#{{ hot as a smoking gun — pictures }}

[hanniewho]

⋆˚࿔ Vivid Dreams𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⋆˚࿔ Summary: You told your roommate about your vivid dreams, but now you don't think it's a dream anymore.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Notes: I'm sorry for not posting for a few days. I got caught up with my graphic design project, and I had to walk around the city to take pictures, and my feet are killing me. I'll answer some of you guys' request ASAP 🙏

𐙚˙✧˖° Words: 6.0k

༘ ⋆｡ ˚ Warnings: Noncon, Creampie, Overstimulating, Fingering, Degrading, Name calling (slut), P in V, Squirting, Slapping, Slight choking in you squint, Manipulation, Telling her that you love her as she fuck you w/o your consent, Porn mentioned, Spitting. (Lmk if I miss anything :3)

⋆✦ Pairings:Pitfighter g!p Vi x Afab reader and a bit of jinx(your roomie)

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

"You know, I've had the strangest dream again," you murmured, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Your roommate, Jinx, barely glanced up from her book, a non-committal "Mm-hmm" her only response as she flipped a page.

"It's always the same, you know? This...this woman with the most piercing eyes I've ever seen. She's powerful, dangerous even. And she keeps telling me things I don't understand." You paused, watching Jinx's reaction, hoping for something, anything that suggested she was actually listening. But her gaze remained glued to the book in front of her.

"Jinx, are you even listening to me?" you sighed, a hint of frustration tinting your voice.

Your roommate, Jinx, looked up from her book with a sheepish grin, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Huh? Oh, sorry, I zoned out for a sec. What were you saying?"

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help but return the smile. "It's fine," you said, standing up from your bed. "It's probably just my mind playing tricks on me anyway." You walked over to the small kitchenette and began rummaging through the cabinets for a snack to curb the early morning hunger pangs. The apartment was silent except for the faint rustle of pages turning as Jinx went back to her book.

As you pulled out a box of crackers, she looked up, suddenly alert. "Oh, uh, hey, have you had someone over last night?" she asked, her tone casual but the curiosity in her eyes unmistakable.

You froze mid-reach, crackers in hand, and turned to face her. "What? No, why?"

Jinx's cheeks flushed a vibrant shade of red as she hastily closed her book. "Well, uh, it's going to be awkward, but last night when I was fixing my gun, I heard some... sounds coming from your room." She paused, searching for the right words, then blurted out, "It sounded like you were having sex, or I- ARE YOU WATCHING PORN?" The accusation hung in the air, awkwardness thickening like smoke in a closed room.

You stared at her, crackers forgotten in your hand. "What? No, I was just sleeping!" you protested, feeling your own cheeks grow hot. "What makes you think that?"

Jinx bit her lip, her eyes narrowing as she studied you. "Well, it's not every night I hear someone going 'plap, plap, plap' in there," she said, mimicking the sound with a teasing smirk. "It's like someone's slapping a fish around or something."

You furrowed your brows, utterly confused by her accusation. "Jinx, I was alone. I swear," you said, your voice firm. "It's probably just the pipes or something." But even as you said it, doubt began to creep in. The dream had felt so real, so vivid. Could it be more than just your subconscious playing tricks on you?

Jinx's smirk faltered, and she leaned back in her chair, eyeing you skeptically. "You sure?" she pressed, her curiosity not quite satisfied.

You nodded, setting the crackers on the counter. "Positive," you replied, crossing your arms over your chest. "I was just sleeping." But the memory of the dream washed over you again, the feeling of fullness and the sound of your own voice crying out in pleasure echoing in your mind. It had been so intense, so real, that you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than just a vivid fantasy.

Jinx leaned back in her chair, her curiosity piqued. She tapped her chin with a finger, her eyes drifting off into the distance as if piecing together a puzzle. "So, about your dreams," she began, pausing to gauge your reaction. "What really happened?"

You turned to face her, the memory of the dream still lingering in your mind. The woman from your dream, her eyes so intense and filled with passion, had felt so real. "It's nothing," you replied, trying to brush it off, but your voice betrayed you, shaky and uncertain.

Jinx's eyes searched yours, and she leaned forward, placing her book aside. "Look, if something's going on, you can tell me," she said gently. "You know I'm not going to judge."

You sighed, feeling the weight of the secret pressing down on you. "It's just...it's so weird. In the dream, she was...doing things to me," you admitted, your voice dropping to a whisper. "And it didn't feel wrong, or scary. It just felt...good."

Jinx's gaze softened, and she reached out to place a hand on your shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. Dreams are just that - dreams," she assured you, her voice soothing. "But if you want to talk about it, I'm here for you."

You took a deep breath, weighing your options. You hadn't told anyone about the dreams, not even your closest friends. But there was something about Jinx that made you feel like you could trust her with the darkest of your secrets. So, you decided to take a risk and opened up. You recounted the dream in detail, the way the mysterious woman had taken you in her arms, the sound of her breath against your neck, the feeling of her hips grinding against yours. Jinx's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't interrupt, just nodded along, listening intently.

When you finished, you felt both relieved and embarrassed. You avoided eye contact, focusing instead on the crackers you hadn't realized you were still holding. "It's just so... intense," you murmured, fidgeting with the box. "I don't even know who she is, and yet she's all I can think about."

Jinx was quiet for a moment, processing your words. Then she leaned in, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Well, what does she look like?" she asked, a playful lilt to her voice.

You described the woman from your dream: her short, spiky hair, the muscular physique that spoke of strength and agility, and the piercing gaze that had you feeling both vulnerable and safe. As you talked, Jinx's expression grew thoughtful. "Hmm," she murmured, her eyes lighting up with an idea. "I might know someone who fits that description."

Her words sent a jolt of excitement through you, and you turned to face her fully. "What? Who?"

Jinx's grin grew wider as she leaned back in her chair. "My sister," she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Vi. She's got that same look in her eyes when she's... concentrating. And she's definitely got the moves."

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Vi. The woman from your dreams had the same name as Jinx's sister? It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? "Vi?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper. "Your sister?"

Jinx nodded, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Yeah, you know, the one who's always breaking down doors and causing a ruckus?"

You felt your cheeks flush hotter. "I-I don't know what to say."

Jinx leaned forward, her grin morphing into a smug smirk. "Well, if you're that interested, I might be able to arrange a meeting."

You stared at her, your heart racing. "What? No, I didn't mean..." You trailed off, your thoughts tangling in a mess of excitement and anxiety. "It's just that the dreams are so intense," you protested weakly.

Jinx's smirk grew knowing. "Intense, huh?" she said, her tone teasing. "Well, if you're ever curious about the real deal, you know where to find her. But maybe you should tell her you're a fan first."

You laughed nervously, shaking your head. "I don't know if I could handle that. Besides, it's just a dream," you said, trying to convince yourself more than anything. But the way Jinx's eyes gleamed with mischief had you wondering if there was more to the story.

Jinx shrugged, picking her book back up. "Suit yourself," she said, her tone light. "But if you ever change your mind, just let me know."

The rest of the day was a blur. You couldn't concentrate on your classes or your studies, your mind a tumult of thoughts and sensations from the dream. Was it possible that Vi, the woman from your dreams, was actually Jinx's sister? And if so, what did that mean? Was your subconscious playing a cruel trick on you, or was there some deeper connection at play?

That evening, as you lay in bed trying to fall asleep, the memory of Vi's powerful embrace consumed you. You felt the ache between your legs, the same ache that had been present every time you woke up from the dream. It was maddening, and yet you couldn't ignore it. The desire grew stronger, and before you knew it, your hand was moving under the covers, exploring the wetness that had gathered there.

You opened your eyes to the darkness of your room, the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears. The dream had been so vivid, you could almost feel the weight of Vi's body on top of you, her strong thighs pressing into yours as she moved in a rhythm that was both fierce and tender. The sensation grew more intense with each passing moment, your hips bucking against the pressure of your hand.

Suddenly, the room was flooded with light, and you gasped as the figure from your dreams leaned down and kissed you hard. "Oh fuck, you're awake," she murmured against your lips, her voice a gruff whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. It was Vi, just as you had imagined, her short hair a wild mess around her face, her eyes glinting with a mix of surprise and desire.

You stared up at her, heart pounding in your chest. This couldn't be real, could it? You tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but all that came out was a strangled sound. Vi pulled back, her expression a mix of confusion and concern. "You okay?" she asked, her voice softer now.

You nodded, still unable to form coherent words. She was really here, in your room, her body pressing down on yours, her cock still inside you. You felt a mix of fear and excitement, unsure how to react.

Vi studied you for a moment before a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "I see," she murmured, her eyes darkening. "You liked it, didn't you?"

Your body seemed to respond of its own accord, your hips moving slightly, the friction of her cock still buried inside you sending waves of pleasure through your body. You couldn't deny it, not with the evidence of your own arousal so clear. "I-I don't know," you stuttered, but the words lacked conviction.

Vi leaned closer, her breath warm against your cheek. "Lie to me again, and I'll make sure you won't be able to walk tomorrow," she whispered, a hint of a threat in her voice that only served to excite you further. Her hand slid down your body, cupping your ass and squeezing gently. You gasped, your eyes widening with surprise.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks - this wasn't a dream. This was really happening. You felt the weight of her body pressing down on you, the solidity of her cock still embedded deep inside you. The smell of sweat and sex filled the air, and you could feel your own wetness mixing with hers.

Vi took your silence as consent, her smile growing more wicked. "Good," she murmured, and began to move again, her hips rocking in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You couldn't help the moan that escaped your lips as she filled you up, the sensation of being claimed by someone so strong and dominant overwhelming.

Her hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and crevice with a hunger that was palpable. Each touch sent sparks of electricity through your nerves, making you squirm and gasp beneath her. You felt vulnerable and exposed, but instead of fear, a heady mix of desire and excitement took over.

Vi's eyes bore into yours, the intensity of her gaze stealing your breath away. "You're so fucking beautiful," she murmured, her voice a gravelly growl that resonated deep within you. The way she said it, it didn't feel like a lie or a line; it felt like a truth she had discovered and couldn't help but voice.

Your body responded to her words, your muscles tightening around her cock. She groaned, her grip on your hips tightening as she pushed deeper, her movements becoming more urgent. You felt a thrill of power, knowing that you had this effect on her, this powerful, almost mythic figure from your dreams.

Her hand slid up your body to cup your breast, her thumb flicking over your nipple. You arched into the touch, the pleasure shooting straight to your core. Vi's eyes never left yours, watching your every reaction with a hunger that was both terrifying and intoxicating.

As she picked up the pace, you felt your orgasm building, the pressure growing with each thrust. You bit your bottom lip to keep from screaming, the intensity of the sensations threatening to overwhelm you. You could feel her own need, the tension in her body as she held back, drawing out the moment.

Your hands clutched at the bedsheets, your nails digging into the fabric as you tried to anchor yourself to reality. But it was no use; you were lost in the haze of pleasure that Vi was creating. Her movements grew more erratic, her breathing ragged as she approached her climax.

You felt your own orgasm building, the tension coiling tightly in your stomach. You didn't know if you could handle this, didn't know if you wanted to. But your body had a mind of its own, responding to her touch like it had been starved for it.

Her hand slid down to the juncture of your thighs, her fingers finding your clit and beginning to rub it in a rhythm that matched the pounding of her cock. You gasped, your eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure grew too intense to bear. You could feel your muscles clench around her, desperately trying to hold onto the sensation, to keep her inside you forever.

Vi's movements grew more frenzied, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Fuck," she muttered, her voice strained. "You're so tight, so wet." The words only served to fuel your desire, and you found yourself bucking your hips up to meet her thrusts, your body begging for more.

The sound of your skin slapping against hers filled the room, a cacophony of pleasure that seemed to resonate in your very bones. You could feel your orgasm approaching, a storm of sensation building inside you, ready to break.

Vi's hand on your clit was like a masterful conductor, guiding you closer and closer to the edge. Each stroke was precise, each touch a masterpiece of pleasure that had your toes curling and your back arching. Her teeth grazed your neck, sending shivers down your spine, and you knew you were moments away from the most powerful climax of your life.

Your body tensed, muscles coiling like a spring ready to release. With one final, deep thrust, Vi sent you over the edge, and you screamed out her name, the sound muffled by the pillow you had shoved into your mouth to stifle the noise. The pleasure washed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing around her, clenching her cock like a vice.

Vi's own orgasm followed closely behind, her hips bucking wildly as she filled you with her release. You could feel the heat of her seed inside you, a strange, primal sensation that only added to the intensity of the moment. Her breathing was harsh and ragged in your ear, and you realized with a start that she was whispering your name, her voice filled with a raw emotion that didn't quite match the cold, calculating demeanor she usually had.

As your body began to relax, she leaned back, her eyes never leaving yours. With a sudden movement, she pulled out of you, making you gasp with the sudden emptiness. Before you could react, she brought her hand down in a harsh slap across your pussy, the sound echoing in the silent room. Your eyes snapped open, and you jolted at the unexpected pain and pleasure that shot through you.

Vi smirked, watching the shock play out across your face. "You liked that, didn't you?" she taunted, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

Her hand hovered over your sensitive flesh, and you held your breath, waiting for the next slap. "I said, did you like it?" she pressed, her voice low and demanding.

You nodded, unable to form the words. The sting of her hand had sent a jolt of pleasure through you that was almost unbearable. You felt your cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and desire.

"So, you liked that, huh?" Vi's smirk grew wider as she watched you squirm beneath her. She slapped your pussy once more, this time a bit harder, and you gasped aloud. "You're going to get used to this," she murmured, her voice a dark promise. "Being used like a cumdump by a girl you never even knew existed."

Your eyes watered from the pain, but the ache between your legs grew stronger. You felt a strange mix of fear and excitement, knowing that she had taken you without your consent but finding yourself desperate for more. "Vi," you whimpered, not knowing what else to say.

"That's right," she said, her voice low and smoky. "Call me by name, let me know who owns you now." Her hand moved to grip your jaw, tilting your head up to look at her. "Open your mouth, pretty girl," she ordered, her eyes gleaming with a dark excitement.

You obeyed, your mouth opening slightly, unsure of what was to come. Vi leaned down, her spit glistening in the soft light of the moon filtering through the curtains. With a flick of her tongue, she sent a wad of saliva into your mouth, watching as you closed your lips around it. The taste was surprisingly warm, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

"Swallow," she demanded, her grip on your chin firm. You did as you were told, the act strangely intimate and degrading all at once. Her saliva slid down your throat, leaving a trail of wetness that seemed to echo the wetness between your legs. Vi's eyes never left yours, her gaze a mix of challenge and triumph.

The reality of what had just happened began to sink in. You had been taken by your roommate's sister, a woman you had only ever dreamt about, while you were unconscious. It was a violation, a betrayal, and yet your body sang with satisfaction. You were torn between anger and a desperate need for more.

Vi leaned down, her breath hot against your ear. "You want me to stop?" she whispered, her voice a dark caress. You hesitated, the words on the tip of your tongue, but the truth was that you didn't. You were scared, yes, but also unbearably turned on. You bit your lip and shook your head, and Vi's grip tightened. "Good," she murmured, her teeth grazing your earlobe. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

With that, she slammed back into you, her cock filling you completely. You couldn't help but moan, the feeling of being stretched to your limits sending shivers down your spine. Your nails dug into the bedsheets as she began to fuck you with a ferocity that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room.

Your thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and lust. You had never experienced anything like this before, and yet you found yourself craving it, your body moving in time with hers as if you had been doing this for years. You felt like a ragdoll in her powerful grip, utterly at her mercy.

Vi's hips ground into you, her movements unrelenting as she claimed your body over and over again. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through your core, making your toes curl and your breath hitch in your throat. Your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to process the sensations, but all you could do was feel. Feel her, inside you, dominating you.

Her hand found your throat, her thumb pressing against your pulse. "Look at me," she whispered, her voice a hoarse demand. You opened your eyes, meeting her intense gaze as she continued to fuck you, her thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles against your skin. The intimacy of the gesture was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the roughness of her movements.

The pleasure grew, a crescendo of sensation that you couldn't fight. You felt the beginnings of another orgasm building, and you whimpered, your body desperately seeking release. Vi's eyes never left yours as she drove you closer to the edge, her own breathing growing heavier, her strokes more erratic.

Her thumb pressed harder against your throat, and the sudden rush of fear only heightened the pleasure. You could feel your heart racing, your body responding to the mix of pain and pleasure in a way that was almost primal. "Beg for it," she growled, her voice thick with need. "Tell me you want it."

Your voice was hoarse from the gag of pleasure, but you managed to force out the words. "Please," you whimpered, "I want it."

Vi's grin grew wider, the power in her gaze never wavering. "Good girl," she purred, her hand tightening around your neck, the pressure just shy of painful. "You're going to come for me now."

Her words were a command, and your body obeyed. You felt the orgasm crest over you like a wave, your muscles clenching around her cock as you were consumed by the most intense pleasure you had ever felt. Your eyes rolled back in your head, a keening cry escaping your lips as you shuddered beneath her, the sensation of her thumb on your throat only amplifying the intensity.

As the climax washed over you, you felt a sudden gush of wetness, your body squirting out a warm jet that soaked the bedsheets and made Vi gasp in surprise. She stilled for a moment, her eyes going wide before a grin of pure satisfaction spread across her face. "Fuck," she murmured, her voice thick with lust. "You really are something else."

You lay there, panting and trembling, the aftershocks of pleasure still rolling through you. Vi leaned down, her breath warm against your neck, and whispered, "I'm not done with you yet." Her teeth grazed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Her hand left your throat and slid down to your clit, her fingers beginning to rub it in a slow, teasing circle.

You moaned, your body already responding despite the fear and confusion clouding your mind. "No," you managed to gasp out, pushing feebly at her chest. "It's too much, I can't..."

Vi just chuckled, the sound low and dark. "You think I care?" she murmured, her eyes glinting with a sadistic excitement. She slapped your pussy again, harder this time. "I didn't ask if you could take it," she said, her voice a harsh whisper. "I'm going to use you until I'm satisfied, and you're going to take it all."

You whimpered, your body already beginning to respond to the mix of pain and pleasure. It was wrong, you knew it was wrong, but you couldn't help the way your hips lifted to meet her hand, the way your breath hitched in anticipation of the next blow.

Vi's grin grew, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "That's it," she murmured, her voice a dark purr. "You're going to be such a good little slut for me." She slapped you again, the pain making your vision swim before pleasure flooded your senses, your body arching off the bed.

Her fingers slid back inside you, pumping in and out with a rhythm that was relentless and punishing. You could feel her knuckles brushing against your clit with each thrust, sending sparks of sensation shooting through your body. You moaned, the sound muffled by the pillow still pressed to your face.

As the pleasure mounted, you felt something inside you snap. The words you had held back for so long, the words you never thought you'd say to someone like Vi, tumbled out of your mouth. "I love you," you whimpered, the confession weak and pathetic.

Vi's movements stuttered, her eyes widening with shock. For a brief moment, she seemed to freeze above you, the hand that had been so brutally claiming you going still. Then, she leaned down, her voice a low rumble. "What did you say?"

You repeated the words, your voice stronger now, though still a whisper. "I love you, Vi." It was the truth, and you didn't know why it was, but it was as clear to you as the moon outside your window. The woman who had just violated you in the most intimate way possible had somehow stolen your heart in the process.

Vi's expression softened, her eyes searching yours for a sign of deception. But all she found was raw, desperate need. Her hand stilled on your clit, her cock still buried inside you. "You don't know what you're saying," she murmured, though there was something in her tone that suggested she wasn't entirely convinced.

You shook your head, the tears of pleasure blurring your vision. "I do," you insisted, your voice a broken whisper. "I love you, Vi. I don't know why, but I do."

Vi stared at you for a moment longer, her eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt or fear. But all she saw was the truth of your words, reflected back at her in your glassy gaze. With a groan that was almost a growl, she leaned down and claimed your mouth with hers, her kiss brutal and possessive.

Her tongue invaded your mouth, tasting the sweetness of your submission as she began to fuck you once more. Each stroke was deep and hard, a declaration of ownership that resonated through your very soul. You moaned into the kiss, your body responding eagerly to her touch.

Vi's hand slid down to cup your ass, lifting you up to meet her thrusts. The angle was perfect, sending her cock deeper with each powerful push. You felt the head of her cock brush against your g-spot, the sensation making your eyes roll back in your head. "Mine," she growled against your lips, claiming you in every way possible.

Your legs wrapped around her waist, holding her tight as she ravaged you. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, punctuated by your moans and her grunts of effort. It was a symphony of lust and dominance that you never wanted to end.

You gripped the headboard tightly, the wood digging into your palms as you tried to hold on to something, anything, in the face of the overwhelming pleasure. Each time she drove into you, you felt like you were being split apart, only to be put back together with a new piece of her embedded deep within you.

Her hand left your ass to wrap around your throat again, the pressure increasing slightly as she pulled back, only to slam into you with even more force. You could feel her getting closer to her own release, her body tensing and her breathing growing ragged.

With a whine of desperation, you reached up and grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from your throat and instead guiding it to your chest. You needed more, something to anchor you to the world as your body was lost in the maelstrom of pleasure she was creating.

Vi's hand complied, cupping one of your breasts roughly. You moaned into her mouth, feeling her palm against your sensitive flesh, the calloused pads of her fingers grazing your nipple. The feeling was almost too much, your body already on the edge of another orgasm.

With a growl, she broke the kiss, moving her mouth down to your neck. She bit down, hard enough to leave a bruise, and you couldn't help the whine that escaped your throat. She soothed the sting with a flick of her tongue, her teeth scraping against your skin as she moved to your collarbone.

Her hand squeezed your breast, her thumb flicking your nipple in a way that sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You felt the pressure building again, your body responding to her every touch, her every move. It was like you were a marionette, and she held all the strings.

Vi's rhythm grew more erratic, her breathing harsher, and you knew she was close. You tightened your legs around her, pulling her deeper, silently begging for her to let go. You felt the head of her cock pulse inside you, and the pressure was too much to bear. With a scream that was muffled by the pillow, you came again, your body shaking with the force of it.

This time, the orgasm was accompanied by a gush of wetness that soaked the bed and spattered her face. Vi chuckled darkly, her hand coming down to pat your pussy gently as if she were praising a pet that had performed a trick. The sensation was strange, almost tender amidst the harshness of her fucking, and you squirted again, the warm liquid hitting her cheek and mixing with the sweat already there.

Vi's strokes grew harder, more demanding, as she neared her own climax. You could feel her cock swelling inside you, her hips slamming into yours with a force that was almost painful. Your eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure grew too intense to handle, your teeth digging into the pillow to keep from screaming.

Suddenly, she pulled out, leaving you feeling empty and exposed. You looked up to see her stroking her cock, her eyes never leaving yours. "You want me to cum inside you?" she asked, her voice a mix of challenge and temptation.

You nodded, unable to find the words to answer. Your body was on fire with need, and the idea of feeling her fill you up was almost too much to bear. Vi's eyes narrowed, and she leaned back in, lining herself up with your entrance. With one final, powerful thrust, she sank back into you, her cock pulsing as she reached her climax.

You felt the warmth of her release flood you, filling you completely. It was a strange feeling, one that was both humiliating and thrilling. Your body was no longer your own; it was hers to use and abuse as she saw fit. And as she emptied herself into you, you realized that you had never felt more alive.

Vi pulled out slowly, her cock leaving you with a wet pop. You felt the emptiness keenly, your body already missing the feeling of being filled by her. She sat back on her haunches, her chest heaving, and looked down at you with a smirk. "You're mine now," she murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction.

Before you could react, she leaned down, her hand moving between your legs. You felt a finger slide into your pussy, and then she was scooping out the cum that had leaked out, her gaze never leaving yours. The act was strangely intimate, a claiming of your body's response to her. She brought her hand up to her mouth, her eyes never breaking contact as she licked the cum from her finger with a slow, deliberate motion.

"You taste so sweet," she murmured, her voice thick with lust. "I can't wait to have more." The words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and anticipation. You had no idea what she had planned for you, but you knew it would be intense.

You looked up at her, trying to gather the strength to protest. "Vi, please," you gasped, your voice weak and trembling. "I can't take any more."

But Vi just smiled, a wicked glint in her eye. She leaned down, her face inches from yours, and began to pepper your cheeks with gentle kisses. Each one was like a butterfly's touch, light and feathery, a stark contrast to the brutal fucking she had just given you. She kissed your eyelids, your nose, the tip of your chin, her lips moving with a tenderness that was almost tender.

Her hand continued to play with your sensitive folds, her thumb circling your clit lazily. "You're so beautiful when you come," she whispered, her voice a soft caress. "I could watch you all night."

The gentle touch was too much, your body already overwhelmed with sensation. "Please," you begged, not sure what you were asking for. Whether you wanted her to stop or keep going, your words hung in the air, a silent plea for mercy.

Vi's eyes searched yours, the smirk slowly fading into something softer. She leaned closer, her thumb still circling your clit with a maddening gentleness. "Can I- can I kiss you?" you asked, the question barely a whisper.

For a moment, she seemed surprised, the tenderness in your voice reaching something deep within her. Her hand stilled, and she looked at you, really looked at you. Then, with a nod, she leaned in, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that was gentle and searching. It was a stark contrast to the brutality of the past moments, a kiss that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken promises and dark secrets.

Your body responded instinctively, your arms wrapping around her neck, pulling her closer. You tasted the salt of her sweat, the tang of your own arousal on her mouth. It was a heady mix that only served to heighten your need for her. Vi's hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, her fingers threading through your hair as she deepened the kiss.

For a moment, you forgot about the pain, the fear, the confusion. There was only the two of you, lost in a passion that seemed to burn brighter than the sun. Your bodies melded together, moving in a silent dance that spoke of a connection that went deeper than just flesh and bone.

Vi's thumb began to move again, her gentle strokes sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You moaned into the kiss, your hips lifting to meet her hand. She broke away, her breath hot against your cheek as she whispered, "Do you want more?"

You shake your head, "I really can't." Your voice was barely audible, a soft protest against the onslaught of desire that was consuming you. But Vi was insistent, her hand moving faster, her eyes never leaving yours. "You can," she murmured, her voice a seductive purr. "You're stronger than you think."

Your breathing grew more ragged, your chest heaving as you struggled for air. The room felt like it was spinning, the pressure building inside you like a volcano ready to erupt. You could feel the blood rushing to your head, the world going dark around the edges. "Vi," you gasped, your voice a desperate plea. "I'm gonna pass out."

But she just chuckled, her eyes never leaving yours. "Not yet," she murmured, her thumb moving even faster. "I want to watch you come one more time."

Your body was on the edge, teetering between agony and ecstasy. You couldn't take it anymore, but somehow, you also couldn't get enough. Vi's thumb was a brand on your clit, her hand moving with a precision that seemed to know every secret of your body. You felt the pressure building again, a crescendo of pleasure that seemed to go on forever.

"Come for me," she whispered, her voice a dark caress. "Come for me, my little slut." The words sent a bolt of pleasure straight to your core, and with a scream that you didn't recognize as your own, you did. Your body arched off the bed, your back bowing as the orgasm hit you like a freight train.

You felt yourself tightening around her hand, your pussy clenching and pulsing as you spasmed beneath her. Vi's eyes were alight with triumph and hunger, watching the show she had orchestrated with a greed that was almost palpable. She didn't stop, her thumb still working your clit as you rode the waves of pleasure.

The orgasm was unlike anything you had ever felt before, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable. Your toes curled and your nails dug into the bed, the fabric tearing beneath your grip. The room was a blur of sensation, your thoughts scattered to the four winds as you lost yourself in the feeling of her hand on you.

Vi's thumb didn't relent, the steady rhythm keeping you on the edge of the cliff, unable to pull back from the precipice. Your body was a live wire, every nerve ending alight with sensation as she pushed you further than you had ever gone. "Vi," you whimpered, your voice a desperate plea. "Please, I can't."

But she just grinned, her eyes gleaming with a dark excitement. "You can," she whispered, her breath hot against your cheek. "You're going to come for me until I say stop."

Your eyes rolled back in your head, the world going fuzzy around the edges. You couldn't take much more of this, you were sure of it. Each stroke of her thumb was a brand, a mark of ownership that seared into your very soul. But as much as your body protested, it also craved more. The pleasure was an addiction, and Vi was your dealer.

Her hand was relentless, the strokes coming faster now, the pressure increasing until you thought you might shatter. You felt another orgasm building, a monster in the depths of your core that threatened to consume you. "No," you moaned, your voice weak and trembling. "Please, no more."

But Vi wasn't listening, her eyes locked onto yours, her expression one of pure, unbridled lust. She leaned down, her mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was almost gentle, a stark contrast to the roughness of her hand. You could feel her smile against your lips, the warmth of her breath mingling with your own.

The pressure built, your body a tight coil of pleasure and pain. You felt yourself slipping away, the edges of your vision going dark. "Vi," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I can't..."

But she was unrelenting, her hand moving faster, her thumb a blur against your clit. You felt yourself falling, the world around you fading into a sea of sensation. You tried to hold on, to keep your eyes open, but it was like trying to grasp at water. The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, dragging you under and leaving you gasping for air.

As the pleasure consumed you, your vision went dark, the room spinning out of control. You felt yourself slipping away, the last of your strength leaving you. Your body went limp, the tension draining from your muscles as the world grew quiet. The only thing you could hear was the distant sound of your own ragged breathing.

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the uncomfortable weight of your clothes. You were fully dressed, your pajamas sticking to your sweat-soaked skin. The bedsheets beneath you were new and clean, the smell of fresh laundry filling your nose. For a moment, you wondered if it had all been a dream, a twisted nightmare that had felt all too real. But then you felt the ache between your legs, the sticky mess that was a testament to what had just transpired.

With a groan, you pushed yourself up, your muscles protesting the sudden movement. Your body was sore, a delicious reminder of the relentless pleasure Vi had wrung from you. The room was quiet, the only sound the distant echo of the city outside your window. You knew you had to face the music, had to tell Jinx what had happened. So, you took a deep breath and slowly slid off the bed.

Your legs wobbled, threatening to give out beneath you, but you managed to stay upright. Each step towards the door was a battle, your body still pulsing with the aftermath of your encounter. You didn't bother to smooth your hair or straighten your clothes; you knew that your disheveled state would be the first clue that something was amiss.

As you opened the door, the cool air of the corridor hit you like a slap in the face, jolting you fully awake. You stumbled into the hallway, leaning against the wall for support. Your heart was racing, your thoughts a chaotic jumble of lust, fear, and confusion. You had to tell someone, but who? Jinx was the only one you could trust, but how could you explain?

You could hear her laughter from the living room, the sound echoing down the hallway like a taunt. She seemed to be talking with someone, her voice a mix of amusement and something darker that you couldn't quite place. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. You had to tell her, had to make her understand what had happened.

As you stepped into the room, you saw Vi sitting on the couch, her legs sprawled out in front of her, looking as if she owned the place. Jinx sat next to her, a smug smile playing on her lips as she glanced up at you. "There you are, sleepyhead," she said, her tone mocking. "Soo, about yesterday when I told you about my sister, here she is!"

Jinx's elbow jabbed into your side, and she winked. "Well, have fun guys," she sing-songed, her voice dripping with mischief as she got up and left the room, shutting the door behind her with a snicker. You stared after her, your mind racing. What was she playing at? Did she know what Vi had done to you?

Vi looked up at you, her eyes glinting with a knowing look that sent a shiver down your spine. She had the audacity to smile, a smile that was both sweet and sinister. "Hi," she said, as if you were two strangers meeting for the first time. "Nice to finally meet you."

[ariestrxsh]

dealer!chris

💸 content warning: smut/angst, masturbation, mentions of hard drugs and guns, enemies to lovers, slow burn

💸 summary: literally just a really hot blurb about dealer!chris smoking a joint on a roof while jerking off to the thought of you

WHEN SPARKS FLY

chapters: | intro | 1 | 2 | 3 |

Chris found himself up on the rooftop of his girlfriend, Daisy's house after you'd dropped him off and gotten home safely, a lit joint dangling from his pouty lips, and his right hand below his waist, fiddling with his belt. Daisy had been soundly sleeping when he arrived, and he took the opportunity to take care of something that had been nagging him off and on all night.

He unstrapped his gun from his hip and laid it on the rooftop beside him. He unzipped his jeans, undid his button, and reached into his waistband. He couldn't set his cock free quickly enough. He started methodically stroking it, immediately feeling the relief of his own long-awaited touch accompanied by the cool metal of his rings.

He loved nights like this. He cherished the time he spent on rooftops, whether it was with music and a joint, with deliberating thoughts, or even just a late-night masturbation session. He loved the risky element of it, but how private it was at the same time.

The clouds were slowly parting to reveal the starry sky beneath them, the rain had stopped, and the wind was still gently blowing, adding to the intimate moment he was having with himself. "Oh, fuck," he softly moaned as a bit of precum pooled at his slit.

He gently squeezed his cock, the clear fluid beginning to leak down his perfect, mushroom-shaped head as he pumped it in his hand. The cool air rushed over his tip, causing him to shiver in delight as a layer of goosebumps traveled across his skin.

He took a long drag, the ember of the joint glowing in the dark. He gently ran his thumb over his shiny cockhead, sending waves of pleasure through his body. He bit back a groan at the incredible sensation.

He wasn't fantasizing about anything in particular, just basking in the moonlight and letting all the thoughts from the day go, exhaling them with the smoke that escaped his lips. His eyes fluttered shut, and he tossed his head back as he relaxed into the beautiful feeling.

The sounds of the night were soothing, the wind rustling through the trees, the distant music of windchimes clanking together, and Chris' occasional moans of delight. He took another puff from the nearly-spent joint, burning his lips on the roach as he pulled from it.

His chest rose and fell at a quickening pace, and his calm, slow breaths turned into a fervent panting as he started to approach the edge. His mind began to wander to places he'd been trying to avoid. You. He secretly loved your crass personality, your dry sense of humor, and how sexy you were.

He remembered the way your legs looked in that dress you wore earlier. He remembered the perfect curve of your back, imagining how it would look arched in front of him. A coy smile played into his expression when he recalled the way you'd stammered your way through your sentence when he accused you of thinking about him doing this very thing.

Before he could decide whether it was wrong or not to be entertaining a fantasy about you while his girlfriend was asleep in her room beneath him, he started picturing you in some skimpy lingerie sprawled out on your bed. In his imagination, he was on top of you, parting your legs with his knee and running his fingers across your soft skin.

"Chris," he imagined the sound of the wind whistling faintly was you hissing his name between your teeth. He fantasized about the way you'd moan into his mouth as he kisses you and how your body would tighten and squirm as you take what he gives you.

Your name passed through his lips as the motion of his hand sped up, stroking his sensitive cock at an ungodly pace as he pictured you letting go beneath him, your whole being trembling under his touch.

He felt it in his stomach first - that familiar ache, the building tension, and finally the release.

"Fuck," he lustfully whispered to himself. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he pulled his eyebrows together in a look of pure gratification. His cock twitched in his grasp, squirting his pearly white substance all over his exposed stomach and his hand.

He let the sensation overtake him, pleasure rippling through his core and flooding his brain with pure, unfiltered satisfaction as he drained himself. He left his body, becoming one with the stars, one with the moon, and one with the night all before his consciousness floated back down like a feather. He felt at peace.

He felt the joint he pinched in his grasp start to burn the pads of his fingers before he finally put it out. He tucked himself back into his jeans, buttoning them up, and fastening his belt. He stuck his glock back into his waistband, the cool metal contrasting against his warm skin.

He laid in silence for a few moments, enjoying the thrill of being high and the post-orgasmic bliss that lingered in his body for several minutes after. He felt his whole being buzzing with dopamine and adrenaline, two things that didn't come to him as easily since living the fast life.

The thoughts he'd had about you in the midst of his climax almost surprised him. It was the first time he'd allowed his mind to go there without shutting the thought down before it had a chance to play out.

Once his breath returned to normal and he felt like he could stand again, he found his way from the roof to the cinderblock wall on the side of the house and finally, his converse hit the grass beneath him.

He climbed out of his damp clothes that he had sweat in and that had been rained on throughout the night and crawled into bed next to his girlfriend. He was careful not to wake her, shifting around meticulously as he glanced over at her pretty face glowing in the moonlight.

He knew that you were right, that he had to tell Daisy what he was really doing for work, but in that moment when he looked at her, he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He just knew she wouldn't stay if she found out, and he knew that she certainly wouldn't stay if she'd known about what he'd just done while thinking about another woman.

Guilt kept him awake, staring at the ceiling fan for the next hour or so until exhaustion took its place, finally allowing him to drift off to sleep.

click to read chapter 4 ✨️

taglist: @skye-44 @faiyaz555 @idrk2292 @chrisslittleslut @drewswife @trevorsgodmother @sofisturns @milo-the-dog @rockstarchr1s @bsturnzmtts @sturniolo-girl @theyluvme-2315 @jassturn @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @witchofthehour @slutforsturniolosss @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @hrtz4alex2211 @drewstarkeysdoll @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @ssturniolooss @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @babysturniolo @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mattlover-00 @sweetlikesug4rvenom @m11rx @sturniolocharms @mickelodeon-2003

[newtkive]

shift shenanigans - social media au (pt. 2)

note: yes there’s the main work chat w carmy, the secret coworker chat w/o carmy, and the secret secret bestie chat w syd, marcus, and yourself. it would be canon.

warnings: crude humor, slightly offensive jokes

part one

liked by carmyberzatto, marcus.brooks11 and 40 others

chefboyardee: life lately

see all 9 comments

syd_adamu: that pho was life changing

↳ chefboyardee: i think it was the best i’ve ever had

marcus.brooks11: feet off the table @syd_adamu

↳ chefboyardee: leave my girl alone

↳ richietheking: I knew you guys were lez

↳ syd_adamu: we aren’t and you can’t say that

↳ chefboyardee: oh.. we aren’t? ☹️😔

↳ syd_adamu: 😑

carmyberzatto: 🍲🔥

THE GOLDEN TRIO

[ 7:45 AM ]

y/n: did you see

did you see

did

you

see

ogmgokggkowkfofsk

syd: pardon??

what did richie do oh my god

did he post another picture of him with the gun from that one day

fuckkkk carmys gonna be so mad

marcus: nope i wish

y/n: he commented on my post 😭😭😭😭

syd: who

marcus: think about it

who else would cause this reaction

y/n: carmy!!!!!!!

i woke up to him commenting 🍲🔥 😍😍😍😍

syd: woah and the heart eyes?

y/n: no that’s my addition

syd: the bar is in hell

HES YOUR BOSS

y/n: AND I WANT HIS BABIES??

marcus: y’all so hype to be pregnant THEN BOOOMMM ‼️ THE BABY’S UGLY AND BALD WITH ECZEMA 😩🤨

syd: LMFAOOOOO WHOS YALL THO????

y/n: bye im done

im leaving for work.

don’t talk to me ever again

done.

marcus: bye 👋

why do you leave so early fool

syd: so she can be teachers pet

marcus: smh always there before everyone

y/n: not true.

syd: i thought you weren’t talking to us

y/n: 😒

marcus: want me to bring y’all an iced latte again

y/n: …. 😁

WORK

[ 8:15 AM ]

y/n: AYOOOO

great job cleaning up after work yesterday 😊👍

richie: Is this a joke?

y/n: why would i joke about such a thing

carmy: Y/n what are you doing

y/n: u said to tell everyone their housekeeping is shitty

carmy: No I said I was going to tell them that, and you said no I’ll do it

This is not what I meant

y/n: well you yell too much

marcus: ouch

that’s my station 😔

carmy: Well clean it better

y/n: im using reverse psychology and positive reinforcement

carmy: Not what that means

y/n: well notice how no one’s mad at me

im making alliances day by day

richie: You’ve worked here for two years and we are already friends

y/n: so you’re saying you aren’t my ally

richie: No

We are definitley in an alliance

y/n: love u richie

richie: Don’t go that far

chefboyardee’s instagram stories

WE HAVE THE BEEF 🥩

[ 3:25 PM ]

y/n:

he so fine im bouta cermmmmm

syd: …..

marcus: :O

y/n: why are you acting shocked

like i haven’t said this daily

tina: Woah girl who?

y/n: HUH

richie: I’m not in the picture I don’t get it

syd: let’s just keep working before carmy notices

tina: I don’t care I’m on smoke break. Who are you talking about girl? Spill the tea..

marcus: she was talking about me you guys

y/n: the guy in the back

oh i mean yeah marcus

tina: The meat delivery guy? He has a wife..

y/n: we are having an affair

marcus: no it’s about me

richie: I didn’t know Marcus and Y/n were a thing..

tina: Something ain’t right. No way they are.

marcus: we aren’t it’s just our sense of humor

y/n: i was just being funny!

tina: What did Jeff just yell inside?

syd: came out of the office and said “just cuz we’re slow doesn’t mean you can play on your phones” 👍💯

tina: Whatever. No chance Y/n meant Marcus. You got the hots for Jeffrey?

y/n: what no

tina: Well I wouldn’t blame you. He’s cute

y/n: OMG RIGHTTTTTTT

its the tattoos isn’t it

richie: You have to be fucking joking

tina: I was playing..

y/n: im confused

syd: that was cruel

marcus: who cares it’s not a big deal

y/n: so you don’t think he’s cute tina?? ☹️☹️

tina: No he is cute… for you 😝

y/n: this is humiliating

richie: I’ll tell him

y/n: NO

stop

sSTOP THATS NOT FUNNY

richie im not joking i’ll put a bomb in your floorboards

richie: I’m just fucking with you kid

tina: This isn’t over.

THE GOLDEN TRIO:

[ 3:40 PM ]

syd: y/n….

marcus: you look like a ghost y/n

y/n: i cannot believe i sent that to the wrong gc

i’m done im so done

marcus: stop looking so sad it’s making me feel bad

syd: it’s okay! just be thankful it wasn’t to the work groupchat with him in it..

marcus: true it could be worse

y/n: i guess so

thank you for trying to cover for me marcus

marcus: anytime you know i got you

syd: let’s get back to work before we start looking obvious

[bubbless-s]

Can you please write dating headcanons for Gun park, 𝐉ichang 𝐊wak and 𝐒eongji 𝐘uk? Thank you ❤️

↳-Dating hc for Gun Park,Jichang Kwak and Seongji Yuk-༉‧₊˚✧

-ʚɞ warnings: none

-ʚɞ genre: fluff, slightly suggestive/nsfw

-ʚɞ a/n: reader is gn

Masterlist

Gun Park

✧ Spoils you rotten.

✧ Legit buys you whatever you want.

✧ Knows exactly how you like your coffee. You don’t like coffee? He will get you hot chocolate instead.

✧ Slightly over protective of you. (Not very slightly actually big over protective.)

✧ God forbid someone made you uncomfortable. Instant death.

✧ Dates would include going to fancy restaurants.

✧ Secretly likes getting his hair played with.

✧ You guys would also occasionally shower together.

✧ Really really likes seeing you in his clothes.

✧ Secretly has forehead pictures of you.

✧ After the deed lovemaking he doesn’t fall asleep till you do

Jichang Kwak

⭒ You guys have matching pijamas.

⭒ That man genuinely doesn’t know how to use emojis ‘someone just died 💀💀😭😭’

⭒ You said as a joke once ‘smoke a cigarette today and I will top you next time during..’ then magically he didn’t smoke for a whole week.

⭒ Loves LOVESSS you holding his pinkie.

⭒ Puts his glasses on you during yk.

⭒ Makes you clean his glasses.

⭒ I feel like if he is gifting you something it would be jewelry.

⭒ Also if you prefer a specific brand do not send him to buy it to you. He WILL buy the wrong thing.

⭒ Dates would include fishing together or star glazing during a picnic.

⭒ You cook (if you want to) or he orders something. lazy ass

⭒ Not ashamed to tie your shoes.

Seongji Yuk

𖦹 He makes you tanghulu candy.

𖦹 Matching wallpapers.does he have a phone?

𖦹 Dates would include building blanket forts together!

𖦹 ‘What else can them fingers do?’ (A lot)

𖦹 Doesn’t really know how to show his affection so he might hug you out of the blue.

𖦹 After he gets used to you, he’s very clingy.

𖦹 Kiss his fingers pls :( as return he will kiss your forehead or chin.

𖦹 Loves when you put your head on his shoulder.

𖦹 Very very secretly a cuddle bug.

𖦹 Praises you infront of others A LOT.

𖦹 Giggles and smiles only around you.

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

marvel men- stoner edition

this is how i think the marvel men would act while you (and them) are high:) please enjoy and get baked appropriately, whichever method you choose stay safe! <3

peter parker

- one word. munchies.

-this man prepares an entire feast before the two of you get high and he gets so hungry it’s not even funny. you pray to get a bite in… but he cooks such good food, so you can’t complain.

-you bring over a desert so it’s even, last time it was chocolate fudge brownies and he kissed the chocolate off your lips

- he’s very touchy, always wanting to cuddle!1!1 more than normal, like he literally sits you on his lap despite there being an empty chair next to him

-you guys watch starwars movies often, or compilations of brain rot that you both know all the references to- you laugh with him for hours to the point you’re silently dying, tears down your face and needing to call a time out

-often times you get high at his place, with lots of low, dim christmas lights, open windows for the nice breeze (and so you can sit on the fire escape) and he always makes sure your spot on the bed is made and has stuffies!

-essentials- fuzzy blankets. his camera (to take pictures of you), fuzzy peaches and baggy clothes

bucky barnes

- super good at rolling. you make him roll everything for you and he pretends to get annoyed but secretly he loves it

- he has a much higher tolerance then you so it’s super funny when you’re already on cloud nine and he’s barley high yet, he makes fun of you

- he’s super protective of you if you guys go out, normally you go to the gas station to grab snacks because it’s close by, but despite this he holds you close and always is slightly in front of you when people are around to shield you

- you guys typically smoke at the little creek by your house and watch the stars or in your room, from out the window

- he really likes your room (mainly your bed) and is constantly insisting on cuddling, which results in you freaking out because he threatens to wear his outside clothes under the sheets if you don’t hurry up

- super calm and relaxed, but still alert to protect you! even if you’re in your home, he’s still a guard dog

- you tend to play with his hair and put butterfly clips in it (he “does not” like this)

- usually if you’re at your house you watch lord of the rings

- essentials- his fancy lighter he likes to show off, chocolate covered pretzels, baggy clothes and a nerf gun (to protect you ofc)

steve rogers

- says “do a flip!” to anyone who is on a high surface, including you

- he always brings his notebook because he claims his ideas flow better when he’s had a few hits, so sometimes he’ll just randomly pull it out and write or draw

- he likes to draw you a lot whenever you guys get high together

- huge video game lover! you guys play Minecraft together at his house and build little villages (and then he brings you to the nether with no weapons so you’re running around freaking out)

- #1 fruit gummy and goldfish lover

- if he slid his hand on your upper thigh and gave you that look he knows drives you wild, you would have 216 nickles. which isn’t a lot but it’s weird it happened 216 times (you fuck after)

- does spot on fuck boy impressions to make you piss your pants from laughing so hard

- essentials- a game, lunchbox snacks, thin blankets (so he doesn’t get hot, he’s picky), and his notebook

matt murdock

- he likes to eat “treats” that you bake, his favourite is the homemade rice kripsies with weed butter

- you guys always cheers them before you eat them after a nice homemade, candle lit dinner

- typically you guys lounge on the couch and like getting stoned when it’s storming so you can listen to the rain on the roof (his high, echoing loft makes it louder:) )

- he’s old fashioned, you guys make a charcuterie board and play board games like chutes and ladders and battleship

- matt like to run you a bath, light some candles and play with your hair while you watch a cheesy sitcom

- lazy make out sessions allll the time, and being perched up on his knee while he rubs your arms and back

- words of affirmation… always. he already tells you stuff all the time but when he’s stoned it’s every two sentences. “you’re so soft and sweet and so good” is a classic, where he rambles on

- just really romantic:) also SEXY! but sexy romantic. he takes care of you and touch is a must

essentials- red wine, sweet smelling candles, his dog eared box game of battleship and some good italian bread

loki laufeyson

- this man… yeah. sex!

- the two of you stretch out with a soft blanket and watch compilations of people acting like idiots and getting hurt, or super bad reality tv to laugh

- i feel like he’s artistic! whenever you guys smoke that side comes out even more, so you guys often paint together- recently you did that trend where you painted your partner in real time

- he’s a cat man so your black cat locks is always with you, curled up in a ball or slung across his shoulder

- he really likes frozen/ cold fruits. like frozen grapes. i feel he would have a deep connection to them and would feed them to you like some greek goddess

- sometimes you guys smoke before a night out in town, and you go see a play or something and eat sooo much popcorn up in those little balcony boxes

- late walks in the city too, to look at all the pretty lights and such! he often snags you a fresh baked good from a vendor to nibble one

- essentials- his cat, his grapes, and his lady!! also he has this really soft pair of sweatpants he likes to wear, black of course! you guys have matching ones

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991 

The air here smells like sulphur. 

After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind. 

Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down. 

Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell. 

"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle. 

You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable. 

At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders. 

His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket. 

"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things. 

You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.

The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde. 

Probably. 

You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight. 

You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.

You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open. 

You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.  

Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection. 

Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream. 

The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout. 

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin. 

You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts. 

"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask. 

"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend." 

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly. 

"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–" 

You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to. 

"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch. 

Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down. 

"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls." 

"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that." 

"Uh-huh," you say. 

"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!" 

"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?" 

"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath. 

You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour". 

Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.

The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make. 

Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't. 

You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it. 

Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders. 

Or when you're with Eddie. 

As you stupidly told him. 

What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him. 

Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady. 

People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here. 

You want to see him again.

What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea. 

If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog… 

You grip the door. 

You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you? 

It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest. 

I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?

The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush. 

Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside. 

"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."

You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?" 

"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet." 

"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."

Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit." 

Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep." 

She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed." 

She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat. 

"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?" 

"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around. 

You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts. 

"I'll see what I can do," she says. 

Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again. 

You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up. 

"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?" 

You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on? 

"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?" 

"And is he expecting your call?" 

"No, ma'am." 

"Who's calling?" 

"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful. 

"Hold please."

You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck– 

"Transferring now." 

You hold your breath. 

The phone clicks twice. 

"Hi?" 

"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.

"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?" 

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N." 

"Hey. How's Florida?" 

You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.

"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot." 

"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"

You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face. 

"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine." 

You can still save it. 

"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask. 

Wrong. 

"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!" 

"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you. 

"Okay, good." 

You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.

"How's Houston?" 

"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here." 

You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.

"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket." 

You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.

"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says. 

You know exactly what he means. 

You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person. 

Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit. 

"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask." 

"Yeah? That's not how I remember it." 

"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?" 

"I should hang up on you." 

"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises. 

"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time." 

"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”

“Where’s the question?”

“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”

You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power. 

“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”

“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark. 

“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”

The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up. 

“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks. 

“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”

Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery. 

“Did you hear that?” he asks. 

“No? What was it?”

“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”

“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat. 

“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks. 

You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"

“Uh…”

“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”

“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”

“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.  

“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”

You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”

You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?

Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought. 

Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak. 

“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.  

“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”

You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”

“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”

“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”

Another patch of silence. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”

“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true. 

“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”

You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.

“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says. 

“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”

“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”

You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”

He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”

A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.

-

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it. 

He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”

And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”

Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this. 

He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar. 

Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter. 

He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she? 

He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them. 

Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it. 

He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.

“Hi,” you say. 

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.

“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”

“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him. 

“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”

“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say. 

“Ditto.”

You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”

Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small. 

“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”

Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed. 

“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”

“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful. 

Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you. 

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”

You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes. 

Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips. 

“Will you share it with me?”

He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too. 

Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough. 

“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes. 

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”

“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed. 

He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare. 

It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand. 

“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”

He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better. 

“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says. 

Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart. 

“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”

“The fans,” Eddie repeats. 

He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play. 

And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another. 

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says. 

“Yeah?”

“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says. 

“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”

“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before. 

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.

“Can I just sit here a while?”

“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder. 

Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.

Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate. 

“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks. 

He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.

“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”

Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes. 

“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”

“I see.”

You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”

“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.

Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips. 

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest. 

He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart. 

Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth. 

“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”

“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”

“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile. 

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”

Your answering hum tickles. 

“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest. 

“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”

“You're not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.

“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask. 

“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”

You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze. 

“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair. 

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says. 

He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier. 

“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.” 

You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing. 

“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say. 

He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.

“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience." 

You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips. 

Eddie could get used to this. 

—

Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991

There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself. 

“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath. 

There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance. 

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”

You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge. 

“Are you looking for something new?” you ask. 

If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged. 

“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”

You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV. 

“You’re too busy,” you finish. 

“I'm way too busy.”

There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing. 

Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else. 

You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do. 

You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner. 

Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry. 

You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl. 

"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out. 

You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you. 

"For what?" he asks.

"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock." 

"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment." 

"No, at the store." 

Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you. 

"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."

Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it." 

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.  

"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame." 

"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time." 

"Nerd." 

"Loser." 

He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty. 

You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit. 

"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks. 

"They'll have yours." 

Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine." 

"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.

"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena." 

You gawp at him. "You did not." 

"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs. 

"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it." 

Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away. 

"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time." 

"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say. 

"You don't think you would?" 

"I'm not really tenured." 

"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable." 

"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing. 

"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together. 

You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU. 

"What do I play?" you ask. 

"Anything." 

"That's not helpful." 

"Something fun," he says. 

Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline. 

Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor. 

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate. 

"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard." 

"I'm telling people you said that." 

You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus. 

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks. 

"No." 

"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song." 

"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously." 

You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest." 

"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home. 

You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face. 

You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation. 

The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part. 

It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.  

You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking? 

His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that." 

"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head. 

"No, you worked hard. There's a difference." 

His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should. 

"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel. 

Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval. 

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks. 

"What do you know?" 

"God, I know everything. You should know that." 

"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention." 

He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss. 

You're in awe. 

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle. 

"S'what I get for trying to show off." 

He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that. 

"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.

"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself. 

You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away. 

He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer. 

You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it. 

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks. 

The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip. 

"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be." 

He licks his lips. "You're cool." 

You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do. 

"I'm worried about people finding out about us." 

"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us." 

It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely. 

"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?" 

"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer. 

"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it." 

He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain. 

"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive." 

"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded." 

"Let's go back to when you didn't like me." 

"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?" 

"No," you mumble. 

"Oh. Good." 

"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask. 

"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on." 

"They've clocked on." 

"Cruel!" he says, delighted. 

"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?" 

"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe." 

"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh. 

"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up." 

The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly. 

"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–" 

"What am I getting into?" 

"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this." 

He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this." 

Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl. 

"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you." 

"But I don't get that, we don't get along." 

"What do you call this?" he asks.

You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky. 

"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you." 

"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness. 

You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure. 

"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want." 

You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying. 

"Okay," you breathe. 

He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice." 

"You're not on thin ice." 

"I should be." 

Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it." 

"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?" 

"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod. 

A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one. 

"What's for dinner?" you ask. 

Eddie smiles. 

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?" 

Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing. 

You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love. 

He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession. 

"I miss you," he'd said. 

You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then." 

So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something. 

"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours. 

He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.

Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank. 

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer." 

You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself. 

Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?" 

"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?" 

"Is there any room?" 

"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?" 

He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath. 

He whistles. Can't help himself. 

You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur. 

"Sorry. You're just pretty." 

"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice." 

He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–" 

You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could. 

He's messing with you. It's his prerogative. 

Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried." 

About what? he'd asked. 

You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.

He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle. 

It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie. 

He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him. 

"Don't push me away," he whines. 

"Don't make fun of me." 

"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that." 

"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue. 

"You don't like that word?" 

You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do. 

"You like Status Quo?" you ask. 

He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?" 

"Showaddywaddy?" 

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes. 

"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath. 

"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily. 

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still. 

"Don't ask stupid questions." 

"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party." 

He hangs his head. "I was in a mood." 

"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?" 

Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember." 

"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say." 

"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek. 

"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating. 

"Because you didn't know me." 

You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?" 

"Sweetheart, we met before." 

Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more. 

"We did," he says. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."

You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.

I'll put you on the list. 

"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something. 

"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane." 

He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–" 

"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.  

"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…" 

"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other." 

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah." 

Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck. 

"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you." 

"You took your time," he says. 

"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"  

He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains. 

He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip. 

"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge. 

"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says. 

You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!" 

"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?" 

Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?" 

You're already forgiven. "Three photos." 

"Deal." 

"Should've asked for five." 

"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.." 

Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–" 

You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off." 

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling. 

"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them." 

Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex. 

"I've seen them," he disagrees. 

"You have not." 

"Have too." 

"Have not." 

"I'm seeing them right now." 

You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape. 

"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no." 

He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks. 

"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say. 

Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?" 

"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do." 

Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated. 

"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you." 

"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently. 

"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?" 

You beam at him. "Right." 

You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest. 

The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears. 

"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.

"It's really perfect," you say. 

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss. 

"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?" 

He hadn't meant to ask like that. 

You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.

—

The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features. 

The camera clicks. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again

[vinyldreamsfuckup]

Pose

Warnings: drinking, smoking, fluff, banter

You were always known to be quite fiery. Most of the guys would call you stubborn and feisty but also incredibly hot, kind, and endearing. you found yourself at a t-shirt shop making a custom t-shirt for your boyfriend all because of something he said, and it all kind of clicked. Maybe you were quite stubborn and you definitely followed through on your pranks.

So here’s how it started, you were out on the road with Guns N’ Roses. You and Axl had become quite close considering you were dating Slash. And you two LOVED pulling pranks on him. Lived for it actually. This one might just be the funniest one yet. It wasn’t one where someone could get hurt or something like a simple jump scare. This took time and effort. Slash and you had quite the dynamic, always teasing and poking fun at each other. So when Slash said you were “getting old” and would “have gray hair soon” you took it a step further. You and Axl had been making fun of Slash ALL WEEK. Practically convincing the poor 24 year old he had gray hair. Calling him Grandpa, telling him he’d need hair dye and a cane soon. You realized you might have taken it too far when you’d seen him checking his hair for gray hair.

So all of it leads to now, you two had come up with a truce. He wears a specially made t-shirt and you’d both stop with the old jokes. Even though they didn’t even make sense because you were only 22 and he was 24, but it was beside the point. So here you were, standing in the dumb t-shirt shop in Ohio just hoping you finished soon so you wouldn’t make everyone late. You were making him a “World’s Sexiest Grandpa” t-shirt with the dot above the ‘i’ being his iconic top hat. And when they held up the first for you to inspect it, you knew it was perfect.

You stepped onto the tour bus holding the shirt behind your back. Axl looked over at you with a huge smile. Slash was sitting on the couch drinking and bantering with Axl and Duff. When he saw Axl’s wide grin he turned to look at you.

“Hi baby, whatcha got there?” Slash asked raising an eyebrow.

“Oh nothing,” You bit back a smile and kept your hold on the t-shirt. Axl chuckled.

“You’re being really suspicious,” Slash said with a small laugh and he stood up. He set his cup down on the small table that was bolted to the floor, “What is it?”

“Okay, I have a present for you,” You said with a smile. Slash’s eyebrows furrowed and Axl laughed even harder.

"A present?" Slash raised an eyebrow. You nodded and giggled slightly, "Well what is this present?"

You gently pulled the shirt from behind your back and showed him the shirt. Axl and Duff started laughing loudly and Slash's jaw dropped.

"Oh my god. It's even better than I thought it would be," Axl laughed out. Duff was wiping tears from his eyes as he tried to breathe through the laughter.

"No fucking way," Slash laughed and stood up. He walked over to you and grabbed the shirt from your hands.

"Is that his fucking top hat?" Axl asked through his laughter. You nodded proudly as Slash immediately took off his shirt and pulled on the new one.

Duff's laughter bubbled out of him, filling the whole tour bus with the sound, "Oh my god! It's even better with it on."

"Wait! Wait! Oh my god!" You chuckled and ran to the back of the bus. Slash giggled and lit a cigarette. He leaned on the small dining table and crossed his arms.

"Yeah yeah. Laugh it up. I think this whole "grandpa" thing is growing on me," Slash chuckled out. Axl and Duff could barely breathe as they watched him. The shirt was a size too small and was tightly pressed against his chest. You walked back down the small hallway of the bus holding a Polaroid camera.

"No. No, I will not be taking pictures in this," Slash chuckled out as he straightened.

"Oh come on. Don't be a grumpy grandpa," You chuckled out. He rolled his eyes.

"Fine, one picture," Slash said seriously. You laughed.

"You'll be taking more than one," You said jokingly. You brought the camera up to your eye and prepared to take the picture, "Smile."

Slash rolled his eyes and posed for the picture. He put his hand on his hip and smiled goofily. You chuckled and took the picture. Axl and Duff laughed and went to grab the picture as it rolled out of the Polaroid.

It turned into a full of photoshoot with Slash goofily taking pictures in the shirt that was much too small for him. You were so in love with him. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you. He pulled you close to his chest.

"Are you happy now?" Slash asked. You nodded.

"I am," You responded, Slash set his head on your shoulder.

"So no more grandpa or grandma talk?" Slash asked as he raised an eyebrow. You couldn't help but smile.

"No more grandpa or grandma talk. Even if you are the world's sexiest," You said with a teasing tone. He let out a breathy laugh.

"God I love you," Slash said with a smile.

"I love you too," You responded and bit back a smile.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested. 

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights. 

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly. 

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort. 

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly. 

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it. 

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty. 

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside. 

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him. 

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant. 

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?” 

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm. 

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time. 

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :) 

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet. 

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :) 

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email. 

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :) 

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection. 

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out. 

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely. 

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner. 

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table. 

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair. 

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you. 

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve. 

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up. 

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction. 

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning. 

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?” 

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk. 

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully. 

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily. 

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where. 

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly. 

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly. 

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious. 

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root. 

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you. 

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine. 

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it. 

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing. 

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement. 

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly. 

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you. 

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.” 

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you. 

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh. 

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod. 

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest. 

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response. 

“Yes.” 

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right. 

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.” 

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch. 

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

 “You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly. 

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him. 

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you. 

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so. 

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another. 

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

[sadgurls-blog]

Rindou Haitani x reader

MDNI

On top of the tallest building in Roppongi was a rooftop bar. One of the most prestigious and known ones in japan. Also notorious for being Bonten's favorite meetup spot.

Prostitutes sat on couches next to High-level Criminals, their hair messed up and lips touching the person who paid them. Strippers danced on the elevated dance floors with poles and both men and women watched them, occasionally whistling and throwing money at their feet. They swayed their hips seductively and the people looking at them roared in excitement throwing even more cash onto the floor.

You sat on the couch far away from the rest, but near enough to see what was happening. Your legs crossed and red blazer hanging from one of your shoulders. A Bubblegum haired man sat down next to you and blew the cigarette he was holding, the smoke flowing into your nostrils; your face scrunching up at the toxin. Here was Sanzu Haruchiyo and he was unsurprisingly high on drugs again.

''Drive for me'' He commanded and threw his car keys on your lap before passing out pitch black on the couch. You took out your phone and took a picture of him, hoping that you could use it as blackmail in the future.

Someone then tugged your arm and you looked up to see who it was, smirking in delight when you recognize his purple mullet with dark blue streaks.

''Missed me?'' You hung your arms around his neck and kissed his lips when the two of you stepped inside the elevator.

'Very much so'' He leaned down willingly returning the kiss back, his hands wandered down your skirt and he rubbed his fingers against your underwear; realising that you were already wet.

''Take it off'' He removed his lips away from yours, a string of saliva connecting it for a brief moment.

''Not here'' You whispered into his ears and loosened his tie a bit, tugging on it when the elevator door opened. You pulled him to your car and opened the backseat, the two of you going inside in a hurry.

He kissed you and pushed his tongue inside your mouth and you sucked it when he removed your blazer. He then pulled away from you and you put your arms up when he started pulling up your top, trying to remove it. You pushed him against the car seat when he was done and your left hand started fiddling with the buttons of his waistcoat, struggling to remove the last one. He helped you and held your head, pushing it downwards, eager to taste your lips again.

His kisses then went down from your mouth to your neck, not bothering to be careful of leaving marks. You pushed your head back when he reached your collarbones, finding the way he sucked your skin hurtful in a good way. You then looked down and helped him sit up a bit so that he can remove his long sleeved top. His tattoo fully seen when it was finally removed.

''Did I ever tell you that you look hot with that tattoo?'' You tell him playfully and traced it with your fingers. His body jolting at the sudden touch when you did so.

''Everyday'' He answered and smirked. You straddled him with your hips, sitting on top of him now. You then leaned down kissing his lips and then his neck until you finally reached the hem of his pants.

''Unbutton it'' He told you.

''You'll have to wait a bit more'' You told him and leaned down towards his face, your lips barely touching his; teasing him a bit. He looked down at your lips, hypnotized by how warm your breath felt and your pink lips.

Wine.

You smelled like wine. The same wine he drank earlier. Seeing him distracted your arms reached downwards and held the gun on the floor. You held it up to his forehead and put your finger on the trigger.

''That's hot'' He blurted out accidentally.

And you bursted out in a fit of laughter still holding him at gunpoint.

[bananaactivity]

Im not finished with Carlos fully but he looks good enough for right now ( he’s 22 in this picture here)

I changed Carlos and Evie up, so now Evie is a vain witch like her mother who is fashionable but she doesn’t sew her own stuff. ( which is for the better cse wtf was that ugly ass dress she made for Mal in D2???)

Carlos considers himself to be a very expensive person and can be pretty big germaphobe. He hates getting anything on his clothes and he refuses to wear the school uniforms at Auradon Uni because they’re ugly. He wears lots of black white grey and red, with gold accents usually. He does theme around dog associated items like gold bone cutlets, paw print lapel chains, and a tennis ball brooch. He often wears red gloves and his favorite shoes are his collection of red bottom dress shoes. He likes hiding red on the interlining of his clothes too, such as his jackets and hats and vests.

A lot of his own person style is derived from 1990s London fashion ( as the artist that means I get my references from the 1996 101 Dalmatians live action movie, the styling of Cruela in that movie is ICONIC AND IMACULATE, and I MUST reference her for Carlos.

PURRRR

Of course he wears REAL animal print. And he’s not a weak touch me not prick like some think. He’s still tech savvy and does Anyalitics and specs for the core four. He also loves GUNS 😄. Think of him like a sharp shooter who stays in the back of turf wars and snipes people. The isle doesn’t have many marks men ( they all really like swords for some reason) so he’s pretty dangerous. He builds his own weapons too.

His passion started out as a way for him to collect his own furs but Harry gets him most of what he needs plus he always needs Carlos to redo his wardrobe ( he gets… messy… after a couple days work) Carlos hates that Harry ruins his creations so fast but he pays him well and gifts him rare fabrics and samples from Auradon.

Because Carlos has no magic Mal always underestimates him. She sees him as only a stylist and ranged weapon specialist. Even tho she acknowledges him for his wit and tech skills she still doesn’t listen to him. Sometimes he wishes he could stay with Harry but then he’d have to do more work up front. Harry understood what Carlos was capable of and respected him a lot. What Harry doesn’t understand is that not everybody likes to be covered head to toe in hot sticky blood 24/7. Harry had also promised him a suite on his boat that nobody else was allowed to occupy, but even if Harry’s crew feared HARRY they wouldn’t mind having an attitude with CARLOS for preferential treatment, even if it is what he deserves 🙄

Harry and Carlos’s relationship is the definition of there are two wolves inside you. Carlos smokes and drinks but he’s more of a Marlboro and Merlot type of guy and Harry’s a Rum and Cigar kinda lad. ( I’m using cartoon logic and say that those habits are purely aesthetic based of iconography from the original Disney moves, Cruella smokes and Capt. Hook smokes two cigars at once)

Carols isn’t really scared of dogs anymore but when he arrives at Auradon he “befriends” his roommate Chad ( now an animal lover like his mother) who has pet rats and a entourage of wild animals constantly in their dorm, and threatens to shoot and skin them all every single day to make a new line of coats ( when Chad rebuttals that his rats are too small to make coats, Carlos says they’d make the perfect fuzzy gloves 💀) He also uses Chad as a living mannequin for his designs. They have a goofy relationship with each other, Carlos does make Chad do all the dirty work of skinning and draining the animals he hunts but despite how traumatic that is Carlos is a fun sweet guy so it’s okay 💀💀💀.

Jay is jelly of Carlos due to his closeness with Harry. ( I guess the way to Jays heart and respect is by holding him at sword point and threatening to gut him and hang him by those very guts over shark infested waters and watch them nibble away at him 💀)

Next I’ll find up Carlos and do some fit designs then I’ll redesign Jay and tell that gutting story 😛

[meekspeaks]

you wanna know what kills me?

i saw The Picture of todd and neil (as i type this, i realise there are Many ... the one w knox's phone call) and ... they're both so young.

all of them were so young.

neil was so young to have his future torn away from him as a strict result of the harsh wrath of his father's expectations. he was so young to pull the trigger, to sit hopelessly, stripped to his very being, chilled by the winter wind, with a gun in his hands and his heart in his throat.

todd was so young to have his friends fall apart around him. to have the boy who he loved the most, who made him see poetry in every little thing, taken away. to have his parents barely spare a thought for him, too engrossed in his older brother.

charlie, meeks, pitts, knox, cameron were all so young to be subjected to grief. to hold todd and hush him as he threw up in the snow, stricken with white-hot agony at the thought of their best friend - one could say their leader - dead, alone, killed at the hands of his father and with the very tools of his father.

how symbolic, that neil's dad's words drove neil to pull the trigger on his very own gun. i wonder if mr perry kept it. saw the smoke rising from the nozzle, any hope neil held evaporating against the chilled night.

they were all so young.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: Waiting

Gun being soft and waiting for you

Patience is bitter, but the fruit is sweet.

And you really are the sweetest of them all.

So Gun waits for you, patiently, enduringly.

He waits for you at the end of the day.

When the school bell rings, and Gun hovers by the gates, leaning on his car. Other students' whispers and murmurings are carried by the wind.

"That guy is so hot~"

"Have you seen the labels he's wearing?!"

"That car is the latest model!"

All he looks for is you, and when you approach, all you see is the cigarette hanging from his lips.

You chastise him for smoking, hating the way the smell lingers, and the taste of it on your lips too.

Gun cuts you off mid-rant with a kiss that is all nicotine and ash and him. You find yourself already addicted.

He waits for you to get ready.

In the mornings, to start your day together. For a date, for a meal, for a simple walk.

Gun isn't used to being the one doing the waiting.

You always taking just a moment too long, leaving a little too much of a mess, wanting a last minute change or forgetting something right before you step out.

There might be an exasperated "Hurry the fuck up" or "Are you done yet?" when you have stretched his patience past its limits.

The vexation is only ever skin-deep.

He waits for you to be ready.

Gun isn't a huge planner by nature; he knows what he wants and how to get it.

The paths to his goals are clear and obvious.

Gun doesn't plan a future with you, he just knows that it will happen.

He never asks outright about marriage or children or settling down, but he can only picture a life with you by his side.

You're both young. And when Gun casually mentions something years from now, talking about you and him and 'we', the idea takes a while to sit properly with you.

It doesn't matter though. For you, Gun would wait forever.

[barnesboo1967]

Kelley had been a model since she was 13 and got a job with Victoria’s Secret when she was 19. She grew up in California and that was where she stayed most of her life. Though she did have to travel a lot for work, she loved it.

A/N: So this is some headcannons I cam up with based on the concept of the Top Gun boys to be dating a Victoria’s Secret Angel. And for me personally it is easier to make an OC than do a reader insert so that what most of my works are going to be just a little FYI for everyone.

God this man would be so cocky being able to call her his. He would brag about having the hottest girlfriend in the world. That she is an actual angel. The Dagger Squad wouldn’t believe him at first, how could a douche like Hangman get a girl as perfect as the one he is describing. Then they met her and every word was true, she was the most perfect human ever. Gorgeous beyond belief, sweet as could be, down to earth. Rooster even asked if it was all a dare, she just laughed him off. Hangman would try to show them every picture she sent him, loving being able to show her off. As annoying as it was at times, they completely understood. Who wouldn’t want to show her off?

This boy did not know how he got her. She was the most gorgeous and amazing person he ever met. Hangman would give him shit about her being out of his league, but she would shut that down immediately. She loved Bob for who he was. It didn’t matter what he looked like, plus she loved these glasses on him. He would get all red when she sent him pictures from her shoots. The Dagger Squad met her the first night, she was one of Nat’s friends. Hangman tried to hit on her, but she wasn't interested. She only had eyes for the quiet, adorable guy in the corner. she asked Nat about him, that was her WSO whom she told her stories about. He was a bumbling mess when she approached him, he had never seen a more pretty girl in his life. And the rest was history.

Now he knew how gorgeous she was and he made sure she knew it too, but around the squad, he acted nonchalant about it. Like he wasn’t dating an actual supermodel. But that was because she was more than that to him. She didn’t tell him right off the bat what she did. She had been used too many times. she told him on y’all’s 5-month anniversary. He never changed how he treated her. He was fiercely protective over her, especially at the Hard Deck. He knew how not only men thought, but aviators thought and that was a dangerous combination around such a gorgeous girl. She thought it was cute when he got overprotective, cause she knew that she only had eyes for him. When y'all got married it would be at the courthouse, in secret, but after Nat saw a ring around his neck they had a huge party to celebrate.

He is a cocky mix of hangman and the protectiveness of Rooster. He wouldn’t tell the other guys what you did. Just that he had the most gorgeous girlfriend ever and he would say Mav could never meet her (he does and jokes about how such a gorgeous woman was with Iceman). Mav also happened to be the one who recognized her for being an Angel. Ice would love for you to do a little fashion show for him with whatever you were able to bring home from work. (And love to rip it off you). He met you as a model and has supported you the whole way through your career. He will always try his hardest to be at every show of yours and can do so more as he climbs up the ranks.

Oh boy, he is almost as cocky as Hangman. Would never shut up about how smoking hot his girl is (would say it that way too). She fell for him because of his humor and he fell for her because of how stunning and kind she is. They met at the bar, due to Mav’s and Goose’s ‘lost that loving feeling’ routine. She wouldn’t want to tell him what she did, but he found out one day when he saw her picture in the Victoria's Secret window at the mall. She thought he would be mad for her not telling him, but it was the opposite. He was over the moon to be lucky enough to have an actual angel as his girlfriend. Would beg you to give him a little fashion show and to let him come to every show. And yes he would, and yes he paid for it when he got back to base (Ice saved his ass most of the time though)

Show off to the max. Due to y‘all being high school sweethearts, he knew you before being a Victoria's Secret model. That doesn't stop him from letting everyone know who his girlfriend, later his wife and mother to his child, is. Would be like a kid in a candy store when you showed him pictures or saw pictures of your shoots. He would be the biggest show-off. Your pictures would be all over his locker, in his helmet, in the pocket of his flight suit, and pretty much anywhere he could put a picture you would be there.

[respawned-dove]

GOD your headcanons are so good... could i maybe get a short fic with a yandere sniper x transmasc reader.... doing gods work ouult here

I hope you don't mind it, anon, I heavily headcanon Sniper as transmasc as well, so this will be t4t.

yan! transmasc! Sniper x transmasc! Reader - NSFW

CW/TW: stalking, violence, noncon voyeurism, implied necrophilism (not descriptive, imagined by a character and not actually happening), marijuana & cigarette mentions, self loathing, sadism

Worn leather boots trudge up sandy dirt as Sniper steps out of his camper, shifting the strap of his gun as he looks up at the buildings above him. In the dark, the apartment blocks and houses loom overhead with darkened windows. He’s been here often enough that he knows exactly the fire escape to climb, and the exact ladder from there that takes him to the roof. Settling into the highest point, he sets up his gun in a makeshift nest. The only reason he brought it, really, is the scope. His scope is a fucking nice one, he doesn’t even hazard a guess at how much it cost the people he works for. It’s perfect for seeing long distances, for seeing into the crevices of every place he’s not meant to look.

Through the small lens, he focuses in on a seemingly random apartment, seeking the content within. The lights are still on, and being so high up, you never close your blinds. It gives him a view of your bedroom window, like a private theatre screen. He checks his watch, which reads 22:00, around the time you get into the shower every night. Annoyingly he has some time to kill before you’ll be there to watch. Grumbling to himself, he pulls out a cigarette to smoke. Lit, he pulls a puff of smoke in, eyes still focused through the scope.

Sniper has been watching you for a while now, though what started it he himself can hardly remember. A bit too much kindness shown to a stranger in a public place, being followed home without noticing, and now you have a gunman’s sights trained on you for life. He closes his eyes as he takes a particularly deep breath of nicotine, something itching in his mind. It bothers him often, the idea of approaching you again. You wouldn’t remember him, surely. It would just be an organic meeting, an organic going out for drinks.

With a grimace, he puts out the cigarette on his own hand, scoffing at himself. As if he feels at place enough in a bar to take you out, or could have a normal conversation for once in his life. It’s not worth the risk of ruining the chance. He prefers the fantasy of you. The idea of having you to himself, without any of the practice required to maintain a relationship with a human being.

Before he can dwell on his moping, there’s movement in your room. You step out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. His cheeks grow ruddy and his hands grip tighter to his gun as he watches you move. He remembers the first time he saw you like this, the brief confusion at the towel being over your middle and bottom at once. But it came off and showed him the stars. Thinking about it stirs him up, and as the towel falls from you in his scope, he tugs his own pants off a bit, unbuttoning them to reach his own tcock.

Touching himself slowly, firmly, he watches you move around the room naked. Dumb thing to do with your blinds open, he thinks. Like you want someone to bloody stare at you. He bites his lip, hard, breathing out heavily. The thought that you know somehow, that you would want him to be seeing you like this, it makes his whole body hot. You’ve laid out on your bed, naked. Innocently relaxing post-shower. All while giving him the perfect view of your entire form.

Your body is softer than his. You’ve definitely not been taking testosterone as long as he has. Eyes half closing he pictures how warm and gentle your flesh would be, yielding to his hands as they would squeeze and prod at you. In his mind he pictures what your moans might sound like. He imagines how easily you might get aroused with him touching you, how easily his fingers would fit into you. He curls two into himself, imagining it’s your body instead. It makes him shudder and groan, adjusting the scope to zoom in on you even further. God, it’s like he’s right there in bed with you.

He bites a tooth into his fresh cigarette burn, crying out and groaning quietly. Would you do things like that for him? Would you hurt him? Let him hurt you? In the hot night air he’s drenched in sweat, jerking himself off to the sight of you, the idea of you. He imagines putting on a harness and using a toy on you. He’s never done that before, but with you he wants it. He wants it, to feel you pinned under him like a caught animal. Crying under him as he bites and claws you.

You’ve rolled onto your stomach on your bed, and he wants to be there, on top of you, feeling you, hurting you. He strokes his tcock hurriedly, feeling his knife split your skin, feeling his hands hurt you even beyond the ways he’s hurt men before. Hitting you, carving into you, smashing your head onto the ground until you’re silent. Warm blood coming from your skin. And his hands the cause of it all, pleasure, pain. He feels you cum. He feels you die. And then he cums to the thought.

The clarity of what he just got off to hits him before he’s even done orgasming, and he reels his face away from his scope, panting hotly. The redness in his face becomes one of shame rather than arousal, and he clutches a hand into his shirt as he tries to calm himself down. What kind of sick freak is he, what was that? He knows what it was. He thinks these things often, no matter how much he pushes them back. Even on the battlefield he feels that excitement, the arousal of someone dying by his hand. Pleasure found in splattering brains. But, you? Did he just think that of you?

There’s a reason you’re better off as only an idea to him.

He wipes his hand on his own clothes and packs himself back up in his van as quickly as possible. Drives far away, even past his team’s base, out into the desert. Quiet. It’s quiet out there. He parks, and rests his head on the steering wheel. Nothing but the sounds of night out there now. And him panting.

Sleep doesn’t come for him that night, and instead he spends it trying to stop thinking about you and how you’re sleeping. He smokes, then smokes weed instead, and watches the sun rising while telling himself he can’t even go back and watch you again, that he can’t let himself indulge in the sadism he can never wash his brain from.

But he will go back. And he will watch you again. And of course, he’ll cum to those exact thoughts, again and again.

[hatefueled]

He can still hear it despite the drowning noise of fire burning, and the stretch of smoke and charred ash in front of him. The strange echoing of the voice on the other side; coming from a man who he could just barely make out the figure of. Yes if he lets himself, he can hear it clear as a bell:

Aeragan-Epharshel contains crucial strategic resources. He who claims it first will take great advantage in departmental competition.

He was the face of the people who Jericho and his own had been fighting so hard to push out. Some part of him knew they didn't stand a chance, that something was bound to break eventually...

As these savage and uncivilized cowboys are unwilling to cooperate with the Marketing Development Department, we have no choice but to assume administration of this world on their behalf.

We are running out of time.

You are permitted to use military force and bring civilization to this world.

This? This was force? What was everything before that? An invasion was meant to be a kindness? Them and their idea of help- was not wanted.

Jericho had been hopeful, even in his frantic rush to return home.

He had clung to it, and kept going even when his chest hurt. Only to return to the skeleton remains of what was left. There was so much here just this morning; a farmstead, a handful of buildings, green and gold fields and trees. It was as if someone spilled black and grey on a finished canvas. And still... he still hoped that maybe someone got out. That his fathers, as old as they were, had escaped the blasts. The worst of it is still burning too hot for him to explore, but he looks anyway. As close as he can.

He finds things here and there; remnants that managed to endure the worst of it. Pictures, objects caked in ash and soot. Glimpses of memories he's going to have to say goodbye to. He can't stay here, even if the people he loves most have managed on their own. They'd just raze it again, wouldn't they? These things though, places and objects are replaceable. He'll make it work again.

His footsteps feel leaden, heavy. And it's hard to keep going, but the chance that he might find someone alive here, he couldn't risk being anything less.

Of course Jericho calls out to them. Calls out until his voice has grown horse from overuse. Till the sun is well into the sky again, and begins it's descent into the horizon. Even after hours, most of the fire is still burning strong- and it will likely continue for days. But the smoke has cleared enough for him to see better. To spot bodies of people he knew in passing, people he's fought with, people he knew from market or a neighboring home.

Soon enough, he stumbled upon a torn red poncho, it was too small, caught on a lone bit of lumber. It's shape blowing in the wind like a death flag.

That was enough.

That alone was enough to know, there was nothing left.

A sound catches his attention then, before the well of grief and panic has a chance to take hold of him. The grip on the fabric tightening as his head whips around, catching the sight of an object racing towards the sky. He didn't have time for ceremony, no time to pay the respects they deserved. Instead he swallowed it down; the pain, the tears, the racking sobs. His rage instead, pinpoint and bubbling in his chest. It's hard to grasp how much he feels, numb and yet so overwhelmed all at once. He wants to cry, to yell, to bury himself alongside the remnants of those he's lost.

But more than that...

Gaze lingers on the sky even after they're long gone. And he knows they'll likely be here to pick through whatever's left. He can't be here when they do.

He needed to get on one of those ships.

He needed a gun.

And he needed to find that man.

[llovelyclouds]

notes on pyrrha dve

heres all the relevant info i took note of on pyrrha during my tlt reread, in one place!

(you can find all the other posts from this project here!)

PYRRHA DVE

titles:

Gideon’s cavalier, first gen, founded the second

greek mythological orgin of the name pyrrha

also, pyrrhic victory

notes from gideon the ninth:

G1deon & Pyrrha's room in Canaan house includes a drawing of a chimaera that Gideon describes as "familiar" and a picture on the wall of John and his pals (presumably) with everyone's faces scribbled out with a thick black marker. Also guns (gtn. pg. 205)

notes from harrow the ninth:

presumably lead the development of her and G1dieon's trial at Canaan house, as Mercy refers to it as "Pyrrha's trial" (htn. pg. 97)

 The reason G1deon is named the Saint of Duty (htn. pg. 177)

Asked Wake to kill G1deon quickly (htn. pg. 205)

Was most likely the one conscious in G1dieon’s body when Harrow caught her fucking Wake in Cytherea’s body????? (htn. pg. 216)

"I will remember the first time you kissed me- you apologised- you said, I am sorry, destroy me as I am, but I want to kiss you before I am killed, and I said to you why, and you said, because I have only once met someone so utterly willing to burn for what they believed in, and I loved him on sight, and the first time I died I asked of him what I now ask of you / I kissed you and later I would kiss him too before I understood what you were, and all three of us lived to regret it- but when I am in heaven I will remember your mouth, and when you roast down in hell I think you will remember mine" -Wake's note (htn. pg. 252)

All the lyctors and John loved her (and also thought she was super hot) (htn. pg. 274)

Augustine developed his smoking habit to impress her (htn. pg. 275)

Was ten years older than Augustine (htn. Pg. 278)

G1deon & Pyrrha liked Alecto despite the fact that the other lyctors (at least Mercy and Augustine) didn't (htn. pg. 479)

Mattaius Nonius fought G1deon, and seems to owe Pyrrha a debt (htn. pg. 455)

"We compartmentalised from the Eightfold Word, just like you and your girl- though I'm an accident, and he took more from me than got taken from you. I was able to go underground, even from him."- Pyrrha (htn. pg. 494)

notes from nona the ninth:

Used to be a cop, made detective, knew Gideon from "way back" (ntn. pg. 74)

"'You should be draining and replacing her fucking brain fluid,' said Pyrrha. 'When Gideon and I designed that trial, I used to crack his skull and sieve it myself, just as a control variable. It's aggregative. I doubt you're testing her white blood cell count either. The only other people I put through that damn trial were Mercy and Cris, because only Cris didn't mind being trepanned on the regular. Fucking around with souls is the problem, Sextus… you can't ever get data on souls.'" - Pyrrha, discussing when Cam & Pal "overlap" (ntn. pg. 84)

"I visited her hometown back before Anastasia got settled, and it was grim as fuck then. Just spooky caves all the way down…" -Pyrrha (ntn. pg. 86)

"'Do they still do gravid carry where you come from?' 'On the Sixth, only for research,' said Palamedes. 'I helped at a birth once. Theres a lot of noise and run-up before the real thing happens.'" -Pyrrha and Palamedes (ntn. pg. 121)

"P- was great, but like, Ministry ties or no Ministry ties, a big part of her career was going around to the local high schools and telling the drugs kids that they shouldn't be doing drugs. She'd won medals for competition shooting back north in Hamilton, but we're not talking Jesse James. We're talking Hamilton."- john (ntn. pg. 191)

"She chose us that day, not her career. I always loved her for that. She'd adored being a cop." -john (ntn. pg. 191)

"and it was P- of all people who said, First things first. If they're going to let us fix the world, you've got to make them take us seriously. Get some leverage. If they want to make you into a bad wizard, be a bad wizard. We can write the history books to say you were a good wizard. Or at least an okay wizard. They're not going to listen because we talk nicely, they're going to listen because we scare the shit out of them. He said, Which goes to show you that only getting to NCEA Level 2 isnt going to stop you making waves in life, right." (ntn. pg. 271)

"Nona had thrown exactly two tantrums in her entire life. She couldn't remember anything about the first one, but Pyrrha had told her about it. Pyrrha had been laughing with her mouth, but not with her eyes: her eyes had been very brown and distant and uneasy, as though this tantrum had reminded Pyrrha of something her brain didn't want to bring back." (ntn. pg. 275)

She mentions disco?? how does she know what disco is??? (ntn. pg. 362)

"Gideon… G-, you died for nothing." -Pyrrha (ntn. pg. 390)

“I remember P- behind a barricade… not dead yet… telling me, John, run.” (ntn. pg. 406)

Died pretty immediately after Mercy and Augustine, but before G1deon (ntn. Pg. 407)

“Who are you, foreigner, that you know the mysteries of the Anastasian?” “I was here before it was the Anastasian,” said Pyrrha absently. “Painted a nursery. Mint green.” (ntn. pg. 453)

“Cass and Mercy and I worked on cell thanergy- we need thanergy, fresh thanergy, to activate…” - Pyrrha (ntn. pg. 471)

“And Alecto said, Pyrrha, he laid me down as an appeasement to them; he fed you to them as an appeasement to them; but he has never appeased me, and now all he has done was teach me how to die.“ (ntn. Pg. 476)