manage to tears your heart at the seams. Just a little.

—

Make a snow angel.

From above, he imagines, he may appear to look like a chunk of cookie dough in an ice cream pint.

The snow is not as comfortable as it appears, its frigid temperature seeps into Hyunjin's clothes (and what feels like his internal organs, if that's even possible). He waves his hands and legs inward, outward.

Your head tilts towards him. Face twisted in annoyance. "You're getting on my wing!" You say. "Have you no respect for personal space?!"

Hyunjin narrows his eyes jovially. And people tell him he's the one with a penchant for theatrics. He leans closer in rebuttal, waving his leg around your design with more purpose. You give up. Sit on your knees, fumble with the snow. He’s still in the same position. Smug as ever...

"This is what happens when you disrespect your elders." He fake-warns. "Oka—"

What he doesn't anticipate, however, is the snowball you launch on his stupid grinning face. Now it's your turn to laugh. You clutch your stomach and point at him whilst he glares at you having barely managed to blow the snow off of his mouth.

"Oh, you're gonna get it now!"

You let out an animalistic screech, Hyunjin’s already trapped you under his weight, his thighs wound around your waist, hamstringing your plan to escape, now you're merely squirming. His fingers come down to attack your sides, digging into the flesh so mercilessly to the point you’re not sure if you’re laughing or crying. It's like there's a wildfire inside your lungs.

For a moment you forget, you let yourself forget what's to come.

“Alright, alright I’m sorry!” you press your palms against his chest in an attempt to push him off, Hyunjin has a dumb smile on his face that seems to give the impression of a hanger stuck inside his mouth. But... there's something behind his entertainment as the sound of his laugh dies down, chest heaving with exercise. His smile drops.

You can count each lash, each freckle and line on his face. The dark in his eyes. The pink of his lips. Your sweater's ridden to your ribs. And the warmth of his fingers shifting against your bare skin hits you with an earthshattering force.

Hyunjin kisses you. For a fleeting second, you freeze. Rigid with shock. Then it passes as soon as it comes.

You let out a noise of content,indubitably grateful that your neighbours forgot to put on their porch light for the night. See it’s like this, the act of kissing is not as special as is the person himself, you muse, you can kiss anyone, you can touch and be touched by anyone. But none of that truly compares to this. Not when they aren't him.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about it. Just like you’ve thought about a lot of things. But just the realisation that the boy you’ve harboured in your heart for more complicated reasons than you disclose, to yourself even, touches you with so, so much care...it’s tearing you apart.

It’s too good to be real.

You suddenly push him away. The tugging and pulling at your heart too much to handle. For the fact remains — Hyunjin doesn't love you. He doesn't even like you. You never expected him to. Actually, you've never felt what you feel with that condition in mind either.

See when the feeling of having everything you could ever want is cradled between your palms...it ought to be hard to let go. (Maybe he’s just doing this because he feels bad for you, the little voice in your head says. You listen.)

Hyunjin speaks up first.

“I love Haseul.” he tells you, but it sounds more like he’s telling himself. “That’s why...that’s why, all this...I love her.” Not you.

You swallow, “I know.” Your hands come up to dust your pants. Hyunjin’s still on his knees, as if the answer to his conflicts are deposited under all the snow. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have done—”

Now you hear it, the hint of pity in his voice. You don’t mean to sound as bitter as you do. Seeing as you’re usually very good at keeping calm , breaking that very reputed front frustrates you even more.

“Look just forget about it, okay? We don’t have to talk about this.”

Hyunjin looks like he didn’t expect this side of you to exist. At least, you think, at least it got him to stop talking.

—

Learn to skate.

"If I fall, I'm taking you with me."

"You say it like I have a choice."

Hyunjin shoots you a warning glare even though you can't see. His choppy skidding steps supported by the vice grip he has on your arms. You haven't skated since you were in highschool. But when you're pretty good at it still, the smooth blade of your beaten skates gliding through ice with much dexterity, it's like floating, freeing, the wind hitting your faces, snow catching in your lashes. It's peaceful, you try not to think about the warmth of Hyunjin's arm circling around body, the vague rhythm of his heartbeat against your back. His laboured breaths on your neck. It's torturous. But spending so much time with him has taught you to hide your feelings better.

The park welcomes a large crowd around holiday season, children with toothless grins, tugging onto their mum's coats, small chin resting onto a parents' head, teenagers moving in together in school uniforms. It's the happiest time of the year. When you move past an elderly couple, they smile and tell you make a wonderful couple.

You're just about to make a correction. This puts you in an awkward position... doesn't it?

But then Hyunjin grins toothily and says, Thank you, like it's the most amusing thing in the world. You ignore the wrenching inside your chest.

Hyunjin leans forward, his plump lips brushing against your ear. "Where did you learn to skate so well?!" There's something like excitement in his kiddish laugh aside from admiration. It's not much of a question as it is an exclamation.

"I am pretty good, aren't I?"

He laughs, doesn't let you go. "Yes, yes...really good."

Out of breath, you slow down, move your feet steadily, careful not to lose balance.

"Oh my God! It is you!"

You raise your head, blink against flakes hindering your vision. Jeongin's voice used to be thinner before. As far as you remember. Now it has a weight to it.

You let out a nervous laugh.

"And it's you..."

Jeongin's eyes travel to the arms around your waist, to the stiffened figure behind you and you immediately liberate yourself. Moving to let Hyunjin use your arm as purchase, you don't fail to notice the pinch in his forehead, a frown on his mouth.

"This is my friend Hyunjin. Hyunjin, this is Jeongin—"

"We used to go out." Jeongin smiles, forwarding his hand, which is returned with an unenthused shake and a demure reply. Hyunjin never speaks to anyone this way, not even people he claims to hate.

The former male looks to you again, "I was, uh... wondering if you'd like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime."

Things between you and him ended amicably at the event of his departure for further studies, which deprives you of awkward tension which is expected when exes meet.

Besides, a cup of coffee never hurt anyone.

Right?

Without thinking, you nod slowly, "Yeah that sounds good,"

"Text me anytime."

"Sure."

“I'll be out of your hair then," he beams. "It was very nice meeting you too, Hyunjin."

"Right."

Hyunjin, you realise, has released your arm. He leans on barricades fencing along the skating area, smiling briefly. You know it’s wrong...yet you sense that you almost need him to be upset.

Then he tilts his head back towards you, "He seems like a really nice guy," he whispers, genuinely meaning every word. Your heart sinks. "I see the appeal." Underneath the lurid glare of fairy lights brandished overhead, Hyunjin's ash hair glints like it's threaded out of silver. You wonder what he's thinking.

—

Watch every Disney movie ever made.

You never end up texting Jeongin back. Just stalling for when you're ready, you tell yourself. Even though that's not true at all.

"This brings back so many memories. My parents used to belt out A Whole New World with me, like every time we watched Aladdin."

Hyunjin wipes his face with the back of his hand, technically you’re not very sure what he’s saying exactly because he’s mumbling into a paper napkin you've passed over for the umpteenth time. You find yourself picturing a small but happy family of three, of Hyunjin in Scooby Doo pajamas and gap between his teeth. (Contrary to your previous convictions, he hasn't changed all at much, save for the teeth bit. ) It's cute.

He looks to you expectantly. Can't be the only one telling embarrassing stories.

You shrug, "I had a thing for Simba. Let's just say my mum and dad were nice enough to indulge me."

Hyunjin reaches for the remote and pauses the ending credits of Lady and the Tramp. He turns to you fully now, gives you a judgemental stare. "Simba...?" He says, "Like the...lion?"

"What? It's normal to crush on fictional characters, okay?!"

"Okay,sure," Hyunjin snorts, putting a pillow between you and him so you can't kill him. "furry."

A part of you is tempted, obviously. But the much bigger part is more invested in how he looks happier, healthier. You want to think that means something.

—

Hyunjin invites you over for movie night. It's getting colder and you keep poking him with your cold feet. There's an extra set of blankets in his cupboard, he informs you, he isn't sharing his with you — and that's when you see it.

The deflated pink donut folded to the side, his and yours sharpie inscribed initials on one side.

"Found it yet?"

You don't even notice when he comes to stand behind you. So the question effectively makes you jump out of your skin. Hyunjin has a bowl of popcorn pressed to his chest, there's a pink hair band holding his hair away from his forehead. For the lack of a answer he takes it on himself to find the source of your silence. As if you've been caught red handed.

You think this is where he'll ask you to leave, that or he'll least scold you or something. You prepare for the worst.

Hyunjin just smiles, it's a big smile that succeeds in bringing out the small dimple indented on the side of his cheek. You've never noticed before. It's kinda weird. Because when it comes to him, your attention hardly ever falters.

"You probably don't remember. That’s from Seungmin's 15th birthday,"

You want to scoff under your breath. All this time you had told yourself that you were the only one to be affected by your estranged friendship growing up. Now...the same logic colours you every bit of ridiculous.

You blink away, swallowing. Voice solemn.

"I remember." Hyunjin's gaze is heavy on your shoulders. An emotion you can't quite put a finger on crosses his delicate features. It's something between surprise and relief... something else too. You don’t understand it.

—

It's disconcerting that he can’t remember the last time he got sick. Not the usual discomfort inside his chest, not the blood, not the thorns or petals. Hyunjin's just gotten so used to it, you know? What if he gets his hopes up for no good reason? What if it just comes back?

There's no possible explanation, he explains over a hasty 3 A.M message he had to leave on your answering machine because he's freaking out.

Then Haseul texts Hyunjin, tells him she misses him. Everything's adding up. Everything's falling into place. This is what he wanted, isn't it? She loves him, she finally loves him back. That must be it. He doesn't know what to say.

But he tells you, and when he does, it sounds a lot like an apology.

—

Kiss underneath a mistletoe.

“Chan and I broke up.” She says it like it’s something he should be happy about. So when he remains quiet, it only prompts her to speak more, fill up the big mighty silences.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Look Jinnie, I know I made a mistake, but...can’t you give a second chance? Just this once?”

Hyunjin has thought about this particular moment a lot. Kissing her instead of producing a response, pulling her off of her feet and mumbling of course, of course, of course. Back then, there were little doubts in his head pertaining to her, back then he believed that she was the only one for him. The love of his life at the wrong time, in the wrong place.

Now...something doesn’t feel right.

The thing about wounds, sometimes, of the heart in particular, is when they close up, it’s hard to make head or tails of the kind of person you become in their wake. Hard to adjust. Like when he suddenly shot up 7 inches in ninth grade, a late bloomer at that, and the weight of his new sneakers felt..odd.

He glances at her and also understands what it’s like to be lonely, the constant need to compensate for it by grasping at the last straw. He used to be in her shoes too. This isn’t any different. Albeit, he isn’t exactly taken by her presence. Just that he doesn’t know if what he’s doing is right. He looks over your table a few feet away from where he’s standing. Having gone out to take a call. You notice his absence and then from your seat, do your best to locate him. (he thinks of kissing you on a bed of snow, thinks of the sizzle of your skates against ice, thinks of his list on a coffee cup and his pink water donut and it’s okay to be scared. Why did it have to be you of all people, through everything? It’s not really a work of coincidence. Not at all actually.

Maybe he just wanted it to be you.)

When your eyes do lock...seeing him with his hands in his pockets, her standing beyond the barrier as she tries to say something, you smile, even if it’s a little sad. Hyunjin thinks to the conversation some nights before. Thinks of you reminding him that there's nothing to lose at this point, that he should do what his heart tells him. That it’ll be alright, if he just takes a leap of faith. Hyunjin smiles back. Through the glassy exterior and mini water fountains running down its slanted form. The realisation is not as dramatic as he thought. It’s just late.

He tears off the false mistletoe decoration glued along the periphery of an arch.

And like always.

He takes your advice.

—

Cohorts of guests pour into the colossal hotel, heads turning in quiet admiration for bejeweled arches breaking out against buttery white architecture, the roof is impossibly naked, translucent glass baring a starlit sky to your watchful eyes. Showing little mercy to a frail chute held over your head,costumed characters wade through oceans of gossamer, twinkling silver and swaying movements to slow jazz. You prop a heeled foot up on the bar platform, which strangely resembles a pedestal, in a futile attempt to catch your breath, with clammy digits settled atop the risky surface of a marbled counter. A soft voice speaks over the ambience, uttering your name with much care. You lift your head. And there he is.

Jisung is scouring through the Spotify playlist you’ve put together for New Year’s Eve. He’s complaining about the lack of Beyoncé while your friends go around the buffet table. When he calls you, you’re sipping your drink, laughing at something Changbin is saying, his eyes brighten just at the sound of your laugh. Hyunjin isn’t surprised to see his friend taking a liking of you even though he hardly knows you. That’s just the effect you have on people.

Excusing yourself, you allow him to walk you to a less densely populated area where a stone pillar faces expensive paintings of nameless painters. With the effect of alcohol settling in and your inhibitions effectively lowered, your steps sway a little. You lean against the massive build rising from tiled floor. “So what’s up?” you murmur, the lump in your throat thickening just at the thought of him speaking the good news into existence. “I take it went well?”

Hyunjin doesn't answer. He looks distracted for a bit. Then in an instant he snaps out of his daze. “What did you mean when you said ‘once’?”

Your brows come together in inquiry.

“What?”

"When I asked you if you have ever been in love, you said ‘once’." He persists, his fingers come up to your shoulder, grazing slightly as if they’re trying to carve out words against the skin. "You weren’t talking about Jeongin.”

He knows. He’s always known. Hyunjin can’t believe he’s been so stupid.

“Took you long enough.” You let out a sardonic laugh.“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

"It matters to me..." Hyunjin sounds offended, you gather, but he manages to quell his temper for the sake of coaxing your confession. Is he purposely embarrassing you? "I don’t think...I love Haseul anymore...I didn’t realise...I haven’t for a long time."

A big chandelier beams over withering plants pushed against the ceiling, in this poor supply of light, you can tell exactly how he looks, eyes glimmering adoringly, you've spent something-teen years of your life wondering what it's supposed to mean. And it still manages to confuse you.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask, albeit you already know. Because funnily enough, before he got his braces removed and dyed his hair a scandalous blonde, before bucket lists and heartbreak, he was just the boy who told you he liked your stupid reindeer sweater even though it had officially made you the 7th grade laughing stock. You remember being fifteen and in love with Hyunjin. And you've never actually stopped. You need to hear it to believe it.

It drives you crazy. The way Hyunjin brushes his fingers against your cheek, shifting strands away from your eyes. But you can't help it, you've always wanted this. You lean into the caress, peering up at him as his large hand cups your jaw, thumb traversing from your tilted chin to your glossy lips like he's trying to smooth out all the creases. His voice is small, a whisper.

"Because I need you to know I think I’m falling in love with you.” he says. His palm opens and there’s a plastic mistletoe nestled between his fingers. You’re smiling and sniffling whilst his forehead comes to press against yours. Hyunjin grins. “And there’s still one last item on my list.”

“Are you seriously asking me to land one on you now?”

“Oh hell yeah.”

—

"Move."

You press your fingers against the slick, sweaty skin.

In rebuttal, Hyunjin grumbles under his breath. Only half awake, half aware that he was mumbling in his sleep. His naked chest seems to be, if it’s even possible, glued to your bare front as he sprawls out like a starfish over your body, using his gangly arms to accommodate the strange position.

Though and you know he knows it too — it’s anything but uncomfortable.

See by now, you aren't exactly a stranger to Hyunjin's sleeping habits. Or really, any habits of his.

All the windows are cracked open, moonlight percolating through a thin sheet of curtains in rendering evidence that it’s still night time. You can make out the faint sound of honking in the distance, a few stray dogs here and there, probably producing strings of complaints about the blatantly unbearable heat.

The strong stench of sweat and an aftermath of what happened before is a quick reminder of where you are, what you’re doing and that your arm’s going cold for a lack of circulation under his weight. Beads of sweat collected against his skin and trickle down the side of your face, the crook of your neck, which only prompts you to apply more force to the pads of your index and pointer — albeit it did nothing to move him, "Gross." You groan. "You're sweating like a pig!"

This comment, of all the things you've tried to get him to sleep on his side, succeeds in making Hyunjin raise his head, his grey hair matted down, a few rogue strands pushed out to fall over the unamused look in his eyes.

In an unprecedented minute of absolute clarity, something inside your stomach started to churn at the shocking sight. You’re impossibly, absolutely and nauseatingly in love with Hwang Hyunjin and the funny thing is, you don’t have to think twice to know he is too.

"Gross?" Hyunjin lowers his face to brush his pouted lips along your jaw, grinning when you let out a shaky but involuntary breath and as if he is looking to make a point with his digits traversing from your bare stomach, just along the hem of your underwear, "After all that?"

"I hate you." You say — but more like, stutter. The sound of his giggles eliciting a strange sensation in you, reverberating against your chest, knocking against his ribs and your skin, like it’s trying to reach out to you, like your bodies insist on melding into one.

"I don’t think you’re being honest, baby." He laughs, squeezing your side, coming up to plant a warm palm to your butt to repeat the action, which in turn, drew a mewl from you. “Because you looove me.” Hyunjin smirks, his finger thumbing along your throat to your chin. You think this is what all those great poets meant in endless litanies of lovers torn apart by time and war woven together in a simple caress, like a longing, like a secret. Guarded from prying eyes, greedy hands, and you keep it, you keep it. For him. With him.

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only-sturmfrei · 3 years

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Thanksgiving - Pink Floyd

Not my gif

David Gilmour’s Daughter (reader) x Roger Waters’ son

Eugene Waters and Y/N Gilmour have been married for a while now and live together. Roger Waters was never really there for his son, so when he turns up on Thanksgiving it’s rather hard.

“Honey! I have the turkey!” Y/n yelled walking into the kitchen with the cooked turkey. “All of the other food is on the counter,” Eugene said. There wasn’t much food because there were only two people at this dinner. Y/N and Eugene decided to play it safe from the virus and have a home Thanksgiving.

They would usually have two thanksgivings. The first being Y/N and Eugene visiting her four siblings, her father, and her mother. The second was Y/N and Eugene going to visit his mother, two siblings, and his mother’s husband. His dad left him when he was only five months old.

Anyways, the young couple sat down at their table for thanksgiving. “This doesn’t feel right,” Y/n said. She got up and put a record in her record player. It was the album Barrett by Syd Barrett.

There was a knock on the door and Y/N went to check it out. Y/N gasped when she opened the door. There stood Roger Waters.

“Can I come in?” Roger asked. “I-I uh sure,” Y/N responded. Roger followed Y/n into the dinner room. “Dad? What are you doing here?” Eugene asked puzzled. Roger stared at the record player for a second before responding, “Oh well you know. All of my kids are grown and they decided to not come and see me.” Eugene was done with Roger at this point, “You’ve never had thanksgiving with my family. You were gone for every Easter, every Christmas, and every birthday.” “That’s why I want to make it up to you,” Roger said. Eugene nodded.

“Uh Roger how about you get some food from the table,” Y/N said awkwardly. Roger nodded and got his food. He sat down beside the two, “What’s with this music?” ‘Gigolo Aunt’ was playing. “Well we always listen to music on Thanksgiving,” Y/N said, “It’s Gigolo Aunt by Syd Barrett. I can change it if you want.” “It’s fine. So I assume you two don’t have any kids. Do you plan on having any?” Roger asked.

Eugene and Y/n both flinched. “If you'd actually talk to us you would know we tried for over two years. Then Y/N got Ovarian Cancer and had to get one of her ovaries removed so it would be hard for her to have kids,” Eugene said bluntly. “Oh I’m sorry,” Roger said. Y/N just nods.

“How’s your dad’s music going?” Roger asked to Y/N, “Oh it’s going well. He is actually going to upload his new song tomorrow. How is your music going?” “Well I had to postpone my concert,” Roger said. ‘I guess this won’t be as bad as I thought,’ thought Eugene, “And your dad won’t let me on the Pink Floyd website.” There it was.

#Pink Floyd #family #DavidGilmour #Roger Waters #60s #70s #80s #90s #Thanksgiving #band #fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #Barrett #Gigolo Aunt

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cassiana-on-dark-side · 10 months

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Imagine spending an entire afternoon at the spa with David. You have just come out of the jacuzzi tub where you have been cuddling and smooching the whole time and now you are waiting to get a massage, even though David has whispered to you that he would prefer you to give him a massage. Then he playfully put the towel like you on his hair and winked at you while waiting for the masseur's reaction.

#imagine david gilmour #david gilmour imagine #david gilmour fanart #david gilmour x reader fanfic #david gilmour x reader #my edit #david gilmour

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lsd-astronaut · 2 years

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There is a David x Reader fanfic idea I would love to write! It’d be fantasy and science fiction, the reader would be a human and Davide would be a half demon/half angel aka demonika (makes sense in the worldbuilding btw).

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nosferatyou · 4 years

Text

New Tune: Chapter 5 (Jake Kiszka x Reader)

WC: 3.3k

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of emotional abuse, and some sick guitar solos.

Summary: Two guitarists meet at a Rock Festival, only having a week with each other before they have to return to their own lives. The bond they create is unfeigned and resolute.

“You have fun last night?”

“Huh?” I look up from my guitar to see Asa, sporting a confused look on my face.

He shook his head and laughed to himself, handing his phone to me.

“You must've really gone overboard last night if you don't remember this.”

Some random Greta Van Fleet fan account had posted a video of Jake and I from the night before. The both of us jumping off stage and into the pit, and pictures of us in the mosh.

“Scroll down, there's more.” Asa suggested, waving his hand towards his phone.

I guess all these accounts tagged the whole band to get our attention, and it definitely had mine. Multiple people had taken pictures and videos of us together, some accounts more… professional than others. Many were excited to see Jake with a girl, but all were mostly confused as to why he was moshing in the first place. It cracked me up honestly. I quickly sent some of the posts to myself before handing it back over to him.

“You think this will have any repercussions?” I asked, a worried look creeping over my face.

“I doubt it, at least not for us. We barely have the following that they have, even then our publicist is so used to the shit that you get into.”

“I guess so, I just hope it isn't a problem for him. Id feel awful it was.”

“Well you'll see him later right?” Asa asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure we are just gonna laugh about it, but I honestly didn't think this would happen.”

“Y/N, everyone will have moved on by tomorrow morning, don't stress too much.

“I'll do my best.” I said meekly.

I don't even want to know if any of the articles have reached my boyfriend Sam. Knowing him he's already well aware, and seen all he can. I just don’t want to think about that right now, or any of this. The both of us should be able to have fun without it being blasted everywhere.

I glanced over to my phone, which I haven't touched since yesterday, and god knows when the last time I actually charged it was.

Asa noticed what I was looking and asked “Y/N when was the last time you checked your phone?”

“During our last practice..” I said hanging my head in shame.

He nodded, staring at his coffee, seemingly lost in thought.

“If you ignore him now he's just going to get more upset.”

“Asa, you think I didn't know that?” I snapped, my voice raising.

I caught myself and took a deep breath “I’m sorry, it's just, my patience is wearing thin, I just need to get home.”

“I don't know why you're with him, Y/N. This is abuse and you know it!” He raised his voice, feelings he was holding in finally getting let out.

“He has never hit me and he never would.” I put my guitar next to me, it doesn't seem like I will be needing it anymore.

“You know that's not what I mean. The way he treats you? The possessiveness? None of it is okay. You just outright ignoring him because its too much to handle just shows me that deep down you agree. You ignore everything that's hurting you, I've known you long enough to realize that much.”

I just stayed quiet, my head hung low. Everyone knew the truth, everything he was saying was true. I always knew it. I just. He’s what I deserve, with the way I treat myself and the life I live. It's not something anyone can handle. I'm not going to find anyone else who can. So I'm okay with Sam. He's the best I will do. At least I think he is, but I don't want to put anyone else through having to love me.

“Y/N I care about you. We all do you know? You're family and to see you put up with everything he drags you through is just…” He stopped to think of his words. “You have such a big heart, he never will deserve you.”

And with that he got up and walked to the back of the bus, not before letting out a huff and running his hands through his hair.

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I had been a bit shaky all day. Everything Asa said was starting to get to me. His words creeping through my mind every other minute, and then it’s all i could think about. Along with the drama I caused with Jake and his community, but I have to put on a happy face for the boys and it's nothing a bit of liquid courage couldn't help.

I knocked on their door three times then stepped back. Adjusting the guitar strapped to my back. All of their cheerful voices suddenly stopped before I heard someone loudly clamber their way towards the door. It swung open, almost slamming into the side of the bus. A very excited Sammy was behind it, a giant smile on his face.

“Y/N! You’re here! Come on in.”

He squished against the wall to let me in and then closed the door behind me. I was greeted with the sight of all the boys at the wrong instruments. Jake on the drums, Josh with a guitar, and Danny playing the bass. Sam ran from behind me and grabbed the mic from the stand.

“This ones for the ladies.” He said with a smooth voice, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

He counted off and they all started playing “When a man loves a woman.” Sam practically overpowered everyone else with his singing, which was arguably him just screaming the lyrics. The rest of them kept up though, which was unsurprising. Josh tripped up on his part a couple times, but for someone so new to the instrument he killed it.

They all finished off the song by just wailing on their instruments, and of course, Sam just screaming into the mic. When all was quiet he asked into the mic,

“Well?”

“Fucking fantastic, all of you. I would have brought my trumpet if I knew you guys would be doing this!”

“You play trumpet?” Inquired Danny.

“Been playing for about 15 years. I started back in high school and just never stopped.” I explained while unpacking my guitar.

“Jake you couldn't have brought around a cooler person.” Said Sam, grabbing your case and tucking it away.

“You all are way to nice. But I at least brought my guitar, so let's get to jamming.”

***

“Did you attempt to learn all of our songs before coming?” asked josh, who seemed very impressed with my skills after playing through their set list.

“Found a couple tutorials, so kind of. I also am just a professional at jamming. Don’t forget that I’m also a musician.”

“Oh it's definitely not forgotten.”

Jake stepped into the conversation asking “Think she can handle Black Flag?” A suggestive look on his face.

Him and Josh made eye contact, both nodding and looking back over to me. Man, I hate the fucking twin talk.

“I think it's right up her alley.” Josh said looking back over to me before going back to his spot at the mic stand.

They all talked among themselves for a moment before getting set up again and back in their own spots. Sam sat on the couch, Danny in the back nearer to the bunks, Josh upfront, and Jake and I standing where the table was. The amps were everywhere and kind of evenly distributed. They luckily had an extra for me, and a couple of pedals that Jake wasn’t using. I mean it was just Comp and Reverb, but my guitar already had a funky tone to it.

Josh counted off and Jake went right into it. Tapping his strings faster and faster, Giving me a playful smile. When he got faster I mouthed “Show off.” He just smirked and went into a heavier riff.

He started playing slower and once the rhythm section joined so did I. I could tell by their nods that they were planning to come in, so in tow I joined with them. Josh joined in with heavy and raspy vocals, with this being a much darker song. He nodded to me and put his pick in his mouth holding it there. Telling me this will be a softer portion. But that didn't last long, because Josh started screaming and Jake joined in with a heavy solo in his typical style. Keeping eye contact with me the whole time. He smirked at me and just kept playing, doing his back bends, wailing on his guitar in the upper register. I played rhythm just to amuse him during his solo, I saved my best for later. I noticed how quickly his hand went back to the position from before and I joined him for the main riff. We all went back into that flow again through the next verses, and then Josh let out the same scream as before.

I gave Jake a wink and then stole his solo from him. At first replicating what he did in the beginning of his. He laughed and shook his head, reacting to me showing off. After a bit I broke off into my own, a heavier tone than his. I stepped on the Comp and the delay pedals to add my own personal flair. I'd be kidding myself if I didn’t say I was showing off in that moment. I pulled out all my best guitar moves and licks. I kept with their flow of course, but I put more of a Eric Clapton meets David Gilmour. Bending the shit of of my strings, working up and down the blues scale. Using this moment to get out all of my frustrations and anger. I beat that guitar, wailing away, putting out everything I could. I did just as Jake did, keeping eye contact with him when I could, a smirk on my face. I was playing well, same as him even, but I wasn't going to beat him this way. I threw one more smirk his way and swung the guitar onto my shoulders in one confident swoop. Seamlessly playing with the guitar, tapping in the upper register of my guitar for a bit, then upon hearing Josh start joining in with vocals I swung it back down, and made eye contact with Jake again. He laughed with a smile on his face and we both joined in on the main riff. With the song coming to a close we all harmoniously closed out the song with a quieter tone. But of course not without Josh's expert screams and Danny beating those drums to death.

We all let out a huff and sat in silence for a moment. Sam broke the silence by saying

“Jesus Christ the two of you killed that. Jake, you shouldn’t be surprised if your spot in the band is stolen.”

Jake directed his attention back to me, a goofy smile on his face.

“I definitely wouldn't be. She lived up to her end of the bargain, that’s for sure.”

I was full of adrenaline, I felt the same way I did after every show with my own band. The smile on my face and my breathlessness made it clear. These boys gave a new challenge that no one else has provided. Especially Jake, throughout all of tonight we kept our eyes on each other. Only leaving to catch cues, but even then we both merely missed some, which didn't go unnoticed by the rest of the boys.

His contact doesn't just happen when we are playing. Whenever we are together his attention is all on me. Especially when we are with the boys, hes quieter than when we are alone. He sits back and watches everything unfold. I’ve definitely noticed, but i'm unsure if he has.

I catch his eyes when he finishes his sentence, it gives off a look of intrigue more than anything else.

Before I could get in my words josh Piped in,

“I don’t know what your talking about, Jake, but you are sure as hell right. She's absolutely fantastic.” His eyes dropped for a moment in shame. “And I admittedly have never heard any of your songs.”

“Well that has to change doesn’t it?” I said with a playful smirk.

I grabbed my phone and an aux plugged into one of the amps. Starting off with one of our earlier pieces, which was heavily blues inspired, but still kept our psychedelic style in it.

We all squeezed onto the small couch and just listened to the music. I was pretty nervous because I knew their musical domain more laid in folk than anything else. They all bobbed their heads along, and their concentrated looks on their faces made it impossible to determine what they were feeling.

I stopped it after a couple of songs, and turned to face them.

“So? Are we god awful?” I asked.

“Honestly I love how you're truly mixing the new with the old. The organs and the guitar mixing together has a very Doors vibe. It's got something very unique to it all, Y/N. I love it.” Danny said, his focus drifting of to think of the right words.

“I personally love the way your guitar is standing out. Its tonality is really something else, very you.” Jake reached over and squeezed my hand, and my cheeks burned red. It was like they had a mind of their own. I quickly turned to Sam who was sat next to me so maybe Jake wouldn't notice.

“Okay so.” He said with a very determined look on his face. “ Let's talk organ player, because I really like his whole thought process and-” He was cut off by the sound of my phone ringing over the speaker. Dread filled my whole body and I tensed up. All of the thoughts I had repressed during tonight came flooding back. Jake who still had my hand in his, took notice to that.

“Fuck I shouldn’t of brought that.” I said to myself.

“You gonna answer that?” Josh asked, a quizzical look on his face.

“I-”

“Y/N go answer it, You know you should. We will be here when you get back.” Jake said softly, he looked at me with compassionate eyes. He squeezed my hand one more time and let go.

I let out a shaky breath and went to go pick it up. I unplugged it and walked off the bus to get some privacy.

The air that was normally dry and burning was now frigid compared to it. I shivered as I stepped off and hesitantly hit the answer button.

Wow two phone calls in one week that's a new record.” Annoyance extremely visible in his voice.

“You only picked up because you know you're guilty.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a long sigh.

“ What am I guilty of Sam?” I paused and let out another huff. “I’m honestly confused.”

He spat out “ Your’e fucking sleeping with that jimmy page wannabe.”

Anger bubbled in my gut. His constant accusations were starting to get on my last nerve.

“Sam are you fucking serious? Honestly I don't know why I put up with your shit.”

“You put up with my shit? Are you fucking serious Y/N?” I get ignored by you every damn day for

God knows what reason.” He stopped for a moment. His angry tone switching to something more of condescending.

“I think you owe me an apology if anything.” I could practically feel his judging eyes through the

phone.

“ I mean you ignore me, sleep with other men, and leave me here to deal with all of it. Alone.”

God at this point I’m starting to see what Asa is saying. Sams getting on my last nerve.

“I owe you nothing.” I said curtly.

He just laughed.

“Seriously, Sam. I owe you jack shit for all you've put me through.”

“Ooh is Jimmy Page getting in your head about us? Giving you false confidence?”

“I’m not fucking Jimmy Page!” I yelled a bit too loudly for how close quarters everything was. But my volume stayed there, if not increased.

“You see one article about me having actual fun and you’re getting so fucking jealous that you throw accusations around to rattle me up and ruin my good experiences at work? I worked so fucking hard to get here and you can’t handle me getting all this attention can you? You seriously can’t trust me can you? Fuck you, Sam.”

Rage boiled in my veins. I couldn't keep still in my spot, I was pacing rapidly back and forth, and my free hand was clamped so tight my nails broke skin.

Even if I wanted to do stuff with Jake I have enough decency to keep it in my pants.

He stayed silent, his fragile ego probably breaking over the fact that I could finally stand up to him.

“ You really can’t handle your liquor or the truth can you?” He simply said.

That bastard.

“Oh Fuck off you free loading bitch.”

I hung up and threw my phone to the ground in a plight of rage.

I marched around in circles, whisper yelling curse words to myself to calm any anger I had.

I don’t think I can take his abuse anymore, I just feel so stupid for even taking it in the first place. How the hell did I not see any of this? I'm an actual idiot for not seeing his bullshit.

I took a final deep breath, picked up my phone, and marched onto the bus.

All the boys were standing in positions around the room that could only be described as “Act natural”. All of them gave me a nervous look when I re-entered.

With gruff tone I said “Who wants to play an Im angry and want to let out steam song?”

All of them very quickly grabbed their instruments and got into position.

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After a very long (and loud) rendition of “Sweet Leaf” we all collapsed to the couch in exhaustion. Usually one song wouldn't have had any of us beat but prior we had been playing for at least three hours. They all put something into that last song, I obviously let out all my frustrations into that song, and I guess they had as well.

We sat in a peaceful silence for awhile until Josh finally spoke up

“Well while you were… Out. We all finally discussed an idea pertaining to you and we came to a mutual agreement.”

I gave him an obvious look of confusion, and then looked over to Jake whose entire face was washed in excitement.

“Josh why does that sound like you’re about to murder me?”

He laughed and said “ No need to worry, darling! We were just wondering if you wanted to join us for our encore tomorrow? We all obviously play well together, and we’d love to have the honor of sharing the stage with you tomorrow.”

A huge smile broke out on my face, excitement now evident in me as well.

“Fuck yeah I want to! What song were you thinking?”

“Well now that's up for discussion, but I have a couple ideas that I think will blow people out of the water.”

“I can’t wait. It'll be a fantastic way to end the week.”

“The feelings mutual.”

#jake kiszka x reader #greta van fleet #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #sam kiszka #danny wagner #new tune #jake kiszka fic #we are about to get sappy folks #just hang on

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