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bunnys-kisses · 25 days

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the jailbird (2)

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

part 1 | original text post

cw: (former) prisoner!simon, civilian!reader, romance & fluff, smut, size kink, sane and consensual, roleplay, rough sex, spanking, bondage & gags, tattoo kink, dom!simon, sub!reader

bunny says: love the fic? leave a comment! really love the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are encouraged!

living with an ex-convict was interesting. he still woke up at the crack of dawn, and as a result you were up too. he didn't know where anything was in your apartment, he hated that he had to wake you up but he didn't know where the spoons were.

you were happy to help him and spend some extra time together before you went to work. the more you were around him, the more you realized how big he was compared to you.

even his hands were much larger than yours. he loved to wrap you up in his arms and hold you while you were making yourself some breakfast. those strong tattooed arms around your middle as you flipped eggs.

sometimes he'd bury his face in your neck and visibly relaxed. he was still dealing with his fair share of trauma from the previous events of his life. and while it often left him stressed, he found comfort in you.

"you're my anchor, love." he said within the first week of his return to society.

you simply smiled and tried not to blush too hard as you said, "well, si. i'll happily be your anchor, as long as your mine."

"you're anchor, your rock, your foot solider, your lover." he said as he kept his gaze on you. since he had been living with you, you found his expression had softened a little. he could relax here.

"my husband." you reached out for him. he took your hand and kissed the top of it before he held it for a moment then returned it to you.

simon had a long road ahead of him, being on the inside for so long was going to cause some problems. but, he knew even if he had nothing. he had you.

it was almost five months into living together and he managed to get an interview working in small parts manufacturing. while it was tedious, they didn't need to look at his criminal record. which greatly excited him.

when he came home from the interview, he told you that it went well. that they seemed to like his dedication and were impressed when he mentioned his time in the military. he said, "got the whole 'thank you for your service'." as he held you and kissed you deeply.

it felt like your little lives were coming together. but the one thing you hated to admit to yourself. you sort of had a dark side, it wasn't anything too aggressive or 'evil'. you thought that simon was the perfect boyfriend, he'd never hurt a hair on your head.

but the idea of being with a criminal sort of had a sexy ring to it. to be with the bad boy. you almost felt embarrassed to admit it when he'd come home with flowers for you, or when he smiled at you. or when he held your hand when you went out. with you he got to be a person with love.

deep down you wanted to know the depths of your boyfriend. you wanted to know what a man like him, with his skill set, was capable of. you wanted it to burn, ache and hurt.

it took a lot of courage, you communicated with your boyfriend about a little make believe. while hesitant at first, he slowly started to warm up to the idea. you knew he was open to it when he came home from one, actually the first day at his job, with a bundle of bondage rope.

"the blue looks good on you." he remarked as he finished tying you up on the bed. he had your arms behind your back with you on your side and one leg tied to the bed post.

you looked at him, those eyes of yours were so alluring. you tried to move your leg but was stuck to the bed. he smiled down at you and tapped the ball gag in your mouth.

"but it doesn't matter what you want. right?' he asked, "i've searched a long time for you. you're not an easy woman to catch." he got between your legs, and hiked one leg over his shoulder as he started to aggressively lick your cunt. it was already dripping from the act of him tying you up.

there was no escape for you, even if you somehow got out of the bondage. he was almost twice the size of you and could do some damage if he wanted to.

you squirmed and whimpered around the ball gag as he took long, hard licks against your clit. he wanted to make sure his girl was wet enough for his large cock.

"maybe i should breed ya. bring you back to the boys all fat with my brats.' he purred, "i don't think they can throw ya in the can if you're pregnant. but who knows, you got pregnant by a thief." he continued to lick your sweet cunt. he was in heaven.

he really was so much bigger than you. he overpowered you, he could keep you down and fuck you until he had his fill, and there was nothing you could do about it. you were bound and gagged like a good girl.

he kept at it, he even teased your hole with his thick fingers until you were squirming more with your moans getting louder. he slapped your ass and gave you a stern look over your pussy. he gripped your leg over his shoulder. "shut up." he growled, "i don't need ya causin' a scene. i'd hate to go back to prison because you can't keep your trap shut up."

you hole clenched and he chuckled. he patted where he smacked and grabbed at the flesh before he went back to his feast between your legs. it didn't take long before the slick between your thighs got all over his face.

he pulled away and sat up on his knees. he stared down at you with your thigh wrapped around his waist. he was going to fuck you at a weird angle, but it was the only way he could keep his little prize tied up. he wiped is face, "you are the best thing i've caught." he said, "stolen a lotta loose change, but they're nothin' to the sweet taste of your cunt." he got his cock out his sweatpants and started to rub it against your slick pussy. he let out a harsh sigh from the sensation, "they should be keepin' ya behind the vault door." the tip slipped in for a moment and you clenched around it.

you whimpered and tried to pushed yourself down on his cock, but it was hard to do that when you were so tied up, he pushed the hair out of your eyes, your leftover wetness got on your cheek from his movements.

"but, you need to know." he said, "you're mine to do whatever to. your mommy and daddy aren't gonna save ya. you fell in love with a bad man and now you're lettin' him fuck your cunt raw. what's gonna happen at christmas when you're all swollen with my brats. riley boys are lil hell raisers." he went back to rubbing his cock up against your slit, "you'll be mine forever. my little prize. i should've taken ya a long time ago. just snatched ya up off the train. keep ya to myself." his tongue was getting loose from the buzz of pleasure in his brain.

you whimpered around the gag and almost cried out when he slipped his large cock into you easily. you felt it in your guts and his pace was much more brutal than the other times you've made love. that was the difference, you made love before. this was dirty, primal sex between a criminal and his captive.

the sounds of sex filled the air, paired with simon's heavy breathing. his heart was thumping steadily as he pushed his cock as deep as it would go. he loomed over you as he drilled himself into you. you were a comfortably tight fit around his cock.

you dug your nails into your palms from the immense pleasure and yelped when he slapped your ass. you whimpered when he leaned further into you to get closer into your personal space. his pace was brutal and it excited you.

"i'm a bad man." he said lowly, his voice close to your ear, "my worst crime is tainting such a precious angel." he held onto your calf as he bent your hips the closer he got. his voice was hot, "fill ya right up, make sure no other man has a chance to get ya knocked up." his tattooed hand went to your stomach which he gave a small rub, "my girl carryin' my boys."

your eyes almost rolled back from the heat in your body. you were almost drooling around the rubber gag in your mouth. it was dirty, it was filth. if anyone saw the state you were in, they would be shocked!

your head felt full of lust, you felt your lover so close to him. you knew despite the roughness and the harsh words, the entire scenario was safe. you knew you could get out of this if you needed to. but it wasn't getting to be too much, it was just enough.

the wetness between your legs and the flips in your stomach only excited you. to have such a large man be so domineering. it made you feel small in a good way. it was almost like being bound made you feel protected.

that you could lay yourself over to him and he'd cherish you. even if you were his little 'prize' for the evening. the hottest part was the pace at which his cock was battering your womb.

you whimpered against your gag and felt the heat rush through you. you held onto your palms as best as you could with your arms bound. the entire situation left you spinning, there was no wonder that orgasm crept up on you so easily.

with a loud moan around your gag, you climaxed around his cock. the tightness of your cunt mid-orgasm milked his cock till he was seeing stars. he came inside of you, his seed hit against the back of your womb.

the feeling of being able to do so left him a little slack-jawed. but he kept it together, even if his cheeks were flushed. when he finished, he slowly pulled out and started to untie you. his hands were shaky from the after effects of his orgasm.

he took the gag out of your mouth and pulled you in for a kiss when he finished untying you. he fell into bed with you and laid on top of the covers with you. he held you gently and kissed your face. he gave you gentle praise as he kept you in his arms.

when he looked at you, all was right in the world. you held onto him and pressed kisses against his face. after care consisted of tea and a small snack followed by a shower together, where he washed every part of you.

even though you were capable of doing it yourself, you still appreciated how detail orientated he was in the manner of getting you clean. little did you know that biology was working its magic and simon's seed found home in your cervix.

you better hope that the line about the riley boys being hellions was untrue or you'd have your hands full. it didn't help that when simon's hand grazed your stomach as he washed you that you blushed and tucked yourself closer to him.

mama riley did have a ring to it.

#jailhouse rock au #bunny writes #call of duty #reader insert #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty smut #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #call of duty x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost smut #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #prison au #call of duty fanfic

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dapper-lil-arts · 4 months

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The entire premise of Alicorns being on another untouchable level dissapears when you account for Cadence's basic-ass taste in men

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aidaronan · 1 year

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The years go by. The retail jobs that Steve thinks are temporary keep piling up, but he has no idea what else to do with his life so he just keeps on keeping on.

Until a large tree falls on the lawn of the little house he managed to buy and he gets the quote on removal and the number literally hurts his soul.

He buys a small chainsaw instead. Over the course of a few weeks, he gets most of the branches cut up. He collects some large rocks from down by the quarry and digs out a fire pit in his backyard. On his days off, his friends come over and they sit out back and have a few beers. The pile of wood dwindles. The giant trunk is another story though. His chainsaw isn't big enough for it. Burning it would take forever, and Steve's terrified he'd disappoint Smoky the Bear. He's at a loss.

Until he sees another giant trunk in someone's yard carved into a bear.

He knows what to do then. Not a bear, but something else. Through trial and error, the trunk becomes the rough shape of a woman, the remnants of the branches like a crown on her head. It's not as amazing as the bear he saw, but it's his. He finds he loves the smell of sawdust and the feeling of creating something.

Just like that, Steve realizes what he wants to do. It takes several months and a lot of yard sales, but he scrounges up the tools he needs to start woodworking. He learns to measure twice and cut once. He makes tables and chairs and carves them with art and designs that get better and better the more he learns. Shockingly, people actually buy his pieces.

Even more shocking comes the realization that he's making enough money to do it full time. He puts in his two weeks notice at Melvald's and hands in his assistant manager badge.

He's not sure he's happy, but he is content. It feels good to work hard and actually have things to show for it. It also feels good to work muscles he hasn't used since high school. He carries on for a few years like that, creating and learning and creating some more. Then Eddie Munson blows back into town. Invited back so Hawkins can have their most famous alumnus sing the national anthem at homecoming. Steve's honestly surprised he shows at all. "Can't believe you didn't tell them kiss your hairy ass," Steve says. Because of course Eddie ends up around his fire pit, sipping on Steve's cheap beer like he doesn't have three Grammy awards on his mantel. The years fall away with each drink, reminding Steve of just how much it had hurt when Eddie left. He'd wanted Eddie so bad back then, more than he'd ever wanted anyone. He can feel the echoes of that deep ache across time.

"Pfft. Don't you know all famous people wax our asses now? All the rage in LA." Eddie cuts a look at him and smirks when Steve rolls his eyes, grateful for the lighthearted moment to snap him out of his maudlin nostalgia. "Really though I thought about it, but then I thought it would be way funnier to donate a metric fuckton of money to Hawkins High with the stipulation that it go to the theater and band programs. Kind of bummed they couldn't honor my other request though."

"Which was?"

"My old Hellfire throne. I miss her, but apparently she's not around anymore. Something about water damage."

"Oh yeah. Water main busted a few years back and flooded the theater. I remember that." "Yeah. Had to settle for the promise they'd make a game lounge and stock it with all the supplies a budding young nerd needs."

"That's really nice, Eds."

Eddie shrugs. "I've been known to be nice on occasion. You'll come to homecoming, right? Moral support?"

Steve hasn't been to homecoming in years because he sees the other people who stayed in town all the time, and he has no interest in seeing the people who didn't. He can only answer the same questions so many times. Oh, I'm doing woodwork now. Yep, I still live right here. Nope, still not married, no kids.

He goes though, and he answers the uncomfortable questions. Because Eddie asked him to. Because no matter how long it's been, Steve can't deny that some part of him still...

He says goodbye after, and Eddie leaves again, and Steve tries not to think about that too much in the following days.

He's halfway into the project before he realizes what he's building. He'd seen Eddie's throne quite a few times back when. What he doesn't have memories of, he makes up. He adds his own touches too, making it a throne fit for a rock star, a nerd, a friend.

He carves ornate patterns, he creates scenes of dragons being beaten back by a man with a guitar, crowds of people that could be knights or concertgoers.

It's his favorite piece he's ever done, and his hands are shaking when he dials Eddie's number. He gets an answering machine and stumbles through a message.

"I made you something. I guess it's kind of silly, but it's here in Hawkins if you want it. Or I'm sure you can afford the shipping if you don't want to come. Just, I made you a chair. It's more of a... Well, you'll see. Unless you don't want to... It's Steve by the way." He hangs up before he can embarrass himself even more.

Eddie doesn't call him back. One day passes and then another. Steve tries not to let it get to him. He works on orders and new projects. He enjoys his little backyard oasis. He rents a few movies and thinks they're okay.

He's debarking some wood in his driveway when the rental car pulls up, Eddie stepping out in ripped jeans and an old Metallica tee. "Hi again, Stevie."

"Oh." Steve clears his throat. "The thing's in the garage. I'll..."

Eddie doesn't say anything for a long time, circling the throne, running his tattooed fingers over each little detail.

"You made this whole thing?"

"I did."

"For me?" Eddie looks at him then, one hand still touching the wood like he doesn't want to let go. Even under the harsh lights of the garage, his eyes are such a warm shade of brown that Steve forgets to breathe.

He nods. "For you."

"Why?"

There are a hundred answers Steve could give, but he spent so long not knowing who he was or who he wanted to be. Too long. "Because you'll always be the one that got away. Because some part of me will always want to make you smile no matter how long it's been."

Eddie falls into the throne like he just got the wind knocked out of him.

"You don't have to respond to that," Steve says. "You can just say thank you and take the chair."

"I can." Eddie blows out a breath. "But that would be incredibly stupid considering half my early ballads are about you."

"What?" Unfair. Steve doesn't have a chair to fall into.

"Oh sure, I changed the hes to shes for a while there because..." Eddie waves his hand. "But they're about you, Steve. God, I should've asked you out. I just thought..."

Hearing those words is a lot like seeing that carved bear all over again, something clicking into place that wasn't quite right before.

"Go out with me now then," Steve says. "Or stay in. I've got a frozen lasagna and I rented Contact."

"Steve Harrington? Asking Eddie 'the Freak' Munson on a date? Did hell freeze over?"

"Pfft." Steve takes a step closer toward what he wants most. "Hell froze over in 1986, Eddie. You were there."

Five months and a lot of long distance phone bills later, Steve opens Harrington Woodworking in Los Angeles. That same day, Eddie takes photos for Rolling Stone posing in an ornate throne in his living room. He tells the reporter exactly who made it and what he means. At concerts, he starts singing those ballads the way he always wanted to. More often than not, Steve stands in the wings singing along.

#steddie #fanfic #mine #woodworker steve #rock star eddie #i meant for this to be a drabble but 😂

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toastyravioli · 6 months

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Any time I see any gaalee, I sorta think like; Gaara cripples Rock Lee then they reconcile after the Kimimaro fight and they're supposed to just move on, but:

"How does Gaara handle this kind of thing? How does Rock Lee handle this?"

How do you go about this kinda traumatic incident? Gaara feels horribly guilty now that he's healing and learning. Rock Lee persevering through his injuries and accepting Gaara into his life. They're both learning and adapting to make the most of their lives. Every now and then, Gaara's guilt presents itself as a panic attack, and Rock Lee handles this by soothing him. Considering that Rock Lee is the one who actually went through this trauma, I wonder how he handles it.

I'm sure in this au there is ✨️ninja therapy✨️

#art #artists on tumblr #gaara x rock lee #gaara #lee x gaara #gaara fanart #gaalee #sabaku no gaara #rock lee #comic #I'm certain there are tons of fanfics out there that cover this topic for this pairing #i haven't found any that capture this sorta vibe yet #naruto fanart #naruto

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beeturtlle · 10 months

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" Tell Ozai he miscalculated..."

#we love Azula more than we fear him.#IM BEING #DESILUSIONAL #THIS IS WHAT FANFIC DOES TO A MF #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #maizulee #ty lee #azula #mai #i love canon divergencies of what happened in boiling rock #it feeds my mental illness #about them

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total-dxmure · 3 months

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ೃ࿔ CHERRY FLAVORED →【ELLIE WILLIAMS】→ CHAPTER ONE

pairing: mega fan!ellie williams x rock star!reader

summary: your guitarist was carted off to rehab after just one month into your recent tour. fuck. there’s only one thing you can do, and that’s hire a replacement. your band thinks it’s going to be nearly impossible to find someone that is on the same level of talent as your “beloved” guitarist. you don’t have high hopes that anyone can nail the songs quite like he did either, if you’re being brutally honest. enter ellie- she’s a mega fan. the girl knows every lyric and note like the back of her hand. . . and everything about you, which isn’t creepy at all. her apparent obsession with you is something that you and your tour manager can overlook if it means carrying on with the rest of the tour. forced proximity with a stalker-level fan . . . what’s the worst thing that could happen?

warnings: smut in next chapter, talk of substance abuse, the reader is a tease and a bit of a bitch but it’s hot i promise, ellie is obsessed with reader to an unhealthy degree.

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

It was the kind of love that tortured poets mused over. Ribs straining against a heavy heart.

Ellie had deluded herself, as any love drunk person does, that she wouldn’t dissolve into a puddle on the floor if she were to meet you. She could keep her cool- downplay the crushing significance you held in her life. Your voice was constantly ringing in her ears. She could see your face in perfect clarity any time she closed her eyes. Pictures like snapshots played out behind her eyelids, and yet you always felt a million miles away for her. You were a perfect performer, situated on your sky-high pedestal, always out of her puny reach.

Because Ellie, as much as she despised this fact and dreamed of greatness, was a nobody. She grew up in a tiny town of no noteworthiness, her adolescent years spent dreaming about the planets and playing guitar with Joel. By all accounts Ellie was normal, while you were certainly not. Still, she liked to tell herself that she’d somehow manage to make herself worthy of your affections if she were ever to be blessed with them.

Finding herself in a situation like this seemed like an impossibility. She was partially convinced that she was daydreaming, having concocted some elaborate fantasy just to feed the insatiable ache. She was starved for you with no way to feed herself.

All it had taken was a single audition tape. One. Single. Tape. Ellie was staring, wide eyed, at Gene fuckin’ Murray.

The blood rushed from her head, hands breaking out instantaneously into a clammy sweat. She couldn’t think, couldn’t function at the realization that she was staring at one of the people that she had worshiped for years. Gene’s talent had been praised by the likes of Lars Ulrich and Danny Carey. He wasn’t popular just for his looks but for his undeniable talent.

And he was staring straight at Ellie, arms crossed over his toned chest as he waited expectantly. She felt like an idiot. Should she be playing? If so, what did they want her to play? Surely one of their songs. She’d glossed past the fact that she was a megafan, instead making it sound like she was just looking for a successful band to join. She was talented. No, Ellie was really talented.

She wasn’t just a technical player, but excelled at making her own rules. She enjoyed the creative freedom that playing the guitar granted, and felt as though the world needed more Jimi’s and Van Halen’s. Ellie excelled at thinking outside of the box.

She wasn’t very successful when it came to women, but had no problem making her guitar scream and cry for her.

So she took a deep breath and tried to steady her heart, once again stepping up to the mic. If there was one thing that all of your bandmates had in common, it was the attitude. She’d watched hundreds of interviews, had studied all of their movements and mannerisms. . .she understood you down to a science.

“So do you want me to play or what?” Ellie spoke into the mic, gripping the neck of the guitar in the hopes that it might act as an anchor. She was scared that she might float away.

The manager’s eyebrows twitched at her sudden change in attitude but he didn’t say anything, merely turned to look at Gene. For a second everyone just stared at her, like a bug under a microscope. After what felt like five minutes but was really just five seconds, Gene broke out into a grin, motioning to her with a flick of his wrist. He wasn’t confident in her, Ellie could tell.

She had a sweet face, she knew that. Big green eyes and freckles- she was unsuspecting. People were usually shocked to find out that she had wrestled competitively in high school and had no problem putting a man three times her size on his ass. People expected very little from her, and perhaps that was part of Ellie’s real charm.

“What song?” She was staring at Gene now, gripping her guitar pick between two sweat-slick fingers.

“What ‘bout ‘Sometime Soon’? Know that one?” His tone was teasing. Condescending.

The song was fast paced. It was supposed to be played loud and hard- one of your angrier songs. Ellie knew that you had been the one to write this one, meaning it was one of her favorites. The notes weren’t beginner friendly, but it wasn’t exactly hard for her.

It was more style, less technical ability- which meant that Ellie would have no problem making this song her bitch.

It was obvious that Gene was the one meant to judge her. The manager was just that- a manager. They needed an actual musician to listen in. So she took a deep breath and readied herself. . .

and then the sound of your singing voice blasted into the booth. Drums, bass- she was meant to play with you.

She almost missed her que, eyes widening in nervousness. She thought that she’d be playing all by her lonesome. She thought wrong it would seem. They’d started her off right in the middle of the song. Probably to throw her off. She jumped in, fingers sliding along the frets to shape out the correct notes. She tucked her guitar pick against the palm of her hand with her thumb, using the pads of her fingers to tap the strings. Faster. Faster. Faster. She didn’t look up from her guitar to look at the men’s reactions to her playing. Instead she just pretended she was standing in the living room of her apartment, hellbent on getting another noise complaint from the bitchy nextdoor neighbor.

Her calloused fingers pinched the strings, satisfied with the way the guitar whined over the speakers. The guitar solo in this song was meant to be impressive- and it was, she had to give it to Leon. A lot of it was just bullshitting though. He’d admitted that he came up with the solo in the actual sound booth off of the top of his head while they were recording the song.

The man was a god. He deserved “guitarist of the year” two years in a row. Ellie had the Los Angeles native beat though. Where he had grown up in the constant presence of “the greats”, Ellie had grown up in a constant state of boredom. She’d been playing the guitar since she was fourteen. Every day she’d sit down for hours and practice until her fingers bled. . . literally. She had thousands of hours on Leon, and she knew that with certainty.

Ellie moved the guitar up and down gently with her fret hand, prolonging the last note so that it cried the way she wanted it to. The muscles in her arms were sore from how hard she had been tensing during the song. She’d been a lot more mechanical about it than she was used to, but she had something to prove.

After a second she looked up from her guitar to gauge everyone’s reactions. The manager had dropped his cold and indifferent demeanor, instead flashing her a small smile. It bolstered her, gave her the strength to turn and look at Gene.

He still had his arms crossed over his chest, and for a second Ellie was sure that he would tell her that she sucked. She widened her stance, shuffling her feet so that she was in a more defensive position. His heated gaze made her feel as though she needed to protect herself from whatever mental anguish he was about to put her through.

“I thought she was kick ass,” Gene finally spoke up, giving Ellie a small thumbs up. Her face lit up into a wide smile before she could school her reaction into one of indifference. “What do you think? You’re the one that calls all the shots.” He spoke behind him, looking down at someone that had been hidden on the couch all along.

Ellie squinted her eyes, taking a step closer to the glass to see if there was another businessman she’d somehow overlooked.

She saw your hair before she saw anything else. It was freshly dyed, different than the last she’d seen you in all of the recent tabloid photos. You were clad in leather- pants so tight that they looked like a second skin. Your top was just as restrictive, breasts spilling out from the top, midriff revealed to show off the small silver piercing you had decorating your belly button.

You were Hecate in the flesh- dark, sinister, mysterious and capable of anything. Ellie didn’t think that it would be possible, but you were even prettier in person. The sight of you sent a shock through her system, and for a second she felt her knees quiver, as if she could no longer hold up the weight of her own body. Her insides turned to mush; white, hot mush.

The Stendhal syndrome: Ellie had been brought to the very precipice of existence by sight alone. She was so overcome by your mere existence that she felt her eyes begin to well up with tears. Body trembling, eyes locked on to your face and nothing else- it felt like she might faint. She remembered reading about the syndrome once before in an art history class she took in college.

“Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty. . . I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations.”

The urge to flee was just as great as the urge to get her hands on you was. She was thankful for the wide stance she was currently in, because if her legs had been any closer together then she was positive she would have lost her balance and fallen over.

You were right there in front of her. You’d been right in front of her the entire time, she’d just been so focused on Gene that she hadn’t even seen you in her panic. She stumbled forward, her sneakered foot catching the jack for the amp. She slapped her hands over her ears as a blood curdling screech began blaring over the speakers.

Ellie could have died. In fact. . . she just might. She dropped her guitar roughly on the ground as she raced over towards the amp, fingers shaking as she turned the knob to the volume.

The booth, once again, was silent. Silent enough to hear a pin drop. Slowly she turned, grimacing when she noticed the looks on everyone’s faces. She’d embarrassed herself and ruined her chance. Even worse was the fact that she’d humiliated herself in front of you.

She had somehow deluded herself into believing that the two of you were soulmates over the years. She’d compared your birth charts, life numbers- had taken multiple celebrity compatibility tests. All signs pointed to a resounding yes. The two of you were star crossed lovers, cursed to never know one another. She had told herself that if she were ever to bump into you in person that she’d be able to keep her cool. Ellie was certain that she could pretend that she didn’t know who you are- could downplay the significance that you held

Her ignorance was laughable. She’d been so overcome by your mere presence that she’d stumbled on air while standing completely still. You were standing up straight now, and even from her spot behind the thick glass she could tell how much taller you were than her. You had to be wearing heels or platforms, because according to Google you were-

“You know how many auditions we’ve listened to today?” You had grappled the mic from the tech and were now hunched over his soundboard, the lights from all of the buttons and knobs casting strange, beautiful shadows over your face. Your eyeliner was dark and smoked out around your eyes, and in that moment Ellie wondered if you were an angel or a demon. “Twelve. Twelve fuckin’ people have walked into that booth today. Every single one of them has been absolute shit. So bad, in fact, that I’ve wanted to blow my fuckin’ brains out in this buildings tiny, piss-stained bathroom.”

Ellie blanched, lips losing their pink color as the blood drained from her face. She was about to pass out. Her vision was already starting to tunnel. She grabbed onto one of the microphone stands to hold herself up, trying to keep her expression hard and unreadable. People often told her that she had “dead eyes”, and she could only pray that her face wasn’t giving her crushing grief away. It felt like someone had just died; like she had just died. Actually, she would have rather you just go ahead and stab her then tell her she sucked. You were her idol, her dream girl, her everything.

And you were telling her that you’d rather blow your fucking brains out then listen to her play. How was she supposed to recover from this? She’d heard the saying “don’t meet your heroes” a thousand times, but this? She’d rather you just be a bitch to her. Actually, Ellie would probably like that. This was the worst thing she could have ever heard. Her nose twitched as tears began pooling in her eyes. She blinked a few times, praying that you couldn’t tell in the nearly pitch black room you were standing in.

“But this?” You turned towards your manager and pointed passionately at Ellie. “This is music.”

Breath left her lungs in a loud, audible whooshing sound, like a balloon deflating. Her shoulders relaxed, the hand that was white knuckling the mic stand falling limp at her side. No, you didn’t hate her. You liked her.

You liked her.

Everyone had their vices. Leon’s had, apparently, been copious amounts of prescription drugs- often consumed simultaneously. You were used to getting what you wanted. You drank whenever you wanted to, fucked just about anyone that peaked your interest and got away with your usual rotten antics and bitchy behavior. You lived the lifestyle that you’d always dreamt of, even when you were a little kid.

You enjoyed putting on shows. You were flamboyant, loud, and weren’t afraid of expressing yourself. Teachers often described you as a “free thinker” back in your elementary school days. You dressed yourself for school each morning, each outfit louder and more daring than the next. You were an artist, and like most artists you had some inner demons that you fought against. You still fought tooth and nail, even to this day.

Finally though, after what felt like a thousand years of waiting and biding your time, you had the life you had always yearned for.

You sold out arenas, appeared on the front page of just about every magazine imaginable, and had celebrities clamoring over themselves to be your “best friend” of the week. Things were good.

But also a bit empty.

The friends that you’d made in your youth only used your name for bragging rights. Your parents had stopped showing up to concerts years ago, instead choosing to listen about your successes through their shitty television shows. Life felt a bit hollow.

Exciting. . . just different than you had always been used to.

“Come play with us.” One of the women whined from her spot on your plush hotel mattress. The bombshell blonde was already stripped down to her underwear, her eyes glazed over from whatever overpriced alcohol she’d already taken from the suite's bar, at your expense no doubt.

Your manager was used to the up-charges on the company card. He would probably be relieved in the morning when he found out that you didn’t break anything. There was still time for that, of course. It was only one in the morning, which meant you had nine more hours to get fucked up and wreck the cushy room.

“I’m not feeling up to it right now.” You said simply, already disinterested in the two women you had invited to bed with you tonight. You were holding a beer bottle loosely between two of your fingers, swishing the remainder of the room temperature alcohol absentmindedly.

You weren’t much of an “observer” when it came to sex, more of a very active participant. Still, all you could do was sit back in one of the comfortable lounge chairs, muscles tense after a long show. You weren’t exactly sure why you’d invited the women back to the hotel. They were both attractive and had come onto you at the same time. It was obvious what they had been insinuating, and who were you to deny two beautiful women? The first thing that had popped into your head being “a threesome might make me happy”.

Except now you were bored out of your skull and would much rather be sleeping right now than watch two ditzy girls clumsily fondle each other’s fake breasts.

“Please? I want you to fuck me so bad-” There was a knock at the door, causing both girls to go silent for a second.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaustion threatening to swallow you up whole. If it was your manager here to yell at you for “accidentally” breaking an amp at tonight's show you were going to scream. It was too late for that bullshit. Still, you saw this excuse as a blessing.

“Hear that, ladies? Looks like we’ve gotta pack it up. Thanks for showing me a good time.” You stood up from the seat with a small groan, placing your beer bottle onto the counter clumsily. The glass clattered, almost spilling all over the shag carpet.

The two girls groaned, obviously frustrated that they hadn’t successfully gotten you into bed with them. You weren’t sure what was wrong with you lately. If this had happened a few months ago then. . . well, you would have fucked them- no questions asked. Were you maturing out of your “wild and crazy” phase? No, you didn’t think so.

You bent down, scooping up a discarded bra so that you could toss it onto the bed. Fabric rustled behind you as they began to quickly sort themselves out, hoping to beat you to the door.

“Who is it?” You called out in a sing-song voice, deciding that if your manager was already angry enough to show up in front of your door at one in the morning then you might as well have a little fun with it.

There was no reply on the other side of the door, causing you to scoff. He was giving you the silent treatment. You reached out for the door handle, only to have your shirt yanked on by one of the women. You could hear the seams ripping against the weight of her, her eyes wide with desperation.

“Please let me show you a good time. I promise I’m good- I swear.” There was a fear of rejection there, you could tell.

You felt a bit guilty and were quick to lean in to press a kiss on her cheek. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. I’m sure you would have been wonderful- but I’m tired. That’s all, okay? It’s nothing personal.”

And with that you opened the door. The air from the hallway was brisk, causing goosebumps to instantly break out on your bare arms and legs. You were expecting the balding, bespectacled Barry to be standing on the other side of the door, all in a huff about “expenses” and “damages to the venue”. Blah, blah, blah.

Instead it was Ellie. A very broken looking Ellie.

The girls were quick to straighten out their outfits, their attention now turned towards the guitarist. Groupies like this didn’t care who they slept with, just so long as they were getting it in with someone that was in the band.

“You’re Emma. . . right? The new guitarist? You were so great tonight. I mean- Leon was always a bit of a poser anyway. You’re killing it.” One of the girls started, moving to stand next to you in the doorway.

You weren’t sure why, but you felt angry. Genuinely angry. Were you jealous of Ellie? No, because you were sure they would still rather fuck you than her. You’d been their first choice, afterall. Maybe you felt the need to shelter Ellie a bit? Yeah, that had to be it. She was still learning the ropes, and the last thing she needed was to be sexually harassed in a hotel hallway.

“. . . -lie” She was mumbling under her breath, eyes locked on the expensive carpet beneath her ratty old sneakers.

She had changed out of her stage clothes and put on jeans and a t-shirt. Her hair looked wet too, meaning she’d already taken a shower. She smelled earthy- Alpine, even.

You leaned against the frame, slamming your hand against the doorway to box the two women in, hoping to keep them away from the newbie. They flinched but both seemingly weren’t off put in their newfound pursuit.

“You’re the most talented guitarist I’ve ever seen live. I mean. . . your solos were incredible.” You hadn’t managed to successfully remember the girl’s names. Just that they were friends with two guys that had worked security for the venue tonight. People often took advantage of connections like that in order to get close to you and your bandmates. It usually worked too. Tonight was different though. Tonight you had a real stick up your ass.

Ashley? Amber? Sophie? God, you were bad with names.

“. . . -is Ellie.” Your guitarist mumbled again, slowly moving back down the hall in the direction of her suite.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion over her attitude, and you were quick to stumble out of your room and down the hall after her.

“Wait! Emma, can we get an autograph!” One of the half naked girls called after the two of you, trying desperately to shrug on her shirt to follow after.

Ellie turned then, eyes narrowed and teeth bared. You’d. . . You’d never seen her like that before.

“My name is fucking Ellie! Who is Emma? Jesus fuckin’ Christ-” She dug her hand into the back pocket of her jeans, trying desperately to find her keycard.

The girls gasped at her outburst, jostled by the look of pure evil on her face. Even you were taken aback, not used to this kind of attitude from her. Still, you’d be lying if you said that you didn’t know why she was acting like this.

Ellie was what some would call a “mega fan”, though that would be putting it lightly. The word “stalker” would be more appropriate. Your manager knew that before he even messaged her for an audition. He’d checked all of her social media sites and scrubbed the internet for anything he could find on her. One thing was made very clear:

Ellie was obsessed with you.

For whatever reason she seemed to be keeping it a secret from Gene and Chris. All she fessed up to them was that she enjoyed your music, which was why she’d auditioned in the first place. She’d conveniently left out the dedicated fan blogs and the status of her cult-like following.

You didn’t mind it. Sure, it was a bit creepy. . . but she was talented and you liked her. She could hold her own against Gene and Chris’ constant asshole behavior, and had been receptive to Barry trying to teach her the ropes of the business. It was obvious that she wanted this, even if her motives weren’t exactly purely for the music. You’d let her be as close to you as she wanted if it meant that she’d continue playing the way that she does. The crowd had loved her, and it was only her second show with the band.

She was a bit shy, but that would pass eventually. You remember your early debut days vividly. You’d been just like her, maybe even a little worse.

“Hey, stop for a second.” You reached out to grab her wrist, stopping her from fleeing after her outburst. She turned to glare at you, but her eyes softened as she took in your features.

You could feel her arm trembling in your grasp, so you gently let go. No matter how many times you touched her or spent time with her, she still seemed to get overly nervous in your presence. It was endearing.

“Aren’t you a bit busy? Don’t let me ruin your fun-” She was being sarcastic.

“I was done with them by the time you knocked on the door. They aren’t exactly my type. I’m not sure why I even invited them back in the first place.” If you had to guess, you’d probably done it out of habit. You were used to inviting people back to your room or tour bus.

Ellie didn’t seem pleased by your answer. If anything it seemed to upset her even more. She bristled, reaching back into her pocket for her keycard. What did she want to hear? That you hadn’t touched them? You groaned, wiping an exhausted hand down your face.

The elevator dinged behind you, meaning the girls had finally taken the hint and were leaving with their tails tucked between their legs.

“Are you jealous or something?” You asked once the elevator doors were closed. The last thing you needed were the girls trying to sell information to some shitty gossip magazine.

She froze, eyes going wide and lips going pale. It was almost like she didn’t think that you knew all about her dirty little secret. A part of you wanted to tease her. Really make her squirm.

“Why would I be jealous? Those girls weren’t exactly my type either.” She was good at playing things off. Ellie was a good liar.

But you were good at sniffing out the bullshit. It was one of your many talents.

“Not of me,” You leaned against the wall next to her door, watching with curious eyes as she began fumbling in her pockets for her key. “Of them. Do you wish I had taken you back to my room or something?” You cooed flirtatiously, flashing her one of your most sinister smiles.

She coughed, turning around so that she could hide her face from you. This nearly had you groaning out loud in disappointment. Was she blushing? Do her freckles look even brighter when her skin gets all pink and hot?

Nah, it was dangerous to think like this. Band members were always off limits. It was a recipe for disaster. The last thing you needed was another Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham situation on your hands. Your PR team wouldn’t be able to recover. They’d just barely gotten over the “Leon” incident by the skin of their teeth.

Your old band member having to be tackled by three cops in a hotel lobby was horrible. It made you look sloppy. And sleeping with the brand new edition to the band was definitely sloppy.

“You’re acting crazy.” Ellie told you, shoving the keycard into the lock so that she could clammer into her room.

Pushing the boundaries was sort of your thing. You enjoyed being bad, fuck the consequences. Right about now you wanted to kiss Ellie. What would her reaction be? Was she a good kisser? You wanted to know. No- you needed to know.

“You’re right. I’m talking nonsense, don’t listen to me,” You called after her into the room. “Sweet dreams.”

And with that you sauntered back to your own room, practically purring in delight over the fact that it had been that easy to get to Ellie like that. You loved pushing the boundaries. . . and now you had a new toy to play with.

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blindbisexualgoose · 2 months

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That moment when you’ve stayed up until 3 am and just read the most earth shattering, heartbreaking, sob worthy chapter of a fanfic and have to wake up in a few hours and do things and carry on like your entire fucking worldview hasn’t been reshaped by a stranger’s writing about two fictional gay dudes

#this IS targeted #because what the fuck do you mean your first language isn’t english but you just brought me to tears #fanfiction #fanfic #heartbreaking #i’m actually never gonna recover #authors #fanfic authors #zukka #the art of burning #forged in fire #carved in rock #reborn in water #taob #atyd #all the young dudes #wolfstar

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the-scooby-gang · 5 months

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Miguel: Every Spiderman follows the cannon. There are no deviations. There are no exceptions.

Spidergang with no dead uncles, their friend Gwen is fine, Sheriff Bronson didn't die saving a kid, etc. because four super powered teens and one super dog can cover a lot of bases and help each other better than one dude helping New York alone with only Daredevil and Deadpool sometimes: Yall hear sumn?

#scooby gang #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman into the spiderverse #scooby doo #shaggy rogers #daphne blake #fred jones #across the spiderverse #spiderman #peter parker #miles morales #miles is going to meet the gang in beyond the spiderverse and have so many emotions about it #Miles: so you guys are telling me that team work was the solution all along?#Fred: yeah pretty much dude #Miles: Cool cool cool nice to know *rocks Miguel's shit even harder*#The gangs mere existence would murder Miguel on the spot #all he believed in? shattered. vaporized. Daughter died for nothing #also IM NOT DEAD!!!!#I found a job guys!#so my time has been a little limited for fanart or fanfics #but now i have some time so BACK TO THE SCOOBY TIME #also would you guys believe i started this comic in JUNE and only had time to finish it NOW?!?!? crazy times

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violentnewmarley · 6 months

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He’s so beautiful it makes me wanna sob my eyes out oh my god

💟 @crowinaband @mikalame @nyxwritesshit @celebsthatcopybillkaulitz

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chainkeepustogetherr · 6 months

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BROKEN DOWN N’ HUNGRY, JEFF BUCKLEY ONESHOT

synopsis: in which, it simply isn’t too late to pay your ex-lover a surprising visit.

genre: angst i think? lil bit of fluff as-well!

IT HAD PRECISELY only been a matter of weeks, but it sure as hell felt like months since you and your now ex lover amicably decided to end things. Needless to say, you regretted it almost simultaneously. The lack of warmth on the left side of the bed every morning seemed to materialise it.

You woke up each morning with a sense of misery, almost emptiness within each pass of sunrise, day in and day out.

To make matters worse, the weather soon became rather drowsy and depression enduring, which seemingly added to your sense of blues, considering rainy days tended to be you & Jeff’s favourite kind of days to spend together, often humbly wrapped up within each other, simply devouring every savouring moment you two would spend together.

Looking out the small window located on your door, you observe the hues of grey and black painted on the clouds outside, delicate falls of rain cascading down below those very clouds. You stay seated and ponder on the fact that maybe you both were simply just too young to keep your love from going wrong.

You begin to wonder where Jeff is and how he's doing, if he could be missing you anywhere near as you are him. You'd heard through the grape vine that he'd been back out around town, seemingly carried away in his own world having his fun, a stark opposite of yourself who seems to spend most of her days pondering on the rather daunting & thought inducing would've, could've, should'ves this situation poses.

You wonder, what would happen if you simply returned? If you knocked on his door, what would come of it? Would a sense of shame wash over you as you realize he simply doesn't care anymore? Or is it not too late to rekindle things?

Although, little do you know, Jeff has been experiencing the exact same in return. Although he has been seemingly out and about, he often spends most mornings discomforted due to your absence. He spends most of his nights in despair, constantly tossing and turning due to the lack of sleep he faces. He imagines your silhouette smiling softly against him, the scent of comfort and vanilla overwhelming his senses. The fantasy constantly brings him to the verge of tears, simply wishing he had you with him. He feels as if he’s broken down and hungry for your love, yet feeling as though theres no real way to feed it. He ponders, wondering it he will ever feel the bliss of your sweet return.

It feels as if you've been gleaming out the window, looking for some form of metaphorical answer to your unresolved queries for hours and hours on end, but in reality, its only been about half an our or so. You come to the conclusion theres simply not much you can do, considering you remain unsure of if you're willing to deal with any negative consequences if you were to knock on Jeff's door, the humiliation seems too much for your currently sheer broken heart.

You decide to simply go for a drive, hopelessly leading to no where in particular in some form of effort to clear your head of any trace of Jeff. Yet, you feel yourself driving through a rather familiar road, though your mind doesn't seem to register what exactly you're doing & where exactly you’re travelling to.

Within minutes, you pull up to the familiar house that you've spent hours upon hours in, finally realising just where you are. You stay seated in the car for several seconds, realising you had no exact plan on what to do, nor say.

“Fuck it" you whisper under your breath, deciding to simply wing it and air out whatever thoughts previously on your mind earlier in the evening.

You slowly step up the stairs of Jeff's home, letting out a small unsteady breath you weren't aware you were holding in. Knocking three times, you begin to feel a swarm of anxiety take over your stomach, comprehending the fact that this could go extremely right, or extremely wrong.

The door steadily opens, a disoriented Jeff stands before you, a sense of weariness and lack of sleep apparent within his chocolate tinted frames.

His mouth slightly agapes open, his eyes widening slightly in a display of shock, it seemed. “Oh uhm... hello" he speaks, rather softly, yet cautiously.

“Can we talk?.. please?" you say, attempting to hinder the urge to formulate tears from cascading down your face.

“Yeah, yeah of course, come in, the place is a bit of a mess" he replies, a slight hint of embarrassment presented in his voice.

Though you simply nod in silence, unable to find the correct words to say.

"Do you uh, want a tea or a drink? or anything?" he asks, attempting to find a trace of emotion within your face, hoping and praying he isn't dreaming this current moment, due to his lack of sleep.

“No, I'm okay, thank you" you say.

"I think i understand why youre here, but i think i need to hear the words and phrases come out of your mouth, n’ not give into the thoughts that my mind is practically screaming right now " he says, anxiously laughing towards the end of his sentence.

"Yeah, well i just" you pause, attempting to find the right phrase to say without attempting to come off in a hasty manner. "Im just, having a real hard time with this, you know? I really, like really fuckin' miss you and i, just don't know what to do about it anymore”you speak, holding your head within the palms of your hands to hide any trace of emotion painted within it.

“I know i shouldn't come here and i know i should just let it go but i cant. I feel like pure shit everyday, especially when everyones telling me you're doing fine without me n’ i'm sitting in bed, unable to pin point what exactly went wrong" you continue, praying to god you haven't stated your emotions too strong.

A strong, rather unsolicited pause soon follows, allowing you to contain your thoughts in some sense of the word. Though within each growing second, the silence begins to haunt you in a manner, causing your stomach to undergo several different twists and turns, in a similar sense to a rollercoaster of the sorts.

“Don’t believe all the bullshit stories people feed you, okay? Look at my eyes, i look a mess, no? Like i haven’t slept in days?” he rhetorically speaks, not exactly anticipating a response. “I spend my nights awake reminiscing on the times we shared, reminiscing on you. I spend my nights writing endless amounts of poetry, journal entries and songs about you, and god, when i finally do get an ounce of sleep within my system, my dreams always revolve around you in one shape or another” he explains faintly, feelints of passion, yet great sadness oozing from within his tone.

“I consistently think about us and how much i regret the decision we made, its like it fucking haunts me, n/n” he furthermore continues as minor formations of tears begin to brim within the corner of his eyes.

“I really, really, truly did and do love you, you know? Honestly, i believe a fragment of me always will, no matter how close or far set we are apart” he formulates, withholding a strong gaze.

You bite down on your now shaky lip, both attempting and hoping to suppress any tears of your own from manifesting.

Though, a strong sense of relief soon overcomes all five of your senses, a feeling of existential bliss soon following as you ground yourself down to reality, realising Jeff’s words are true and arent a figment of your imagination somehow.

“God, i love you too, Jeff. You’re ‘boutta make me cry, asshole” you playfully jester, wiping away the newly devised tears.

“C’mere sweetheart, wouldn’t want that, would we?” he retorts, inching closer towards you, soon following by wrapping his delicate arms loosely around your frame in a tender manner.

“We’ll sort all this out in due time, okay? No rush, it’ll eventually unfold. I love you too much to let you go this easily, to let this go too easily” he enunciates, though the volume becoming slightly muffled due to his cheek being positioned in a scrunched manner alongside the tip of your hairline.

He furthermore places a delicate kiss along your shoulder, the feeling causing several fragments of goosebumps to arise upon your skin levels as you nod in response to his prior confession. The warmth of his kiss upon your body, the delicacy of his embrace and the scent of him sending a dizzying effect to your mind-frame, the only thoughts occupying your mind being ones of relief, bliss almost. You truly missed the raven haired, chocolate eyed boy beyond belief, beyond words could truly and coherently verbalise.

#jeff buckley fanfic #jeff buckley angst #jeff buckley fluff #jeff buckley oneshot #jeff buckley imagine #jeff buckley fanfiction #rock fanfic #90s rock fanfiction #rock fanfiction #rock oneshots #rock imagines

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bunnys-kisses · 25 days

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the jailbird

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

a full fic based on this post

cw: prison!au, civilian!reader, pen-pals, smut,romance/romantic!simon, domestic, missonary, wife kink, size kink, nudity, tattoo kink, body worship, cuddling

bunny says: like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are always welcomed!

it started out as a flyer at the bus stop near your house. it was for a service that connected prisoners at a nearby prison with civilians as pen-pals. you had seen the flyer often over the course of work as you went to work.

you honestly felt bad, those people must be isolated. the organization prided itself on giving prisoners a bit of their humanity back by not cutting them off from those on the outside. so on a rainy friday you took a photo of the flyer and filled out the form on the organization's website.

that was how you met simon riley, or as he was called on the inside 'ghost'. what caught your attention wasn't his face scar that ran from under his nose down to the left side of his chin, but rather his brown eyes. how intense they stared into the camera. it was almost intimidating.

but you kept the photo on your desk as you typed out your first letter to send to him. you heard of places who did it through email, but screen time for those could often be limited and to send a physical letter would ensure that it would be sent to them.

the letter started out simple, you asked how he was and if it was okay to ask what he was in prison for. you asked him other questions, like if his health was doing well, what did he do most days while on the inside. you ended the letter with a little information about yourself.

you thought it would be nice to take a few photos and print them out on photo paper to be included with your letter. just so he had a better idea of who he was talking about. once you tweaked the letter with a bit of editing, you printed it out and thanks to the Royal Mail, your letter was sent to him.

you didn't actually expect for him to respond. nor did you expect for the letter to be do detailed. it was almost three pages double sided in neat hand writing. your eyes went wide when you saw the thickness of the envelope with the stamp of approval from the prison for it to be sent to you.

simon sent you a bracelet made of string that had been braided together. he said you were the first person from the outside to reach out since he got locked up. that broke your heart. it only broke further the more you read.

he was a military man who was tossed aside once the ptsd got too intense. he had been between jobs, and it felt like everything was just too much for him. he got wrapped up in large scale theft, while it paid good, you could only rob so many banks before it all caught up. he had been in for three years now, he was thankful it wasn't a life sentence. not much was stolen, and there was minimal violence. he said that his stature alone intimidated enough people that he didn't need to be violent.

you re-read his letters and it wouldn't be until almost six months of speaking that you finally wore the bracelet. when he said, "i want to see you in it, since i can't buy you a ring." you sent a photo of you wearing it and since then you hadn't taken it off.

the letters were nice, you sent them at least twice a week. even though you two had never met face to face, and the only photos you had of him were mugshots, he knew all the gossip in your work place. he knew the names of all your friends, your favourite saturday night treat and how you took your coffee.

he told you he'd be happy to make you coffee every morning before you went to work. that comment made your cheeks burn.

he often called you his 'wife' to the other prisoners. he had your photos on the wall near his bunk. he even kept the pictures where you looked terrible after you tried to cut your bangs one night. he knew the exact location of where your favourite take out was. he said that he was writing down ideas of where to take you once he got out. "i gotta make the missus feel special."

he even made you a birthday card. his cellmate 'soap' even signed it. you knew all about the explosives expert mactavish. when you looked into his case on the news, your eyes went a little wide. this guy was.. something.

simon did admit that 'soap' had a bit of a crush on you. but he said that 'johnny' was harmless and probably just liked the photo of a woman in the cell.

"he hurt ya, there will be no cell that could keep me from killin' him. no god either."

simon remembered everything.

the way he spoke about you and to you in his letters were nothing but soft. while he had to put on a tough guy exterior, his letters were filled with gentle words. like when he wrote out that he loved you in big text on a spare piece of paper so you could tape it on your mirror to look at every morning.

"i want to be what you get ready to."

"i want to be with you when you wake up."

"i want to come home to you every night. please make me an honest man."

you knew he was a trained killer. he was in special forces before his brief stint as a criminal. he was trained to kill, but in the margins of your letters, his love shined through. despite it all, he was capable of love.

and he wanted to pour all that love into you, his (future) wife.

you two would go on to write letters every week, for almost two years. when you got the letter from him asking if he could put you down as a permanent address when he got out, you cried. of course!

it was a cold spring morning, the sky was misty as you stood outside the gates of the prison. your heart raced, you even arrived early in the hopes he'd be released sooner.

and then you saw him.

those eyes. hard and stern, until he caught sight of you. his shoulder visibly dropped and his pace quickened as he made his way towards you. before you could step forward to meet him, he had you in his arms. his strong arms, littered with tattoos, wrapped around you as he held you close to his strong chest.

you held onto him as the air left your chest from the force he held you. you clutched onto his shoulders and choked out a sob. you squeaked, "holy shit."

he pulled away from you, but still kept you in his arms. you swore you saw minimal mistiness in his eyes. he reached to cup your face. he said quietly, "soft... like i imagined."

you beamed up at him, "of course, si."

"your voice is so nice." he groaned as he then pulled you close once more and buried his nose in your hair. he inhaled the scent of your shampoo and relaxed, "i'm home."

you thought transitioning from being the only person in the flat, to having this hulking, strong man in your home as well, was going to be a bit hard. but that didn't matter when simon got you through the door. his hands were on you, he promised on the universe that he'd romance you tomorrow.

but tonight was just going to be the two of you.

you managed to get his hands off you in order to get your shoes off before you led him to your bedroom. he was close behind you, he had a hand on one of your hips. he wanted to be as close to you as he could, you two had spent enough time apart.

you couldn't even close the bedroom door before he was pulling at the waistband on your pants. his calloused, strong hands felt delicate on you. it was like he was going to break you and he had to be as delicate as possible.

"si."

"i know, darling." he said quietly as he started to undress you. with your help the both of you were soon nude in the afternoon light in your bedroom. you tried to cover your chest with your arms but he pulled your arms away and looked at you.

your eyes met and you got up on your tip-toes to kiss him gently on the lips. soon he picked you up like you weighed less than a bag of potatoes.

he placed you on the bed gently when you half expected him to toss you like a shot-put. he admired your body down on your soft covers and soon got onto the bed too.

you reached for him as he pulled you into a tight kiss. his lips were chapped and you could tease the fresh skin underneath. your nails raked at his strong back, that you knew was covered in tattoos.

you wrapped your legs around him and held him. from a moment he dropped to his side and you two held each other. you tucked his head under your chin as you laid together naked.

it wasn't even meant to be sexually stimulating, you both just wanted to feel one another. to hear your lover's heartbeat meant more to you than anything in that moment.

you kissed the top of his head, you felt his blond hair against your face as you soaked in his warmth. you could almost cry from how nice it felt to be so close to him.

after everything, you had your man.

he said in his low tone, "you feel so soft. after everything, i have you. you made every day in the can worth it." he sighed, "thank you." he kissed at your bare chest.

you replied, "i loved your letters, i have them still." you chuckled, "i didn't want to throw any of them away. it made me feel closer."

"well. i'm not goin' anywhere." he looked up at you and smiled, "you're home and i'm finally here." he pulled away and got him between your legs. he rested on his knees and carefully moved you to his liking. he sat there between your legs and waited for your command.

you looked at him and nodded, "yeah, si. you can go." then tightened your legs around your lover. you held your breath as he slowly pushed his cock into you. you didn't realize how big it was until he was fully inside of you.

"are you alright, love?"

"golden."

the two of you moved together. it took a little bit to get used to the size, but the pressure and speed of his movements made heat spread through your body. like two pieces of the same puzzle, you fit together perfect soon after. it was like you two were always meant to be.

you felt so loved by him, it was so sweet. this was your first time with him and you only had a few sexual experiences with others prior to him. but the entire time you knew each other you didn't sleep with others, you wanted to wait for your man.

"that's my good wife." he groaned as he held onto your hips, "i know, you wanted this for a long time. i bet you thought about me when i was locked up."

you blushed and replied, "i did, si. i thought about you all the time, i even had your picture in my office. i wanted this, i wanted to be with you!" you whined a little as his cock dragged against a sensitive spot.

he chuckled softly, "yeah. i thought about my missus when i was locked up. i used to jerk off to your letters, your photos. messed one of 'em up by gettin' my spunk all over it." he licked his lips, "but now i can see it every day in person."

you smiled when he rested his body against you and continued to thrust up into you. you felt the curl of pleasure of your gut get together which each of his heavy thrusts.

the kisses you shared were intimate and hot. the air of your bedroom was warmed as you made love on the bed you would share together. your soft noises together filled the air.

you clenched onto him, you dug your nails into his shoulders. they were so strong and broad that they were much bigger than your hands.

he kissed you one last time as he quickened his pace. the bed moved against your movements as you both climaxed at the same time. it was like a shock to the system, the heightened euphoria before your head felt full of cotton.

you let out a soft groan as your grip on his loosened and you relaxed into the bed. you felt yourself partially get crushed by your lover but he gave a few more earnest thrusts as he made sure that his cum shot to the back of your womb.

he pulled out and dropped beside you. he tucked some hair behind your ear and wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of his hand. your breathing was heavy, but you were both so happy. to share your first time together felt so special.

you nestled yourself into his arms and held his hand. you exhaled contently then said, "my husband."

he kissed the top of your head, he felt complete, "my missus."

part two

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queer-coded-camaro-driver · 2 years

Text

Info About the 80's As Provided By My Dad, Who Graduated High School in 1987:

No boxers, no briefs, ONLY tighty-whiteys.

The Satanic Panic was something discussed primarily by adults to try and sway more voters toward Reagan.

EVERYONE had their ears pierced. Men, women, everyone. My Dad still wears his little diamond stud sometimes.

Crop tops and tube socks were a popular combo for high school and college guys.

Long hair was masculine and having decent hygiene was a big deal.

You took a girl to the roller rink on the first date to show off and then to the drive-in on the second date if she wanted to make out.

Here are some good metal bands to include in your fics: Judas Priest, Queensryche, Slayer, Ozzy, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Metallica, Saxon, Scorpions, Ratt, Quiet Riot, Joan Jett, Pat Benetar, and Alice Cooper.

Vinyl cost between $1 and $4 on average.

Minimum wage was around $3.50.

Jorts for men. Good fuckin' lord the cutoff jorts for men...

The stoners knew everyone and everything.

If you're writing a fic or making art and have any questions for Mark about your Historical Accuracy, please feel free to send me an ask and I'll text him.

He thinks this is fun.

#stranger things #netflix stranger things #the 80's #80's aesthetic #back to the 80's #rock and roll #metal music #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #st fanfic #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #historical accuracy #stranger things shitpost #stranger things meme

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xoxoladyaz · 1 year

Text

It Hits Different This Time

Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Rock Star Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five

“Steve.”

He hears Robin knocking on the door, her knuckles tapping firmly against the wood.

“STEVE.”

He’s lying on the bed in Robin’s guest bedroom, limbs starfished across the plush gray comforter, staring at the ceiling fan. Taylor Swift is singing to him, blasting from the Alexa speaker next to him.

Oh my, love is a lie, shit my friends say to get me by

“Alexa, volume up.”

“Steve – STEVE!”

It hits different, it hits different this time

“Alexa, off,” Robin says as she marches into the room. Taylor’s voice cuts off almost immediately and Steve huffs, frustrated.

“Steve, as much as I love listening to your ‘Sad Taylor Swift’ playlist, you need to eat something. Go for a walk. Take a shower.”

“I’d rather not.”

Sighing, Robin kicks his left leg until he’s made enough room for her to collapse down beside him and gaze up at the spinning fan.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

They lay in silence.

“It’s just – our three-year anniversary, Robin.”

“I know.”

“He didn’t even text me.”

“I know.”

“And the supermodels at the club! And the tweets!”

“I know, Steve.”

There’s moisture pricking at the inside of his eyes now. “I just – it’s dumb, okay? I thought we could make this work. But I guess I’m not as important to him as he is to me.”

“Dingus,” Robin chides, and he turns his face away so she can’t see that he’s actually crying now. (She still probably knows that he is; Robin always knows. He just doesn’t want anyone to see.) “Okay, is Eddie Munson a huge idiot? Yes, and he has been for as long as we’ve known him. Is he kind of an asshole now that he’s famous? Yes. Do I think this is the end? Not necessarily.”

Steve snorts. “It’s been four days, Robin. Nothing for four days. I think it’s already ended.”

Robin cuddles up to his side so now they’re legitimately snuggling together. “Look, all I’m saying is he’s going to be back in the state in a few days and I think you owe it yourself to at least have a conversation with him. Either you two decide to work things out and start communicating better or you decide that he’s not pulling his weight to make his relationship work and you get closure. Either way, I think you need to talk to him.”

“Yeah,” Steve sniffles. “You’re probably right.”

“Steven, I’m always right.”

“I’m sorry, do you want to talk about the Pixar question you fumbled on trivia night?”

“Dingus, I swear to god if you don’t let it go - ”

/////

Eddie’s groggy and nauseous and fuck the sun is too bright. He pulls at the window-shades as he stumbles into their kitchen, dropping his Louis Vuitton bag on the floor. The fact that he’s managing to walk while coming down from a five day bender that he barely fucking remembers is kind of a miracle.

“Steve! Stevie, baby, I’m home!”

Silence.

What day is it today, Saturday? He’s probably at the farmer’s market with Robin. Eddie’s a few days early anyways, wanted it to be a surprise. And honestly, it’s probably a good thing Steve’s not home, Eddie needs to keep sobering up.

He pulls a fresh bottle of water out of the fridge and collapses onto the restored dining-room chairs they bought a few months ago. He tips it back and drinks it down greedily, swallowing the cool water down his aching throat. “Oh, that’s good,” he moans to himself, dropping the now empty bottle onto the dining room table.

The empty bottle that clangs against something. Squinting, Eddie opens his eyes and looks down.

There’s a small box sitting at his spot, a card laying haphazardly onto the side. It looks like someone opened it and scribbled all over what they originally wrote.

Eddie frowns and grabs for the card. It’s Steve’s writing. Whatever he’s crossed out is unreadable. Instead, all there is is the following:

I would say Happy Anniversary, but judging by the fact that (1) you didn’t return my call or even text me back and (2) the paps caught you at the club with the guys and a bunch of supermodels instead, I’m going to assume that you’re not interested in celebrating it anymore.

Eddie feels his stomach sink so fast that he’s going to lose all the water he just drank.

Look, Eds, I am so proud of you for making your dream come true. I would never ask you to give that up or sacrifice your music for me. But I’m tired of feeling alone in this relationship. Of feeling like you don’t love me as much as I love you. Because I would do anything for you, but I think this all proves that you wouldn’t do the same for me.

Anyways, I still want you to have your gift. It wouldn’t make sense to give it to anyone else.

Your biggest fan, Steve

He can’t see straight and it’s not because of the drugs. He can’t breathe and it’s not because of his asthma or his wicked smoking habit.

He grabs the small box, flips it open, and chokes back a sob.

It’s a perfect replica of Aragorn’s ring, the ring he’s given that proves he is Isilduir’s heir. He’s wanted it foryears, but it was never something that he thought he could buy for himself. Sure, he could buy whatever random luxury shit without a sweat, but something so meaningful to him? Because reading The Lord of the Rings saved his fucking life in high school? His brain couldn’t deal with him buying it for himself. His therapist says it’s one of his many hang-ups regarding money and fame and his self-esteem issues, but that’s not what matters right now.

What matters is that Steve gave this to him, loved him enough to have it made for him.

And now Steve is gone.

Eddie grabs for his phone with shaking hands and checks the date.

“Fuck.”

Five days.

He’s five days too fucking late.

He’s dialing Jeff before he can even realize he’s doing it.

“Dude, I really don’t want to be talking to you right now.”

“Jeff,” Eddie barely gets out, his voice choking on a sob. “Steve is gone.”

Jeff’s silent for a moment.

“I’m on my way.”

#steddie #steddie week #steddie angst #steddie fanfic #rock star eddie munson #angst #stranger things #hurt/comfort #Steve x Eddie #lmk if you'd like a follow-up to this or not #hits different Taylor swift #Steve harrington #Eddie munson #stobin #stobin friendship #rock star au #fame au #corroded coffin

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amaliazeichnerin · 5 months

Text

fanart by @gahellhimself-blog, with kind permission

December 16,2023 As "Good Omens" has been renewed for a third and final season - and is trending on Tumblr right now, how about a wholesome alternative universe fanfiction, without explicit sex scenes, with ace-spec and nonbinary representation? This is what it is about:

Link to the fanfiction on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49784236 If you like it, feel free to leave a comment or kudos. Thanks and enjoy your weekend.😊

#visit our fundraising concert with crowley and the demons #Good Omens #Good Omens wholesome fanfiction #Good Omens fanfiction #Good Omens fanfic #good omens fanart #Crowley as a retired punk rock star #ace spec #nonbinary #ace spec characters #nonbinary character #agender character

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ghost-proofbaby · 1 year

Text

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR FIFTEEN

in which Eddie learns what it means to be honest, and you learn that some answers can only lead to more questions.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 4.7k+

→ a/n: this chapter is my enemy. that's all. all the homies hate this chapter for the hell it gave me both in writing it and posting it

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

15:00 ────────ㅇ─────── 24:00

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

You were so caught up in your own disappointment, you never saw the flash of recognition that crossed Eddie’s face. Only the anger that followed.

“Is that the dude who stood you up?”

His voice is weak as he asks the question, a breath that barely reaches your ears as you jump at the unexpected proximity.

“What?” you spin around to face him, “Jesus Christ, why are you creeping over my shoulder at my phone? Trying to see who else doesn’t follow me on Instagram?”

He cringes at your bitter tone, all the vodka you’ve turned to venom in your hurt, “You didn’t answer my question – is that him?”

“Why do you care?”

It’s the short version of the real questions binding you. A million different threads of confusion, and each one constricts you tighter than the last, all of them tangling together in the confusion.

Why do you care when you dislike me so vigorously? Why do you care when you’ll only use my answer as ammunition against me? Why do you care to hurt me so badly tonight? Why do you care if Nancy and I are friends? Why do you care to point out how I don’t belong in this group-

“I don’t,” he interrupts your internal panic, pausing the restless twisting of anxious twine.

You take a deep breath, you let your eyes wander over him, taking him in. He’s ditched the soft-spoken act, his voice coming out powerful finally. The confidence is almost overdone; he sounds as if he’s trying to make up for something not there.

You crave for distance to be put between the two of you, but he makes no move to step away as you ask, “Then why do you keep asking me?”

You can’t begin to understand him, completely unsure of where to ever start with the task. He’s a hollow stranger of the man you’d initially met that night in the bar. You’ve seen how he acts with the others, how he treats Nancy like royalty at times and how he’s warm with Argyle. You’ve seen him share joints and laughter alike with Jonathan. It’s hard to miss when he and Steve both begin to get overly passionate about a topic, Robin always finding a way to join in. Eddie is capable of warmth and care, of friendship and genuine love, but not when it comes to you.

“I was just curious, sue me.”

“If I had a good lawyer, I would,” you snap back quickly, patience wearing thin.

It makes him grin – a damn grin. Shit-eating as ever as he replies, “I know a guy if you’d like one,” and he keeps grinning, and you don’t even notice when a line is crossed and that faux glee no longer meets his eyes as he continues, “Speaking of knowing a guy – do you know the guy on your screen?”

The threads are twisting again, and the friction is leaving your blood boiling. “Fucking obviously.”

“Is he the one who stood you up?”

“Fuck off, Eddie.”

You can’t handle this right now. You’re drunk – not so drunk you won’t remember the night, but still damn drunk – and you’re overthinking. Letting the threads cut off circulation to your brain, letting yourself only be consumed with overthinking about your place within the group. You don’t even have the capacity to question why Eddie is so persistent in finding out about the bartender who left you looking like a fool the night before; you miss his genuine, burning curiosity and the anger that still broods in him as your anxiety bubbles up.

Were you and Nancy friends? Maybe Instagram did matter. Surely, she followed everyone else in the group, didn’t she?

“Why won’t you just answer the question? Why are you so damn stubb-”

“You don’t care!” you nearly scream, throwing your hands up in defeat, slamming your phone down onto the counter beside you, “You don’t care, you’ve made that clear, so I don’t understand why you need to hear me say it so fucking badly. Why do you need to hear me admit how pathetic I am? We both know where this is going – I say yes, you use it against me, I end up looking like a fool for a second night in a row,” your chest heaves and your eyes burn, but you won’t look at him. You can’t bear witness to him watching you bleed in the middle of Steve’s kitchen, “I’m not doing it. Not tonight.”

He looks as if you had slapped him. Stunned, aghast, taking a step back to finally give you the space you had so desperately craved. You don’t even really care about it anymore; the damage is done and you’re already spiraling, thanks to him.

“Do you think so little of me?”

His voice is small again. Deceptively soft, a treacherous whisper you know you can’t look into. He’s not really hurt. It’s all probably an act, a guise to get you to play into how he wants the night to go.

“With what you’ve given me to work with?” you scoff, still blinking your eyes rapidly, trying to stave off the waterworks, “Yeah. Yeah, I am starting to think that little of you.”

“Have you considered I was just trying to be friend-”

You’re not sure how his sentence is going to end, whether he would claim to be trying to be friendly or trying to be friends. You’re not sure which one makes you more livid.

It’s the second one. “You just mocked me, made me doubt if I had fucking friends all because of Nancy not following me on Instagram. Don’t you dare say you were trying to be friends with me right now.”

If you were more sober, you would have cursed yourself for blatantly revealing to him that he’d gotten to you. Your wounds were now on display for him, and you stiffened as you realized and awaited the expected handful of salt he’d be rubbing into them.

We thought he wasn’t going to come, so we invited you instead.

The fight’s only just begun and you’ve already lost – not just this battle, but the entire war.

You know they would choose him. If your friends were given the choice between you two, they’d choose him. And it shouldn’t sting, it’s expected given how long the group has known each other, but Eddie’s animosity towards you has done nothing to soothe the ache stirred by that truth. You would never ask them to choose, you know better, but you’ve always known the answer.

It’s him, not you.

“I was joking-”

“No, that was not joking. It wasn’t funny. It was mean.”

Mean, cruel, ruthless. What Eddie did rings sharply in your chest, in your brain that’s currently running on overtime to process your waves of emotions. The threads are so tight, you expect to see a puddle of blood at your feet on Steve and Robin’s kitchen floor.

“As if you’re any better,” he sharply laughs in disbelief, shaking his head, “You want to talk about mean? Let’s talk about my date with Chrissy and you’re fucking fiasco.”

Your stomach drops. The battlefield lurches into uneven ground, because what you did really was unfair. But you had been bitter, and you had been mean, and you had been….

You had been jealous. Jealous not of the romance that was honestly leaving much to be desired between him and Chrissy, but that platonic friendship. The kind you had yet to earn from him. The kind you were starting to doubt if you ever had, genuinely, with the rest of the group.

“I’m-”

“Sorry? Yeah, well, sorry don't make her call me back.”

This is where, if you were speaking with anyone besides Eddie, you offer a real, genuine apology.

But you’re speaking with Eddie. You’re burnt out from a long week, your pride still remains wounded, you’re suddenly questioning if you even have any friends, you’re drunk, and you’re speaking with Eddie.

A genuine apology would be like terrible shards, dredged up your throat and being clung to desperately by your whining pride. You’re bleeding enough as it is without that.

“My apologies, friend. I am so terribly sorry you weren’t able to get your dick wet.”

You both deserved what was coming, really. You deserved it. Because suddenly, just as it always ended up between you two, hateful words were exchanged. The worst part isn’t when Eddie snarks about how at least he can get his dick wet, unlike you, nor is it when you spit out how being a slut isn’t something to be proud of. It’s a blur of sharp tongues and jabbing knives, both of you swiping for any which way to make the other bleed.

It’s the cruelest you’ve been to each other yet, because somewhere below all of the surface-level insults, there’s real pain pulsing there. There’s your bloodied threads of anxiety, wretched thoughts and doubts as to if you should even be in this apartment tonight. There’s something more in the lines that form between Eddie’s furrowed brows as he matches your anger. His volume raises right along yours, and whenever his voice breaks over certain quick-dagger remarks, you don’t look into it. Especially not when it happens as he brings up the bartender again. All the failed dates, as he so kindly reminds you of.

“For someone who claims to not fucking care, you sure do talk a lot about those ridiculous fucking dates,” you seethe finally. Somewhere in the argument, you’d downed the rest of your drink, leaving an empty glass beside you.

“Because they prove my point!” he shouts in exasperation, “Because you… you… you can’t take a fucking hint.”

A final thread wraps around your throat. You feel as if you can’t breathe.

“And what is that hint, exactly?” your tone shakes as you ask it, past anger and past heartbreak.

Why do you still care what he thinks? Do you still care what he thinks?

The vodka says yes.

Yet Eddie says no, shaking his head immediately.

“Oh, so now you don’t want to speak your mind?” you hate how vulnerable you are, the lilt of your voice with unshed tears and the crack in your chest that you’re sure he can hear. You want to scream, you want to pound your fists against his chest. You want to throw a proper tantrum, like an absolute child. Like a little kid on the playground who no one wanted to play with, “You had all this shit to say, and now you bite your tongue? Fuck you, Eddie.”

“You don’t want to actually know,” he says flatly. He’s emotionless, and it burns you even further. Here you are, overflowing your cup with all your emotions, and his well has run dry. Even the tick you had managed to get out of his jaw is gone. All the anger, all the false signs of him actually caring have vanished.

You bite down on your lip, struggling to take a deep breath. Trying to even your anger, to bring yourself down to his level. You’re tired of the uneven battle ground. “I don’t? I never knew you were a mindreader.”

“Don’t have to be a mindreader to see the way you’re about to burst into fucking tears.”

You suddenly wish you could take the glass on the counter beside you and just toss it at him, full force. Make him physically bleed as he continues to stab at your pride, your ego, your emotions.

You’re not even sure he’d bleed at this point. Maybe he’s a fucking robot designed to do nothing but hurt you.

“Fuck you,” you state plainly as the first tear falls, repeating yourself with a more vindictive tone, “Fuck you. It’s not like you care about my fucking feelings, so just say it.”

“Fine,” he’s still so indifferent, still so emotionless, “You’re so dense, you never realize that you’re not wanted. Not by those assholes, not here-”

It’s your final breaking point. You don’t care to hear the rest of his sentence, temper taking the reins as you reach for the glass beside you.

You throw as hard as you can.

You tell yourself it’s dumb luck and bad aim when the glass shatters against the wall behind Eddie and not his shocked face. Not mercy. Not the ghost of hope, evaporating with a whisper of glass shards as the final shovel full of dirt falls upon the grave. You can see it clearly, the gravestone that marks the fresh grave: Here Lies Possibility. Here Lies All That Could Have Been.

It’s over. Eddie knows it – his emotion finally shows, but you don’t stick around to see it.

Eddie’s wrong. For once, you see you’re not wanted, and make the choice to leave.

—

HOUR FIFTEEN - 6:00 AM

“It was about you. I got banned because of you.”

You don’t know how to respond at first. Honesty hangs heavy between the two of you, suffocating in the morning light.

You asked him for honesty. He gave you honesty.

It should be a celebration, but all it does is build a pit in the bottom of your stomach that threatens to weigh you down to the bottom of his ocean.

When you finally respond, you enunciate each word carefully, “Eddie. What do you mean?”

“I got banned. From the bar. Because of you.”

“No, yeah, I gathered that,” you stress, the crease between your brow deepening, “But…. I… elaborate?”

You can hear the cars on the street below, echoing honks and engines thrumming. Songbirds sing in the distance and shops are opening; the entire world surrounding you two is awakening with a long yawn and a gentle stretch.

Your world feels as though it is coming to a full stop, but life is carrying on.

“Which part?” he breaths out a humorless laugh, “The part where I got banned, or the part where it was because of you? Because the ban is pretty straight forward – I threw a punch at a guy, he threw a punch back, now I can’t step foot in Fat Tuesday on Mill Ave-”

“The part where it’s because of me, you idiot,” you interrupt him in exasperation, “What the hell do you mean you got banned because of me?”

Silence. You’re met with silence.

Maybe honesty has run dry, just like that.

You search his face and count your luck, at least he admitted this much, before sighing, “Okay. You don’t have to tell me-”

The honesty comes bursting out of him. The well of it is anything but dry, “It was the bartender that stood you up. He was there that night after our fight, after the party at Steve’s.”

The bartender.

You hadn’t thought of that guy in ages, had long since forgotten his name and face since he’d bruised your ego.

“I…” your voice trails off, unsure and unsteady as you take tentative steps away from the balcony’s railing, “I’m… honored?”

Honored isn’t quite the right word. You really don’t know how to feel right now. Should you be thanking him, assuming it was in your honor that he started the fight? Or should you press on, test the limits of honesty and figure out if you’re interpreting this entire confession incorrectly?

Eddie chuckles dryly before he suddenly walks over to one of the two lounge chairs on the balcony, a small table separating them adorned with a crystal ashtray, “That’s all?”

“Should I not be?” Confusion bursts and blooms across your face, and Eddie’s only reaction to it is furrowed brows as he sits down, “I mean, you just told me you not only threw a punch, but took a punch from some dude who stood me up on a first date once. I think at the very least I should be-”

“I expected you to have more questions,” Eddie cuts you off as he taps his carton of cigarettes on the table beside you, more of a habit than a necessity. His knee is bouncing with each tap, an invisible beat you try to track and end up failing miserably before you take the other chair beside him, “You always have more questions.”

I do, you think immediately, I have a million and one questions I can’t ask.

Each question flurries past you in a blur, and you’re sure if they’re capable of making you dizzy that there’s no way Eddie could handle them all being thrown at him. There’s also a small part of you still terrified that pressing too far will send him running; ask one wrong thing, and Eddie will retreat to his tall, defensive walls, once again separating him from you. Progress, no matter how minimal, is progress. You can’t risk backtracking.

“Of course I do,” you repay his debt of honesty in a quiet tone, nimbly picking at the hem of his sweatshirt as it brushes your thigh.

“Then ask them.”

“If I ask you more questions, are you going to shut me out?”

The entire morning stills. The breeze turns stale, the sounds of the Sunday hustling and bustling seemingly pause.

You can’t help but look into his big, brown eyes. You try to communicate with a single look, a silent plea for him to please say he isn’t.

“I won’t shut you out,” he’s hardly louder than a whisper, but that’s enough for you.

You don’t know where to start: Did you punch him because of me? Did he say something first? Did you have an ulterior motive? Did you know about my date with him before that night? Did you guys talk about me?

The final one sparks a chill down your spine, uncomfortable at the thought of Eddie having discussed you with the bartender, having been the one to tarnish the man’s view of you enough to leave you stranded at a restaurant alone.

Normally, you’d slowly ease him to the point of your actual question. But your patience has vanished as you look at him now, as you watch him under the promise that he won’t shut you out.

“How did you know him before the fight?”

His lips twitch with a grin, “I was a regular, he was a bartender. Can I make it anymore obvious?”

“Are you quoting Avril Lavigne to me right now?” you ask, flabbergasted before shaking your head in an attempt to clear your thoughts and move past this joke, “You know what? Forget I asked – so he served you often? Were you…. Were you friendly?”

“Well, he once took me out behind the bar and kissed me, but he never got around to buying me dinner. Might have been because of my mean right hook, but who knows-”

“Eddie,” Your voice cracks in desperation, “Please, be serious. Just for one minute.”

It kills you to say it, because part of you is convinced this is a vision of the boy you’ve been chasing after for so long. This is the boy who is best friends with Nancy. This is the boy who is always invited without hesitation to smoke with Jonathan and Argyle. This is the boy that Steve and Robin had ranted and raved about in all those classes before you’d met him. This is the boy you’d met that first night in the bar in brief passing, and had been seeking out ever since.

A boy who felt like coming home after a long week.

It kills you to tell him to quiet down all the grins and jokes that are making your heart ache in such a terribly peculiar way.

“I’m sorry,” something in you gleams with gratuity when his grin takes it’s time fading, him throwing up his hands in faux defense, his playful tone still woven carefully. He’s not shutting you out. “I can be serious. I- Give me a second. Scout’s honor, I can stop fucking around.”

“You better,” you jilt, caving into the joking ever so slightly.

It’s easy to do when he looks at you this way. His eyes sparkle as if the honesty has freed him of some great weight. However he had expected you to react, it wasn’t this way.

All at once, he has become something brand new to you. You’re in his sweatshirt, barefoot on his balcony as you can still smell his last cigarette lingering in the air, and you wonder if you’ve never considered yourself a morning person because you’ve never experienced a Sunday morning with Eddie. If you had felt his morning light like this before, even in a sleep-deprived haze, you would have certainly enjoyed the early hours sooner.

“Okay, okay,” he takes a deep breath, forces away the grin you can still see in the crinkles beside his eyes, “To answer your question, no. We weren’t really friends, I didn’t even know his name and I’m pretty sure he didn’t know mine. He just knew my order.”

“Whiskey and coke,” you whisper, pulling a knee up to your chin, resting it and looking at Eddie with unbridled softness. Fifteen hours ago, you couldn’t have known nor cared about his go-to drink.

“Whiskey and coke,” he confirms. It’s in the pull of his lips – he’s fighting another smile, feeling just as soft as you are at the way you’ve learned something new about him, “Not that it’s hard to remember. Definitely easier than an amaretto sour.”

“Amaretto sours are not hard to remember,” you shake your head ever so slightly, chin slipping and lips dragging across the skin of your knee. Eddie’s eyes waste no time focusing on the movement, “Okay. So you two weren’t really friends, that’s good to know. I guess my next question would be, was he working that night?”

Eddie leans forward, elbows pressing into the tops of his thighs, “Are you asking if I’m badass enough to storm into a bar and throw a punch at the bartender on duty to defend your honor?”

His words paint quite the picture for you. “Did you?”

“No. Lower your expectations of me, please.”

It takes everything in you to not just throw your head back in laughter, having to settle on giggles suffocated against the skin of your knee still. You wrap your arms around your shin tightly, keeping your leg folded up into you as you shake with the soft laughter.

“Okay, one last question - who threw the first punch?” you sigh. The image of how fearful Eddie had looked when he’d first admitted to this entire ordeal is silly now. You already know the answer to this question, he wouldn’t have been so nervous to tell you if he hadn’t been the one instigating the entire thing, but you ask it to humor the two of you.

It’s a good distraction from the buds and blooms alike, all awakening along your vines. The vines don’t feel so constricting anymore. As a matter of fact, you think you’re able to recognize their beauty for the first time. Verdant greenery lined with splashes of reds, of violets, of yellows that are almost the same brilliant shade of gold that his eyes seemingly flash every time the sun hits them just right.

“I did,” he answers just as you expected. He also shrinks into himself, just as you had also expected, “I just saw him there, and- actually, I don’t know if this next part is just an insult to injury but I…” he trails off, not taking a single breath as he meets your gaze. You’re sure he’s searching for anger, for repulsiveness, for hurt. He’ll find none. You only nod your head and encourage him to keep going, “Okay, he was there on a fuckin’ date, sweetheart. A date, the night after he stood you up. So I just…I just decked him. And honestly? I don’t regret it. He deserved it.”

When he’s finally finished spilling his guts, you’re left fighting a grin and an overflowing chest of blooms. He’s flushed and nervous and goddamn it, he beat the shit out of some dude in your honor. You should scold him or be more upset, but you only start laughing again.

“Why are you laughing?” Eddie scrunches up his face, continuing to lean forward, almost as if trying to get closer to you, “Seriously, what’s so funny about that?”

You’ve thrown your head back in delight now, just as you had wanted to earlier, and release your hold on your leg as it falls back down from your chest, “Jesus Christ, I wish I could have seen that in person.”

Eddie’s stunned. But you mean it – if your heartbroken self from six months ago had witnessed that, you would have considered Eddie your best friend immediately. This entire feud would have been cut six months short just from one simple punch.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out, desperately trying to compose yourself once more, “I really shouldn’t condone violence. I just – man, I cried over that guy. A whole month of those stupid, cheesy, ‘good-morning-beautiful’ texts, and he had just left me hanging, y’know? I mean, I’m sure he’s not a bad person-”

“No,” Eddie interrupts, smiling right along with you, “No, as far as we should be concerned, he’s a fucking asshole. Fuck defending him, we’re never going to see him again anyways.”

We’re never going to see him again.

Eddie probably has no idea what he’s done, referring to the two of you as a joint unit for the first time in a future tense, but it makes you ache all over. That heartache and warmth you felt for him is no longer secluded to just your chest; you feel it from your toes all the way to your scalp, traveling and leaving kisses of goosebumps in its trail. A sudden yearning floods your entire nervous system, the entire roadmap of your heart and your veins and your arteries – you like the image of you and Eddie, Eddie and you, still being a resemblance of a pair beyond just these measly twenty four hours. You like to imagine being able to call him up out of boredom some time next week. You like the thought of him joining on bar crawls with you and the girls. You like the thought of spending every Sunday morning with him from here on out.

Some of those are reasonable. Some of those aren’t. The yearning rushes through you all the same.

“Yeah,” you agree softly, “We’re never going to see him again. Fuck him.”

Eddie hums and leans back in his chair, finally beginning to relax, leaving you a moment to reflect.

He was telling the truth, he had been honest; he had gotten banned from a bar for you. He’d seen the bartender who stood you up, and he’d decided to defend your honor. Even after that night. Even after that fight. Even after the glass you had thrown.

Even after the cruel words he had said.

The yearning stops in its tracks, coming to a rough halt as you glance up at him sharply.

Even after the cruel words he had said, even after claiming you weren’t someone who was wanted, he’d defended you.

“You know what?” he suddenly says, but your mind is still whirling and you can only hum in response, “I kind of like honesty. I sort of dig it,” you wish you could muster up more than a smile as he boyishly grins at you, “What else do you wanna know? Hit me, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The yearning rushes past the floodgates, the pink strikes your cheeks, the ache rings out from the very hollows of your bones.

You know what you really want to ask him can’t be answered right now. Because even with the change in him, the one that weakens your knees and has you wishing for things in the future, he was still once the man from that night. He still once made you bleed, made you cry. And even if he’s apologized, and you know he means it, it can’t erase that fact.

And it worries you. Because as all the feelings swell in your chest, you’re left with yet another unanswered question.

Why would you defend me after that fight?

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#twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #this chapter is my fucking mortal enemy #rewrote out the angst and postponed it simply because if a guy ghosted me and i found out my 'enemy' rocked his shit i'd cackle #anyways #i hope this is worth the struggle i put in

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