#Rhythm Indiana

[parwatisingari]

Jarjara Puja

JARJARA PUJA This is an excerpt from the paper on Purvaranga presented at the National conference at Dharwad on  Natyashastra and Yakshagana. The paper looked the connect between nature worship and performing arts. The Jarjara Puja is very expressive of this concept. Key words:       purvaranga, worship, jarjara, world tree, Natyashastra. The Purva ranga is a sacred ritual that marks the…

[trevlad-sounds]

Invisible Waves 27.

07.06.2024

Intro 00:00 36-Echo Diffusion 00:08 Chapter 1 03:23 Takahiro Mukai-#537 08:33 REVBJELDE-THIRD ON A WIRE 13:12 Chapter 2 16:28 Tycho-Phantom 23:33 Sleep Underwriter-Ninth 28:12 Chapter 3 32:27 Sweatson Klank,Kondi Band-Money Face – Instrumental 35:03 Dub Atomica (Ian Boddy & Nigel Mullaney)-Rhodeo 39:17 Chapter 4 46:51 Floating World Pictures with Ocean Moon-Hourglass Labyrinth 51:23

[caitified]

wag life

caitlin clark x reader

warnings:none

caitlin clark wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when she moved to indiana. the city was new, the team was different, and for the first time in a while, she found herself in an unfamiliar place where everything felt… temporary. it wasn’t like iowa, where she’d been rooted for so long. but she was ready for the challenge—both on and off the court.

what she didn’t expect, though, was you.

the first time she saw you was at a community event shortly after she moved. you stood out to her immediately, not just because you were stunning, but because of the way you moved through the room with an effortless kind of confidence. you were younger, about three years her junior, but you held your own, charming everyone around you. caitlin was intrigued before she even realized it, her eyes following you across the room.

you were talking to a small group of people, your laughter carrying across the room, and caitlin couldn’t help but smile to herself. she wasn’t usually shy, especially when it came to meeting new people, but something about you made her hesitate. you had a presence that drew people in, and she wasn’t quite sure how to approach you without seeming out of place.

just as she was about to turn away and head to another part of the event, you caught her looking. you smiled, your eyes lighting up as recognition crossed your face.

“you’re caitlin clark,” you said, walking over to her, your voice confident and friendly.

caitlin smiled, a little taken aback by how easy you made it to start a conversation. “guilty,” she replied, her tone playful. “you know me?”

you laughed softly. “of course. who doesn’t know caitlin clark?” there was a teasing edge to your voice, but caitlin could tell you were sincere. “i’m a big fan. and i’ve been following your move here.”

caitlin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “oh yeah? so, what do you think of indiana?”

you smiled, shrugging a little. “it’s home. you’ll get used to it. we’ve got good people here.” there was something warm and reassuring about the way you said it, and caitlin found herself wanting to know more.

over the course of the night, the two of you fell into easy conversation. caitlin learned that you were a bit of a social media sensation—a famous influencer who had built a following through your fashion sense and your passion for sports. you talked about how much you loved attending games, how you always made sure to support your favorite athletes. you were younger, but there was a maturity about you that caitlin admired.

“i have a feeling i’ll be seeing you at a lot of games,” caitlin teased, taking a sip of her drink as the two of you stood near the bar.

you grinned, not missing a beat. “you can count on it. i’ll be front and center, cheering you on in the best outfits you’ve ever seen.”

caitlin chuckled, already feeling a pull toward you. there was something easy about being around you, and it wasn’t just because you were a fan. it was the way you seemed to understand her, even in the short time you’d spent together.

by the end of the night, caitlin found herself wanting more. so, as the event was winding down, she took a chance.

“hey,” she said softly, her tone more serious now. “would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? i’d love to keep this conversation going… without the crowd.”

you smiled, your eyes bright as you nodded. “i’d love that.”

from that dinner, things moved quickly. you and caitlin fell into an easy rhythm, your lives beginning to intertwine in ways that neither of you had expected. you made it clear early on how much you supported her—showing up to her games, wearing her jerseys, and posting about her on social media. but it was more than that. you didn’t just show up because of her fame. you showed up because you believed in her.

every time caitlin looked up in the stands, there you were—smiling, cheering her on, decked out in carefully curated outfits that matched the team colors or had some subtle nod to her. the fans loved you for it. they loved how devoted you were to caitlin, how you seemed to bring a new energy to her games. and caitlin loved it too.

you became known as the ultimate wag—always supporting caitlin in the most fashionable way possible, your relationship slowly becoming public as people began to notice just how often you were by her side. it wasn’t long before fans started calling you caitlin’s biggest supporter, and they adored the way you were unapologetically proud of her.

but it wasn’t just about the public displays of support. it was the quiet moments that meant the most to caitlin. the way you’d be there for her after a tough game, offering her comfort without saying too much. the way you understood the pressure she was under, always knowing when to push her and when to give her space.

one night, after a particularly grueling game, caitlin found herself in your apartment, exhausted but happy to be with you. you were curled up on the couch together, your head resting on her shoulder as you scrolled through your phone, probably looking at the photos you’d posted from the game.

“i don’t know how you do it,” caitlin said, her voice soft as she watched you.

“do what?” you asked, looking up at her.

“keep up with all this,” caitlin replied, gesturing to your phone and the whirlwind of attention that always seemed to follow you. “you’re constantly in the spotlight, and yet… you still make time for me.”

you smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “because you’re worth it,” you said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “and besides, i like supporting you. you make it easy.”

caitlin felt her heart swell at your words. you weren’t just her girlfriend—you were her biggest fan, her partner in everything. she pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“i don’t think i could do this without you,” she admitted quietly.

you looked up at her, your expression soft but full of affection. “good thing you’ll never have to.”

please keep the requests coming. i love your ideas! thanks for all of the support

[wroteclassicaly]

18+

“I want you,” is all your voice can manage, evaporating into the raw need that you are currently holding for your best-friend.

It’s a mutual lunch break hour from differing work environments, and you’d managed to huddle up into your benefits part of the friendship package, piling into Steve’s backseat. It’s not the first time… and it definitely will not be the last…

You’re insatiable for him, thoughts having been built from the night before, as you came three times with his name on your kiss starved lips.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Paper bags and wrappers are carelessly littered to the beemer’s floorboards. Jackets discarded. Indiana’s icy autumn air goes hand in hand with Steve’s heater - leaving behind streaks of accumulated fog that is glistening across every window. Traded lunch tastes linger with every kiss. Steve’s peanut butter and jelly strong on his tongue as you pass it by with a sweep of your own turkey club.

And if you ask Steve Harrington one of the things he most remembers about today, it’s how you shamelessly licked the chip crumb from the corner of his mouth to finish it off. You were helped into his lap when the turning point occurred (a look, one that’s before a paused heartbeat, a sharp - shared breath). Only, it’s different on this occasion. Sure, you’ve taken control before, rode him until his eyes crossed and his toes curled into a crack, one that had him squeezing you so hard that you felt it for days. However, there’s something more building here and he knows that you know, but he isn’t sure what will happen (he is just privy to what he wants, what he’s fucking terrified to say).

“You have me,” he says, a blush pecking into the apple of his cheeks, results stirring between his legs.

You both take in those words - for a moment the sound of a soft rain and falling leaves trickling across his back windshield all that you can hear. But then Steve exhales a withheld breath that bumps at you from positioning, and you’re super sensitive to the situation, the need becoming an aching, overwhelming hunger to have. You find that freckle on his left ear first, licking your way down his jaw to follow, your hips starting rock in his lap - an established rhythm you’d worked together to find over the months. Steve’s eyes roll back, toes tingling in his Nike’s, and he’s realizing the interior of his car’s roof.

“Holy shit, honey.”

It’s said wet, weak. And he’s pretty sure he just spit the words into the air. But you pay it no mind, encouraged to find those defined tendons, covered in old scars and beauty marks alike - paying attention to each one. Steve attempts to raise his hips, close his legs to get some friction on his own accord. You provide, in synch, seconds later, dipping into a particularly hard thrust that has him whining into a whimpering pain.

It rushes across your body - molten heat obliterating your insides into an irreparable mess. Pulling away, you press your fingers straight into his mouth, nudging his chin back, your own tongue slicking across your teeth as you watch yourself wrecking him in only ways that you know how. Starved to command, to pleasure, to give to him, it’s leaving your lungs and you don’t try to stop it.

“Suck on them. Come on, Steve, work for it.”

He doesn’t falter, the blown amber irises into twisted tangles, gone to blown abyss that is his pupils. He’s gone glazed over, sucking the salty taste off your digits, wanting so badly to be good for you. His trust in you, his engagement, you’re having to undo his jeans with a noisy, hasty hassle. Getting him bare cannot come quick enough. Watching his size spill from his briefs, resting its heavy, warm weight in your grasp as you reach - it takes you completely under its bidding. Steve is mesmerized, hands finding the plush of your waist to hold onto.

You manage to get your tights slid down from beneath your tennis skirt, coolness rushing in to prickle along your flesh. You won’t be bothered with boots, so you simply slide the pink silk aside, hovering over him. Steve can feel the slick silk as you brush yourself across his length, gently giving a tantalizing taste of a tease, your hand shining with the stain of his pre-release. He wants to pound you into the driver’s seat, his teeth clenched, legs bouncing. It simply serves to add more to the temptress show.

There’s a particularly large surge of rain that spills across the crystal behind your heads, in perfect timing with your new whispers. You get close, hands now pushing his shirt up to expose that deliciously black tufted chest, taking your fingers through soft curls. You circle his areola with a nail’s edge, lips sucking in his earlobe, before releasing to divulge a secret. “Wanna take you home and lay you out in my bed, pin your hands above your head.”

A low groan rumbles into a release from his throat. You take pity, one hand cupping his cheek. He holds his breath, your spare hand remaining on his chest, both heartbeats doing sporadic gallops, eyes zoned in on one another. He can’t function, you can barely let it roll off of your salivating tongue. “You gonna let me fuck you?”

Steve cries out, a literal beg and plead combo that makes you grasp and tug him back into your palm. It serves to your reminding cause. “Such a good guy, Steve. An incredible lover, the best best-friend a girl will ever have. Teaching me so much, always willing to learn.”

He goes shy at that, tries to tuck his face into your shoulder. “M’ not…”

Your spare hand finds his chin and holds him level. “You’re fucking everything, Steve Harrington. And I wanna — no — I need to feel you inside every single part of me.”

There’s this bone deep, muscle scraping rasp that drips like scorching, soaking hot honey when he speaks. You watch the five o’clock shadow swirl around his mouth as it separates to answer. His hands pinching into your sides, releasing to gently rub up and down the fabric of your shirt that is keeping parts of your skin away from him. You await, a soft smile indenting. One of his hands makes its way to your jawline, cradling, thumbing along the bone to help beckon you into his kiss.

Upon parting, lips grazing, stringing together - he lets you know. “So much crap has always been confusing, but you… You’re not.”

Your brows push together, throat constricting around a vice grip. Implications are fragrant, clear. No more exchanges as Steve’s hand finds your neck’s nape and brings you to his forehead, your leverage given to sink down in his lap. He frowns into his drawn out moan, relaxing into your shape. You curse at the stretch, hands seeking his shoulders out, digging into the blades.

You move, taking him with you. Your pace beginning slow, climbing to a quickening desperation, a burrowing trying work you over from the inside out. Throwing your face into his neck, it has you biting, marking. Steve’s breathing becomes choppy in just several minutes, his knees jerking rapidly, you controlling the rhythm, using him, being with him. He’s a sweaty, disheveled mess - hair askew from your languid pullings, shirt still wound up, and jeans soaked from the both of you.

There’s a sound that throttles his diaphragm, comes out tenfold. His massive palm slapping around to your tailbone, before it dives up the back of your shirt, fingertips dancing, shaping letters along your flesh, ending right beneath your bra band. He nuzzles your throat, leaves a kiss. “Yeah? It’s okay if I…?”

God… you can’t take it anymore. This man drives you past outer-limits.

You consent, and your bra straps are sliding from beneath your sleeves, falling over your arms, and discarded behind somewhere. Steve immediately brings your naked chest to his, breasts squished, stimulated by his fluffy, chestnut embankment. Hands find another set, fingers interlocking, and you rock so hard that his car begins to vibrate. Seconds, hours - who knows? Steve is pitiful in his warning.

“I’m gonna — Can I cum?”

You share a cheshire set of twin grins. Your mouths meet, arms raising to hold his against your hips, just… feeling your movements. You’re nodding, nipping at the stubble underneath his jawline. He swells instantly, his grip so tight on you that you can’t help but to pick your pace up to help him ride out his high.

“Good boy, baby. Feels so right, doesn’t it?”

Steve’s jaw unhinges, throat muscles tightening, legs raising until his knees hit the backs of your thighs, and everything rings static in his ears as the knot unravels at his navel, catching all on the way down to where you’re joined. He’s pulsing inside, a wide whine stretching past his lungs, slipping off his tongue. You lick at it, slowing your pace as not to overstimulate. His heart is racing, damp chest taking purchase across your own, making you rest your forehead against him. It’s a few moments that it takes you, and - reluctantly - you start to rise off, hand shifting between your thighs to press into your clit, mumbling how you wished you brought a toy to plug his essence inside.

There’s a panicked look that overtakes his perspired form, and he’s automatically keeping you in place, making you reach for his shoulder, tightening around his sensitive cock. “Steve…”

“Just… wait! Leave it inside?”

Fuck. This man…

“You sure you can handle it? I don’t mind.”

A reserved fondness, he unlocks a hand that still remains held with your own, half his fingers on your neck, the other on your face to hold. His eyes dart back and forth, a sparkling mirth making your heart dip to rise. You get it.

“I want you to finish with me still here.” He’s let go of your other hand to urge your hand aside and spread you apart with his own thumb, admiring the shine of mixed wants.

And those words… Fuck, they’re on the tip of your tongue. You’re not sure how much longer you’re going to be able to hold them back for.

[sweetbans29]

Stress Ball - CC

Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader

Summary: The little things you do for Caitlin when she is stressed during a game (based on THIS request)

Warnings: Stressed CC

Word Count: 1.6k

Sweetbans Masterlist

AN: What I would give to be able to do this for her.

The expectations that the world has on Caitlin are unrealistic. Still in her rookie year, people have higher expectations on her than they do veterans who have been playing 5+ years in the league. Now that is not to say Caitlin is not capable because she very much is but the last thing she needs is someone else adding on to the expectations she has on herself.

When you first met Caitlin it was always in passing, playing against each other in tournaments and things like that. It wasn't until you both got drafted to Indiana that you really started to get to know each other. The two of you immediately hit it off in training camp and it was right before the first preseason game when you asked her out. To say things moved fast was an understatement.

It's now 4 months into the season and it has felt like you have been together for years. Being with Caitlin came so easy it was almost scary. Yet every time it felt like it should have gone up in flames, it didn't. The two of you would figure it out together and grow. You complemented each other well.

That leads you to right now. The Fever are playing the Lynx for the last time this season and everything is going wrong for the rookie star. At the end of the first quarter she has no points, 1 rebound and 1 assist. That is including the 2 personal fouls and 2 turnovers.

Everyone breaks from the first quarter huddle and Caitlin doesn't stand up. She just sits there her Gatorade towel bitten between her teeth. She loves those things more than she loves you (not actually but you tease her about it all the time). You can tell she is stuck in her mind which is exactly where she shouldn't be in a time like this. Down 10 after the first, the team needs her to not be stressed but locked in.

You grab your towel and place it around her shoulder. Usually you would pull at her towel and annoy her but seeing her state you decide against it.

Caitlin doesn't look up at you and continues to chew on her towel. You place your hand on her head, moving it to the side of it to sooth other her hair when she leans her head into your hand.

Nothing is said, nothing needs to be said. You know where she is at and she knows you know what she is at.

The buzzard rings and Caitlin finally stands. You remove the towel you put around her shoulders and she puts down her towel as the two of you walk back out to the floor.

The second quarter goes a little better. Caitlin gets on the board with a quick 4 points and it seems like there is momentum building. That is until things get heated between Temi and Alana.

You know Caitlin hates when she is starting to build momentum and something stops it. With a little confrontation on the floor, Caitlin becomes visibly frustrated and she throws her hands up in the air. walking in the other direction. You first help Aliyah grab Temi as the teams are told to go to their respective benches while the refs watch the replay.

Cait is standing on the floor with her hands on her hips, completely unamused. You walk over to her and push her to the bench. While walking behind her, your hands massage her shoulders before coming down to pinch her waist.

"Don't worry, your rhythm will be there when we get back on," you say softly to her. She nods once.

You never want to overstep when it comes to comforting Caitlin on the court. And you would say you do a pretty good job of making sure that you don't but today seems like one of those days where you just can't do enough.

At the half, Caitlin has been doing better but you can tell by her mannerisms that she is not playing near to the standard she is holding herself to.

As everyone is walking back out to the court to stay warm, you grab Caitlin's arm before heading out of the tunnel.

"Hey," you say but she won't make eye contact with you. "Look at me."

When she doesn't, you know she is internally fighting with you and she doesn't want to give in.

You grab her face and force her to look at you. You want to say something, give her encouraging words but know that would only piss her off so you settle with kissing her on the nose.

The action earns you a little smile from her and you let go of her. She begins walking back out and you give her a little slap on the butt.

"Hey!" She squeals causing you to laugh and run out in front of her onto the court.

The third quarter is better. You can see she is playing more like herself. She has made the decision to out the team on her back and carry everyone to the finish line. Everything was going much better until she is fouled and the refs don't make the call.

Her arms come up in a 'how did you not see that' motion and you are quick to grab her arm. The ball goes back the opposing way and Phee draws the foul on Lyss. Everyone is just standing around while the refs discuss something and you notice Caitlin getting frustrated with her hair. You look over at her redoing it for the second time in a row as she lets out a annoyed puff.

You walk over to your girl and pull her hair out of her last attempt. She is about to protest but you are forcing her to bend over so you can collect all of her hair. She giggles, surprising you as you allow her to flip back up.

Now standing begin her as you sooth out the bumps and tie the hair tie around it.

"What is so funny?" You ask as you finish and she turns around smiling. The refs finally walk back over and give Phee her first free throw shot.

"I drooled," Caitlin says as you both look down at the court where sure enough, there was a little pile of Caitlin's spit.

"Ewww gross," you say teasing her and she pushes you playfully. She uses her shoes to clear out it out and you help her. When one of the court-side workers see the two of you trying to clear something up, they run over and wipe it with a towel.

"Careful there, she might be contagious," you tease as the guy looks at you confused. Caitlin just rolls her eyes and pushes you again.

You finish helping her with her hair but bringing her little headband back up to keep the little fly-aways out of her face.

"All better," you say and she looks at you with a little smile.

"Thank you," she says.

"Now let's win this game," you say and push her back to the back court to get the inbound pass.

The game comes down to the wire as the Fever somehow manage to pull out the win. Caitlin and Aliyah head to the pressor after while you and the rest of the team get to head back to the locker.

They are almost through the pressor when someone asks about the interactions between you and Caitlin.

"Caitlin, how do you manage stress when you are on the floor? It seems like you weren't playing like your usual self starting the game off but then came back and dominated the second half." The reported says.

Aliyah looks over at Caitlin with a knowing look.

"Ya, how do you manage your stress on the floor?" Aliyah says egging Caitlin on.

"Well, I have great teammates that know how to lift me up. The success of the team doesn't rely on one person. The win didn't come with me in the second half - ya sure, I helped and contributed but it first started off with Aliyah in the first half. She kept us in the game until I was able to heat up a little." Caitlin says, not specifically mentioning you. Regardless of if she mentions you or not, she knows there are going to be a disgusting amount of edits by tomorrow morning of the two of you, not that she ever minds.

As Aliyah and Caitlin are walking back, Aliyah bumps Caitlin.

"I am so telling your girl you just called her your teammate," Aliyah says.

"She is, she is our teammate," Caitlin says.

"Ya but you and the whole world knows she is is the sole reason you were able to get out of your head and back in this game and you just called her a teammate," Aliyah says.

"It isn't a big deal," Caitlin says.

"Fine, then I am going to go and tell her exactly what you said," Aliyah say as she picks up her pace to run and tell you that Caitlin only called you her teammate and not her girlfriend.

"No, wait!" Caitlin calls after Aliyah as she picks up her pace to stop her from tattling.

AN: Short and sweet! Let me know what you think! And as always, thank you for the love and support

[glorious-spoon]

hello!! happy tuesday!! requesting 💛 💗💜 for buddie :)

thank you!! 💛 - reunion kiss/relief

The Indiana Jones Thing [On AO3] 2.3K words | buddie | near death experience | first kiss

-

The horizon dips and sways in Buck's field of vision, salt stinging his eyes and lips. His whole world is shades of blue: the ocean around him and the cloudless sky overhead, the white sun beating down. His skin from the shoulders up feels hot and stiff with sunburn, but everything else is cold. Even in the middle of the day, the ocean is so fucking cold.

The Pacific Ocean is one of the warmest oceans in the world, second only to the Indian Ocean. He read that somewhere, but he can't remember where, or what got him on the topic in the first place. It might have been Chris, or it might have been one of his insomnia-induced late-night Wikipedia binges in those shaken weeks after the tsunami.

It doesn't feel warm. Not right now. His clothes cling damply to him—t-shirt, uniform pants, his boots long-since kicked off and lost to the depths. He doesn't know how long he's been out here, or how much daylight he has left. How much daylight they have left to search for him, if anyone is even looking.

They're looking for him. He believes that. He does.

It's just—he's been treading water for a long time.

Perspective is strange from the water. The waves move him, breaking against his face, blurring his vision, but all he can really see from this angle is the vast blue ceiling of the sky. Birds, sometimes, high and fast-moving. Contrails, even higher than that, sunlight glinting on metal, streaks of vapor spreading out behind. He has a crazy, futile urge to wave his arms and scream every time one passes overhead, like someone's going to spot him from a jet forty thousand feet in the air.

All he can do is keep swimming. The water slips around his arms as he moves, a steady repetitive motion that's as slow as he can make it without actually sinking. Frog kicking to conserve his energy. He's a strong swimmer, always has been. He can do this. They're out here looking for him—he knows it. That means it's his job to stay alive long enough for them to find him.

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming," he mumbles, a cracked, rasping singsong, and the sound of his own voice startles him so badly that he loses the rhythm of his strokes for a moment and goes under. When he finally surfaces again, sputtering, there's a low, rising rumble, the waves around him getting choppier.

Tsunami, he thinks vaguely. But it wouldn't feel like this. Out on the open ocean, tsunamis are fast-moving but barely perceptible on the surface. It's only when they move into the shallow waters closer to shore that the devastation starts. Flooded streets. Toppled cars. A small, precious body clutched in Buck's arms, or falling away into the water with devastating finality.

The rumbling is getting closer. Buck spins clumsily and blinks for a few moments, wondering if it's just a mirage that's about to blur and vanish into the punishing brilliance of the sun on the water. But it stays, and it gets closer: the sleek white shape of a patrol boat cutting through the water toward him, U. S. COAST GUARD printed across his hull.

Buck starts laughing, ragged and breathless. Maybe he's crying, too, or maybe that's just the saltwater stinging his eyes. The sound of the engine vibrates in his chest, in his ears, as someone in a wetsuit drops into the water and starts swimming toward him with long, smooth strokes, RFD towing behind him. For a wild instant, Buck thinks it might be Eddie, but of course when the man gets close enough to make out any detail, he's a stranger. Older, weather-beaten face, no-nonsense expression.

"Alright, Firefighter Buckley," he says as soon as he's close enough, and it's the best thing, the best thing, Buck has heard in hours. "I'm gonna push this floatation device to you, and I want you to grab it and hold on. Got it? Can you do that for me?"

"Y-y-yeah." Buck's teeth are chattering now. He doesn't know if it's cold or adrenaline or both; a wave of weakness washes through him. "I kn-n-now the d-drill."

The RFD bobs through the water toward him. He grabs at it, clutching it to his chest with such force that he goes under again for a second.

God, it's a relief to let his legs go loose, to feel the buoy hold him up, to have his survival dependent on something else besides his own body and stubbornness.

The guardsman waits until his grip is secure to start towing him back toward the boat. After that, it's all a confused blur of harnesses and hands and the sudden chill of the air as his body leaves the water, sopping wet clothes clinging.

He nearly collapses when his feet hit the deck, the abused muscles in his legs cramping and twanging. His arms feel like two chunks of concrete dangling from his shoulders. Two guardsmen catch him before he can collapse—the man from the water, and a woman who's enough shorter that Buck has to tilt at an awkward angle to lean on her shoulder. Someone wraps a thermal blanket around his shoulders, and he's guided stumbling and clumsy to a padded bench. He blinks, squinting in the sunlight—it's past the arch of the sky, heading toward the western horizon now. It was early morning when the boat broke up and he went into the water.

"H-how l-l-long was I—was I out there?" he manages through chattering teeth.

"It's sixteen forty-five now," the woman says. "Took us a while to pinpoint your location. You're a strong swimmer, Firefighter Buckley. Good thing, too."

More than nine hours. Closer to ten. He's not sure it felt that long. Time sort of stopped having any real meaning out in the water, but he feels every minute of that time now. "Ju-just Buck. Is f-fine."

"Buck." She actually smiles. "Your team is going to be glad to hear that you're alright. Now I have a few questions, just to see how you're feeling. Are you up for that? Someone's getting some dry clothes for you right now."

He nods. His neck feels heavy, and his muscles are throbbing, and the shivering is worse now, even with the blanket. He stumbles through the assessment, and must reassure her that at the very least he's not about to drop dead on her watch, because after that he's released to change into a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that are several inches too short for him but blissfully dry. After that, he huddles back into the thermal blanket and watches the horizon skid by as the boat makes a wide, looping turn. It looks different from this angle. Bigger. He can see more of the world from above the water than he could when he was trying not to drown, and there's a metaphor in that, maybe.

That's the last thought he remembers having before sleep catches him and drags him under.

-

He wakes to footsteps, the sound of voices. All of the sounds feel louder and closer now, and when he finally drags his eyes open, they're docking. It's nearly sunset, the waves reflecting shifting shades of red and gold. It's pretty, he thinks sleepily. Even if it did just try to kill him. Again.

Shouts. Footsteps on the deck. Then hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm, and Buck blinks up at Bobby.

"Hey, Cap," he mumbles.

"Hey, kid." Those might actually be tears in Bobby's eyes, but he's smiling all the same. "Glad to see you're alright."

"Glad those Navy SEAL tryouts actually paid off," says Chim from behind him, and he's beaming too, unabashedly teary-eyed. "You just saved me from having to make one of the worst phone calls of my life, my friend."

"They wouldn't make you notify Maddie," Buck mumbles. "Against regulation."

"Yeah, and I bet you can name the line and letter," Chim says, as Bobby sinks down and wraps an arm around Buck's shoulders, squeezing tight. Buck leans against him. His skin feels itchy and sore from dried salt and sunburn, but at least he's not shivering anymore. Bobby's here, and Chim. He squints past them, but no other familiar faces appear.

"Hen and Eddie are in the other boat," Bobby says, before he can even ask. "They should be here any minute."

"And you are about to be read the riot act, make no mistake about it."

"Wasn't on purpose."

"Yeah, I know." Chim reaches across Bobby to scruff Buck's salt-sticky hair. "Just the worst luck known to mankind. You've got to be down at least three of those nine lives at this point."

The guardsman who examined him reappears over Chim's shoulder as they bump to a halt next to the dock. "Just a few more minutes, gentlemen. We already called it in; the ambulance will meet us there."

"I'm fine," Buck says, more for form's sake than because he thinks it'll get him off the hook here. "Just tired."

Chim scoffs loudly, and Bobby says, "You're going to the hospital, don't fight me on it."

"Okay," Buck yawns.

He closes his eyes again, not quite sleeping so much as drifting, vaguely aware of the warmth and weight of Bobby's arm, the bustle around him. Then he's being coaxed to his feet, muscles screaming all the way. He tilts heavily into Bobby as Chim steadies him from the other side and they shuffle their way off the boat. Bobby delivers him into the hands of the paramedics, and Buck is sitting on the edge of the ambulance bay while his lungs and pulse are examined for a second time, when he hears a ragged voice shouting his name.

"Oh," Buck says, squinting in the dimming sunset. The lights are on around the dock, making it plenty bright enough for him to make out the tall, dark-haired figure sprinting across the lot toward them.

"Buck," Eddie shouts again, and then again, softer, as he stumbles to a halt in front of him. "Buck."

"Hey, Eddie," Buck mumbles. He blinks a couple of times, but his eyes are having some trouble focusing. Eddie's face blurs before him, then settles. Wind-burnt cheeks, wide, wet, beautiful eyes. Chest heaving like he's been sprinting a lot farther than across the parking lot. "Sorry."

Eddie swears under his breath and steps closer as the paramedic lifts her stethoscope away with a deep sigh.

"I'll give you two a moment," she says.

"I'm sorry," Buck says again, and Eddie says, "Fuck, Jesus Christ, don't be sorry," and heaves him into a hug. It's tight enough to be uncomfortable, as sore as he is, but Eddie is warm and breathing quick against his hair as his hands pat over Buck's back like he's checking for injuries and then just clutch at him, and Buck thinks he could probably happily stay here forever.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he mumbles.

A slightly crazed-sounding laugh escapes Eddie. His cheek scrapes against Buck's, warm, uncomfortably scratchy against his sunburn, and then he turns his head just enough to press his lips to Buck's cheekbone, bruising, barely even a kiss. It does something funny to Buck's insides all the same. "I thought you were dead."

"I'm okay."

"I thought you were dead." It's shaky this time. He's pretty sure Eddie is crying. He thinks he might be, too. Exhaustion and relief and the way Eddie is holding onto him like he can't stand to let go.

The kiss, too. That kiss, just now, that was barely a kiss.

"Eddie, hey." Clumsily, he reaches up. His shoulders ache, his arms feel like lead, but he manages to catch Eddie by the arms. "I'm okay."

Eddie nods against him. Then he kisses Buck's cheek again. This time it's softer, almost delicate; this time, it feels deliberate.

"Are we gonna do the Indiana Jones thing here?" Buck murmurs. "Because I'd be cool with that. For the record. If we are."

Eddie lets out a shaky laugh, which is what he was going for, and finally releases him. He keeps a hand on Buck's shoulder, thumb just brushing the side of his neck, the same way he's always held onto Buck. Over his shoulder, Buck can see Hen approaching, but she hangs back.

"Since when have you seen Indiana Jones?" he asks.

"Blame Chim."

"Okay."

"So," Buck stutters, and it's not the cold now, or exhaustion. This is just nerves. "So—so if you—do you want—?"

Eddie breathes out a quiet laugh. His thumb moves carefully against Buck's skin. And they're doing this, apparently, after everything: right here, on the tailgate of an ambulance with half of their family and a couple of mildly impatient first responders looking on. Buck will be embarrassed about that later, probably.

Right now, though, Eddie says, "Yeah, Buck, of course I do," in that fond quiet voice that Buck loves so much. Right now, Eddie leans down again to kiss Buck a third time, carefully, right on the lips.

It lingers sweetly for a moment. A few yards away, Chim wolf-whistles and Hen starts laughing, but Eddie doesn't pull back until Buck is light-headed and breathless and smiling like a dope.

Eddie looks pretty dopey himself: soft-eyed, a little stunned, even though he's the one who started this. Buck leans up for another kiss, and doesn't break it even when his shoulders and neck cramp into painful knots at the movement. He must make a noise, because Eddie pulls back a moment later. He doesn't go far, though. His hand is still warm on Buck's nape.

"Buck," he says.

"Yeah," Buck sighs, trying not to pout. "You're riding with me in the ambulance, though, right?"

"Obviously. And you're coming home with me after."

"Obviously," Buck repeats. He tilts his chin up for another kiss, even though it hurts, and Eddie lets him.

[justsomerandomfanfic]

In The Summer Heat - Billy Hargrove X Female Reader

Title: In The Summer Heat

Billy Hargrove X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's mother (Mentioned), Billy's mother (Mentioned), and high schoolers (Mentioned)

Requested by: @fandom-princess-forevermore

WC: 2,856

Warnings: Set during either Season 2 or 3, mentions of true crime, mentions of missing people, mild cursing, brief fear, teasing, banter, flirting, nicknames, slight suggestiveness, injuries (cuts/bruises), blood briefly mentioned, brief mentions of heat stoke, slight/mini? angst, and fluff

The breeze that was gently blowing through your window was hardly doing anything to cool down your skin as it passed by. The summers in Hawkins, Indiana were hot and humid. Your mother had always said she wanted to move somewhere warmer. But the only place she could afford was Indiana, where it was already eighty degrees with high humidity. You hated the heat, and trying to distract yourself by reading one of your favorite books was doing close to nothing for you. 

And you were trying everything you could do to avoid the terrible heat getting to you; lighter clothes, window open, even a standing fan in the corner of your room, but nothing seemed to work. There was no escaping it. As much as you wished there was, you couldn't get away from the heat. It was impossible. You took another swig of the cold drink your mother brought up to you before she headed to bed, your hand wet from the condensation on the side of the glass. 

Pressing your wet hand on your forehead, you let the cold condensation cool you down somewhat, shutting your eyes briefly before you opened them back up again and wiped your hand on your shirt. Drying your hand, you grabbed your book again, flipping to the page that you were on, and re-reading the page that you had stopped on. 

Finally falling back into the rhythm of reading - or trying to, at least - you almost completely forgot about the heat until you heard a noise outside of your window. Snapping your eyes from your book, you stared over at your open window; your soft curtains only lightly fluttered in the practically nonexistent breeze. It was dark out. You could only see the tops of the street lamps from across the street as they lit up the neighborhood. Your mind began to race and your heart began to pound; a shiver ran down your spine. 

The many nights listening about true crime on the TV, and hearing about the missing people from the town on the radio, was making your mind race. Could you be next? Unlikely, but still…

A hand reached out from the darkness of the night outside your window, raising up and clutching onto the windowsill; your heart stopped. Your breathing stuttered, and your eyes widened in fear. You were frozen, stuck between fight and flight. As a head pops up, you let out a breath of relief. Your hand snapped up to press against your chest, your heart still racing under your palm.

Billy pushed himself up and over your windowsill, an eyebrow raised as he looked at your - then shocked - and then suddenly relieved expression. Once his feet hit your carpet, you huffed, shutting your book and setting it beside you; your full attention on the young, Californian man you delightfully called your boyfriend. Billy only tilted his head, a small grin growing on his lips. "Scared ya?" He taunted playfully, making you roll your eyes, pushing yourself up a bit more on your bed to fully press your back against your headrest. 

"Scared me? Nah, just startled me a little bit." You shrugged your shoulders, watching as Billy kicked off his shoes and made his way over to you; also dressed for the hot weather - somewhat. How the hell was he surviving in those Jeans? 

"I think being startled is the same as being scared, babe." His voice was low as he walked further into your room, with a slight hint of amusement behind his tone. And then you finally noticed it. The small cut on his temple. 

Your eyes widened as you frantically shuffled your legs, slipping off the bed less than gracefully, but you didn't care, your Billy was hurt. You stood in front of him, taking his face in your hands as you gently turned his head to the side to get a better look at the small scrape on his temple; it was no longer than an inch or so long. It was lightly caked with dried blood, not too much, but it still made your chest tighten at the sight of it. "Billy, what happened? Are you alright?" You asked anxiously, moving your eyes from the cut to his ocean blue eyes.

Billy just gave you his signature grin, though it didn't travel to his eyes; his hands coming up to take hold of your wrists. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me." You pursed your lips, your eyes searching his for a moment, before you brought your attention back to the small wound. You knew something was up, but you didn't want to force him to tell you anything if he didn't want to. He would come to you and tell you when the time was right. So you didn't push, you didn't say a word, only nodding and making your way to your bathroom. You rummaged through your mirror cabinet, finding your small first-aid kit, before returning to your bedroom; and finding Billy already sitting on your bed. Billy wasn't expecting this... Well, he was - you’ve tried to clean up a lot of his injuries before, and you were always so- Well, he didn't really know what to think anymore. "Sweetheart, you don't have to do that-'' Billy started as you walked over to him, but you shook your head.

"If not for you, do this for me," You replied, interrupting him, "Please, Billy." You pleaded, only for him to purse his lips, staring down at your carpeted floor.

"Fine..." He muttered reluctantly, and you nodded, opening the box and gathering your supplies. As he waited, Billy looked around your room. Billy liked your room. It was neat, organized, and comfortable - very unlike the mess that was his room. You had a few posters on your walls, shelves covered in books, and a small boombox on your desk; overall your room really reminded him of you. Calming, and bright.

Looking back at you, Billy could see that you were concentrating very hard on the task at hand, the tip of your tongue peeking out from your lips. Taking out an alcohol wipe, you twisted your body to faced him, "This is going to sting a bit, okay?" Billy said nothing as you then cupped his cheek with one hand, turning his head ever-so-slightly, before dabbing the cut on his temple with the wipe. He shut his eyes, the stinging making him tense his shoulders as you applied gentle pressure to the wound; cleaning the dried blood. "I'm sorry..." You whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "Do you have any other injuries?"

Billy opened his eyes, a slight frown forming on his face as you finished - the bandaid you had chosen for the side of his temple was fruit-themed. "No," He murmured, "Just my face." He said softly.

You didn't respond for a moment, staring at him, and Billy was worried that you could see right through him. You had such an ability, seeing right through him when no one else could. "Shirt off." You pursed your lips again, and Billy could only let out a chuckle, narrowing his eyes at you devilishly.

"Buy me dinner first, sweetheart." 

"Billy." You lightly scolded with a serious expression on your face. "Come on, please?"

With a huff, he stared at you, his smile dropping back into a - rather indifferent - frown. He continued to stare, hoping that you would drop it but you didn't budge. Letting out a deep sigh through his nose, he began to unbutton the rest of his shirt. Mentally, he felt relieved, it was too hot in your room. 

You felt your cheeks warm as your eyes drifted to his exposed upper half - even though you had seen him topless many times before, the butterflies still fluttered in your chest, despite the current situation - he then tossed his shirt to the corner of your bed. Your gaze then dropped, noticing the bruises that littered his side, crawling around to his lower back; they were purple and dark red. Your breath hitched, feeling your eyes burn as you reached out, but your hand shook before stopping short; overwhelming concern settling inside your stomach. 

"I'm fine," He spoke nonchalantly - though, seemingly frustrated with either himself or something - as if what you saw wasn't all that important, "They look worse than they are."

You chose not to say anything - fearing that if you did, that you would cry - grabbing the bruise paste from the first-aid case. You squeezed some of it onto your fingers, before gently rubbing it across his side, making sure to cover the bruises as much as you could. And for Billy, he was just watching you, noticing your lips were pulled into a thin line, and your brows were furrowed together, clearly concerned about him, as he sat silently on your bed. Billy felt his body become warm, and he doubted that it was from the unbearable summer heat. His heart pounded against his chest, threatening to break through his ribcage, and he couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by everything - by how much you actually cared about him. For the most part, he was used to people not caring for him. But you cared. Even now, here with him, you were helping him, worrying about him. He'd never been treated this well since... California... When his mom was still around. 

Billy knew there was just something about you the moment he met you. Something about your eyes, that sparkle when you were happy, your hair that was always so soft, and your laugh - Billy couldn’t get it out of his head; it was difficult to explain, even to himself.

He was the new King of Hawkins High. Every girl he walked by swooned and giggled if he looked their way. Their attention made him feel powerful. He was known for being a womanizer and delinquent, the one that women seemed to flock to, who always got into fights, and picked on others. Yet, here he was, with you. 

You had just been another girl he wanted to use until he got bored of you; like he did with most - if not all - of the girls in Hawkins High already. He tried in the beginning to woo and persuade you into going on at least one date with him. But you declined each and every time. You just smiled up at him, politely rejecting every single one of his invitations. It never seemed to irritate you when he would come back and ask you again and again.

At some point, Billy stopped asking you, and you thought that that would mean that he would then just leave you alone. But, he didn't. Instead of asking you out, he'd just sort of flirt, and ask how your day was going whilst leaning against the locker beside yours. He didn't realize how often you'd cross his mind, but sometimes he would find himself staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, thinking about you. Wondering what you were doing, wondering when he'd see you at school again. There was an urge inside of him that he didn't understand, that he couldn't resist. It made him feel weak, pathetic, vulnerable, and completely in love with you. He wanted to hate it. He wanted to hate you, but he couldn't. 

The relationship between the both of you was odd at first, but grew quite beautiful. Billy found himself enjoying your conversations... He'd rather sit and listen to you rant and ramble about anything and everything than spend five minutes with anyone else. Your presence alone was calming, giving him a feeling of peace. There was this unspoken understanding between the two of you, something that neither of you had ever felt with anyone else before. 

He wasn't used to the feelings that he had for you. These feelings grew whenever he saw you or even thought of you. This intense sense of desire to protect, hold, and cherish you. It scared the hell out of him. It scared him because he didn't know how to handle it.

"Alright," You muttered, wiping your hands off with a tissue before crumpling it and tossing it in your small plastic trash can in the corner of your room. "Those should heal in no time." You finished, making Billy grin.

“Great-”

You snapped your eyes up at him, giving him a short look, “With time and rest.” You emphasized before collecting the first-aid supplies and packing them back away in the first-aid kit. When you turned your attention back to him, noticing the far-off look in his eyes as he looked down at you. That look in his eyes made your mouth suddenly feel dry. It was a look that you rarely saw on Billy Hargrove’s face - only when he was really deep in his thoughts. His brow furrowed slightly, his eyes holding an emotion that you couldn’t quite make sense of. It made your already warm face feel like it was burning from the intensity. You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow, "What are you thinking about?" You asked softly, slowly watching as Billy's eyes rapidly blinked, gathering his thoughts, his lips twisted into a grin.

"I'm just thinking about kissing you," He didn't hesitate to answer, making you scoff out a small laugh, shaking your head at how adorably ridiculous he was being. 

"Well, I'm thinking you just might get a kiss," You played along, mimicking his grin, leaning towards him slightly, "But, you have to promise that you will rest for a couple of days."

Billy chuckled, looking up at your ceiling before looking back down at you, "Whatever you say, doc," He answered, amused, before leaning in, but you stopped him, pressing your pointer finger on his awaiting lips.

You gave him a look, "Promise, B," You raised your other hand, lifting your pinky finger out for him.

Billy narrowed his eyes at you, impatient, but willing to play along. He brought his hand up to yours, but the second you wrapped your pinky around his, Billy leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours; knocking you onto your back, and landing back onto your plush mattress.

You gasped, giggling against his lips, your eyes fluttering closed as he moved over you; his forearms pressed down on the mattress beside your head, your own arms looping around his neck. The kiss was languid, his mouth moving against yours as your fingers tangled themselves in his hair. He sighed against your lips, feeling the warmth seep through his chest once more. He didn't even realize how much he had missed you. Even though it had been less than two days since he last saw you. He missed your voice, your face, your taste; everything. He didn't want to stop kissing you, but at some point, he was going to have to come back up for air.

Slipping his lips from yours, Billy breathily sighed, digging his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, before laying down completely on you. "I missed you," He mumbled into your skin, smiling when you laughed lightly under him.

"I've missed you too," You replied softly, running your fingers through his curly blonde hair, "But, you got to get off of me, honey. It's way too hot for you to koala me right now."

"Don't wanna," He muttered stubbornly, pressing kisses where his lips were placed on your shoulder. "Can't make me."

You huffed, unable to stop your smile from growing, your hands wrapped around his upper back; your nails lightly scratching against his warm, bare skin. "Fine..." You breathed out, your voice barely above a whisper, "... But you owe me big time, Hargrove."

"Hmm... Sounds good to me," He hummed mischievously - you could feel him smirking, "I'm staying the night." 

"Really? That's a surprise," You remarked teasingly, "I wouldn't have guessed that."

Billy gently bit your shoulder in retaliation, causing you to let out a little shriek, muffling your own laughter as you slapped your hand over your mouth; not wanting to wake your sleeping mother three doors over. "I'm trapping you here now forever," He grumbled, though it was hardly a threat.

"Oh, poor me," You answered sarcastically, "Trapped under my ridiculously handsome boyfriend. Heat stroke. What a terrible way to go." You sighed out, closing your eyes; a smile on your face, "Tragic, really." You almost forgot about how uncomfortably hot you were, “Honestly, not the worst way to die…” You muttered, your eyelids fluttering as your fingers started to move absentmindedly against his back and shoulders, rubbing circles, and tracing shapes. Billy sighed contently, his muscles relaxing beneath your fingertips. Your smile softened as you felt his eyelashes flutter against your skin, "Rest, Billy," You told him quietly, "I'll be here when you wake up."

"You better be," He whispered, letting out a deep sigh before he closed his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.

Glancing over at your book beside your head, you let out a small yawn, before turning your head to rest your cheek on Billy’s forehead, shutting your own eyes. You'd have time to read it later.

---

Main Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

[ladykailitha]

Icarus Part 11

Again, I am working on Paper Hearts and Sweet Home Indiana until they are complete and Paper Hearts just snuck in another chapter so that was fun.

In this we have Corroded Coffin trying to change the culture of metal and the band meets Bob Newby.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

****

Celeste Baptiste was a miracle worker in her field and everyone knew it. Producers and recording studios were chomping at the bit to work with The Fallen the second she put out feelers that their current producer and studio just weren’t meeting the band’s needs.

They decided to go with Starcourt Recording studio as it was closer to home for a lot of the members. Which of course pleased Spence to no end, as it meant that he got to spend more time with Nadia.

They were currently interviewing for producers and had yet to find on that worked for them.

Enter Bob Newby.

****

Bob wasn’t used to working with bands that had alter egos. He heard of them of course. Slipknot, Daft Punk, and others. But he wasn’t a fan of secrecy for the most part and beyond the basic NDAs of contracts, he wasn’t a fan of those really, either.

But there was something about these four men that pulled him in. Especially when he learned that their previous producer had been trying to do with them. It was like he hadn’t listened to them at all and was trying to force them into what he thought metal meant.

So he thought he’d at least speak with them. If they didn’t like him or he didn’t like them, he’d walk away, no skin off his nose.

They walked in all wearing more casual versions of their onstage personas. They wore hoodies and masks of their colors to hind their face and hair, but the rest was all very down to earth. Bob supposed it made sense, after all, they couldn’t record in their tight leather outfits.

He was surprised to see that the drummer’s mask’s eyes were covered unlike the rest of the band and he couldn’t help but wonder if his eyes would give him away, like having some kind of heterochromia or something like that.

“Hey, I’m Bob Newby,” he greeted. “Everyone take a seat. Thanks for coming to meet me at my house studio, I’m two days away from a deadline and am really crunching it.”

“Of course,” the one in white said. He was the only one’s whose mask didn’t completely cover his face. “I would apologize for the subterfuge but it’s kind of our shtick.”

Bob smiled. “So I’ve been told. Tell me a little bit about yourselves.”

The one in white smiled. “I’m Abbadon, I’m the lead singer. I can play guitar, piano, and violin, but we don’t usually incorporate that stuff into our music.”

“Is there a reason why not?” he asked, clasping his hands together and leaning forward on his knees.

The band members looked at each other in shock.

“The label wanted us to stick to metal,” the one in blue said, “They were okay with Abbadon on rhythm guitar to help fill out the sound, but they didn’t want any of that other ‘stuff’.” He put air quotes around stuff.

“They do realize that metal and heavy rock have been using piano for as long as the genre has been a thing, right?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Again the band looked shocked.

Bob sighed. He held up his hands. “Wait, wait... we’ll get into all that once all the introductions have been made.”

The one in red and the one in white shared what he assumed was a concerned glance.

“You weren’t told about us?” the one in red asked.

“Oh, no, I was,” Bob replied with a grin. “But I want to hear it from you.”

So they went around and introduced themselves and he was starting form a picture about the band’s dynamic.

“Right,” he said, “I’ve listened to your other albums, seen recordings of your live shows, and even watched interviews and this is my takeaway on your sound. Your last producer was trying to force you into harmonies and melodies of early thrash metal of the 1980s, which isn’t your style at all.”

Astraeus, the one in midnight blue, spoke from his place on the floor, “That’s what we kept trying to tell him. He said that the sound was coming back and if we wanted to compete with the likes of Metallica and Corroded Coffin then that’s direction we needed to be heading as a band.”

Bob let out a long exasperated sigh. “But you can’t compete with them.” He held up his hands when Azrael, the one in black, and Asmodeus, the one in red, bristled. “I’m not saying you’re not as good as they are. Absolutely not. But you’re not in the same genre of metal that they are. It would be like comparing the Rolling Stones and Beatles because they were both British rock bands.”

Astraeus and Azrael shared a glance, one Bob couldn’t interpret with their masks on.

Azrael rolled his eyes. “We’re what our detractors love to call nu metal as if music can’t have more than one sound.”

Bob nodded. “Yeah, that sounds about right. You’re vocals tend toward the melodic over the screaming or more guttural sounds of thrash metal. So I would focus on that. The label sent me over the demo and you’ve got a lot of great stuff here. Stuff the other guy didn’t want to touch. Some of the more...” he cocked his head back and forth, “blatantly queer? LGBTQ+? Gay stuff?”

“Queer works,” Abbadon said with a wry note to his voice.

Bob nodded again. “Who is the writer/writers?”

Astraeus and Azrael raised their hands.

“With a little lyrical help from Abbadon,” Asmodeus said darkly.

Abbadon rubbed his back to calm the other man as he bristled at his other bandmates.

“So how does your writing process work?” Bob said ducking his head to his smile.

Astraeus explained how Abbadon would write down his thoughts and feelings and that he would turn them into lyrics for Azrael to turn into songs.

“So I’m guessing that at least either Abbadon or Astraeus is some variation of the rainbow spectrum?” he pressed the band.

The two men in question shared a glance, Astraeus nodded.

“I’m bi and Astraeus is gay,” Abbadon confirmed. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Bob threw laughed. “No not at all. In fact just the opposite. I want you two to come out.”

He couldn’t see their faces but he could feel the blank stares as their eyes bore into him.

“I understand that is a daunting feeling,” he murmured kindly. “But I think it would really boost your image, allow you to be more open with your songs, especially with Starlight Eyes, and it would make more metal artists be more comfortable with an LGBTQ+ label. Because right not a lot of metal stars are out and all of them have come out while being so massively famous that they could ‘take the risk’.”

Asmodeus and Azrael shared a look.

“The two of us are straight though...” Asmodeus said, “I’m literally famous for women throwing themselves at me, is them being out going to hurt either us or them?”

Bob tilted his head to the side. That was a fair question and one that should be considered. But he shook his head. “It shouldn’t. No one is going to expect the whole band to be queer. Take Corroded Coffin for example. Other than their bassist, Brian Martin being ace, he is still attracted to women romantically,” he held up his hands in defense when it seemed that a couple of the band were about to interject, “and I’m not saying he doesn’t count as queer, because I’m not. But the only one with what the average person would consider queer is their frontman, Eddie Munson. He is an out gay man, but even he didn’t come out until they were selling out arenas.”

The other members started teasing their lead singer, ribbing him and making low probably ribald comments.

Bob raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

Azrael turned him and Bob could feel the absolute glee radiating off the man. “Abbadon here, has a crush on Eddie.”

His face split into a large grin. “Aren’t you scheduled to tour with them next year?”

Abbadon coughed and cleared his throat. “Yeah, we’re working on that.”

Their manager who had been waiting in the corner on her phone for the meeting to conclude turned to the band. “What do you think, boys? Is Bob our man for the job?”

He looked up at her and then back to the band. “So what do you say? You ready to rock the metal world?”

Abbadon spoke for all of them when he said, “Yeah. Yeah we are.”

****

In the end it didn’t matter what Steve and his band wanted for the tour dates because Gareth’s little stunt landed him in rehab. And Corroded Coffin’s label refused to tour without him.

Which had pissed Eddie off. They had made a deal with Gareth and he had broken the deal first. And as shit as it was, getting a touring drummer was easier than replacing anyone else in the band.

Eddie and his band were doing an interview about Gareth’s sudden stint in rehab, talking about the future of the band.

Only they weren’t dressed like they normally were. They were still in jeans and t-shirts. But their jeans were in various shades of blue and Brian wore a plain white tee, Jeff wore a Taylor Swift Eras band shirt, and Eddie wore pale pink tee with David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust on it.

In short they did not look like a metal band. They looked like three guys, just shooting shit.

It had been a slow change over the summer. Every time the band went for an interview that wasn’t at an event one of them would dress slightly different. Then two or three of them would wear something a little less ‘metal’, until they were all dressed like they were.

The interviewer, Jenna Peterson looked as uncomfortable to be interviewing them as they looked to be interviewed.

“So let’s start with something softer,” she said, crossing her legs and simpering, “so why don’t we first first talk about your shift in style.”

Jeff threw back his head and laughed. “Good god! We don’t wear the ‘uniform’ for a couple of interviews and we get the clothes question.”

Brian shook his head.

“You think all those leather and chains and shit is comfortable?” Eddie asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Maybe, maybe not. But it sure is hot as hell,” she said cocking her head.

Jeff snorted and ran his tongue over his lips. “We were getting tired of the hate metal stars get for wearing anything but leather and black denim. Do you know how fucking hot that shit gets?”

“Like there was a bassist from a huge metal band,” Eddie said, agreeing, “that was papped wearing a graphic tee and cargo shorts standing outside of a shop where his wife was shopping and suddenly everyone was talking about how he sold out and that he was disrespecting the genre. Dude was sixty or some shit. If he can’t wear what makes him comfortable without being told he’s selling out, than what hope is there for up and coming bands from being shunned because they ‘don’t conform’ to the aesthetic of being in a metal band.”

Jenna smirked and tilted her head. “Is this about The Fallen and their assertion that they wouldn’t have been welcomed if they had been themselves.”

Jeff and Eddie shared a glance.

“I won’t lie,” Jeff said, “and say that wasn’t a part of it. But it was also because one of my good friends from high school was a huge metal fan. Loved all the greats. Metallica, Iron Maiden, Dio, Black Sabbath...like was the biggest fan of all of them. Had all their albums on vinyl, posters on her wall, but other than the odd band t-shirt she sure as hell didn’t dress like a metalhead.”

Jenna leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand, elbow propped up on her knee. “So what did she dress like?”

Eddie snorted, rolling his eyes. “She was a cheerleader with a fondness for pink and frilly. She loved floral prints and cardigans for fuck’s sake.”

Jenna sat back in shock. “Wait, really?”

Brian nodded, scratching his cheek thoughtfully. “Yeah. She’s our manager now. But the push back she would get for not dressing like a metalhead and just being a girl was repulsive.”

“We apologized to her about not trying to change the culture around what a metalhead should look like,” Jeff said, “and she waved us off. Said that if it had bothered her she would have said something herself. But she was the one that helped carefully curate what we wore so that it went smoother.”

“We’ve been talking to other bands, too,” Brian said. “Getting them to help. We are supposed to the genre about non-conformity but here we are pushing a conformity on people in the same story, different font.”

Jenna returned to her simpering, she batted her eyelashes at Jeff. “Is The Fallen among those you’ve asked to help?”

“No,” came Eddie’s blunt answer.

She reared her head back in shock and blinked at him for a moment. “Why not? It seems to me that of all the bands to need to dial it back, The Fallen would be at the top of that list.”

Brian snapped his fingers. “And that would be why. They don’t need to dial it back. Maybe they would be as famous as they are without the masks and shit, but now it’s integral to who they are as a band. And we aren’t going to make them change to make other people more comfortable.”

Jenna uncrossed and crossed her legs. “Well, good luck. So you just finished your ninth album, tell me about that process.”

They talked about the album and Gareth’s battle with substance abuse.

The interview never got less awkward, but Corroded Coffin handled it with such grace that a lot of people were calling Jenna out on social media for being the absolute worst choice for that interview.

****

Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25

Tag List:

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

@spectrum-spectre @zerokrox-blog @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson

@messrs-weasley @danili666 @chaoticlovingdreamer @val-from-lawrence @goodolefashionedloverboi

@i-must-potato @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @vecnuthy @irregular-child

@yikes-a-bee @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten

@genderless-spoon @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @scheodingers-muppet

@ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @eyehartart

@dawners @thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95 @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot

@papergrenade @cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars @ravenfrog @w1ll0wtr33

@child-of-cthulhu

[southelroydrive]

i'll make your body a habit.

pairing: robin buckley x f!reader summary: you're the guitarist for corroded coffin, known for your flirtatious and confident attitude but little do your fans know how you really are when you're alone with your girlfriend. word count: 3.4k title: own my mind by måneskin warnings: smut (18+ mdni), fingering (f!receiving), oral (f!receiving), degradation, multiple orgasms, weed usage a/n: this has been sitting in my notes app for like 3 months and i finally finished it. happy pride everyone <3

it was corroded coffin’s first gig outside of hawkins, a night you and your bandmates had been tirelessly preparing for over the last few weeks. four hours away from the small town of hawkins, indiana and filled with the promise of your first big break into the music industry.

yet, no one was more excited than your girlfriend robin. your sweet robin who was so proud to see her girl on that stage, living your dreams as a reality. your sweet robin who would travel to the ends of the earth just to see you perform.

she’s completely enamored by you as she stands in the crowd, steve right by her side. watching the way your hair sticks to your forehead, beads of sweat rolling down your temple as your fingers dance across the strings of your guitar. the way your hips sway, wide grin stamped on your lips as you let the music lead your movements. heavenly, that’s how she’d describe you.

a tight leather corset covered your torso, tits glistening with perspiration and practically spilling out the top. she couldn’t take her eyes off you even if she wanted to. or your smooth legs completely on display from the miniskirt adorning your waist. deep red in colour, which matches the tint of your lips, dripping in chains and safety pins that robin had watched you meticulously place the night before. watching the way the chains bounced with every snap of your hips to the rhythm of the song, she now knew why as the movement seemed almost hypnotic.

from the corner of his eye, steve can’t help but chuckle at the look of pure infatuation glossing over his best friend’s eyes. he nudges her with his elbow, making her reluctantly tear her gaze away from you to look at him with a frown.

“you’re so whipped, man.” he smirks, the freckled girl only rolling her eyes in response, a muttered “shut up.” falling upon deaf ears before turning back to the stage.

every time you lift your head to catch her eyes, your plump lips curl into an amused smile. your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, you send her a playful wink before looking away. robin can’t help but let the corners of her mouth twist up into a smirk, crossing her arms over her chest as her eyes linger down the length of your body. god, was she lucky.

by the end of your set, your chest is heaving with every deep breath that exhales from your mouth. a bright, toothy grin that lit up the room more than the blinding stage lights ever could spread across your lips as you look out at the crowd. with a bow and the sharing of a few final words, it’s finally over. the grin on your lips never leaving as you follow your bandmates off the stage.

“birdie!”

robin’s eyes snap towards your direction upon hearing your voice. she had just found her way backstage, where you stood beside your fellow bandmates a few metres away. your cheeks flushed bright red, panting for breath and veins bursting with adrenaline. beside you, she sees eddie’s lips moving in what she can only assume is a teasing remark by your reaction. you roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder as you rush past him over to your girlfriend, who envelops you in her arms once the gap between you finally closes.

“oh my god, babe!” her hands cradle the sides of your face, beaming down at you as she presses a sweet kiss to your lips.

“you.” she kisses you again. “were.” and again. “so.” and again. “fucking amazing!”

this time, her lips kiss yours deeply, lingering for just a moment before pulling back. your scarlet lipstick is now smudged, making her own lips pretty pink and glossy. you chuckle at the sight, leaning in to press a final kiss to her lips.

her hands slip to your waist, holding you close to her chest. yours wrap around her neck, fiddling with the ends of her hair. “so… you liked it?”

“are you kidding me?” she laughs, tugging you closer until your body is flush against hers. “you know i love watching you perform, you’re so talented baby.” her hands gently lower to your hips, her thumbs rubbing circles on the bone.

“oh yeah?” you raise an eyebrow, a small smile on your lips as you peer up at her through your eyelashes. you tilt your head up, lips inches away from her own. “well, i’m pretty talented at other things too, maybe we coul-“

“hey, ladies!” you groan, pulling your face away from robin’s as eddie slings his arm over your shoulder. a shit-eating grin takes its place on his face, clearly pleased with the flush of embarrassment dusting both yours and your girlfriend’s cheeks. “are you two coming or what?”

you shove his face away from your side, rolling your eyes at his antics. “you’re such an asshole, you know that?” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest as you give him an unimpressed glare, yet the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips gives you away. this only makes his grin widen, winking at you before turning on his heel. “love you too, sweetheart!” he calls over his shoulder, curly mop of hair disappearing into the bar.

robin’s hand returns to its place on your hip. her other hand gently cupping your cheek and tilting your face up towards her. “hey.”

“m’gonna kill him, i swear,” you mumble, gaze softening under her gentle caress. you lean your cheek into her palm, sighing exasperatedly.

“some other time, yeah? gotta celebrate your big show.” robin pats your cheek affectionately before her hand falls to her side, the other slipping to the small of your back to gently guide you in the direction of the green room.

“fine, fine.” you roll your eyes a final time, a playful smile on your lips as you lean your head against her shoulder.

you spend the next few hours surrounded by your friends, rejoicing in the simmering adrenaline in your veins and the pungent smell of weed. the worn loveseat in the corner of the green room is occupied by you and your girlfriend, sat side by side. your legs drape across her lap, propping your elbow up on the back of the couch. her palm settles on your plush thigh, fingers fidgeting with the chains dangling from your skirt.

you bring the joint in between your fingers to your lips and inhale the smoke into your lungs, before exhaling. your body relaxes back into the chair, letting the drug take its effect on your body. she takes the joint from you, taking a hit herself.

you admire the way her lips wrap around it, held between her slim fingers. your mind can’t help but stray, already fuzzy from the high clouding your mind. you shift a little in your seat, an uncomfortable ache growing between your legs. her eyes meet yours, catching your movements as smoke spills from her lips. she glances around before leaning her head down so only you could hear her.

“something wrong, doll?” her voice drops down to a low, husky hum making the pool of arousal between your legs harder to ignore. her fingers trail up further to fiddle with the hem of your skirt before slipping underneath, feeling the plush skin of your inner thighs.

you shake your head, breath hitching as her fingertips inch closer and closer to where you were begging for her. she kisses her teeth, pinching the inside of your thigh before pulling her hand away. a small whine escapes your throat before you're biting down on your tongue, eyes darting around to see if any of your friends noticed. they didn’t, too immersed in their conversations to pay the two of you any mind.

you hear robin chuckle from beside you, turning to her with a glare. your bottom lip juts out into a pout, only causing your girlfriend’s lips to curl into an amused smirk. “don’t be pouty, baby. you’ll get what you want later.”

your eyes widen, sitting up straighter as you lean in closer to her. “whatever i want?” the curious tilt of your head as your chin rests on her shoulder and the glimmer of excitement sparkling in your eyes almost persuades her to take you to your car that minute. god, she didn’t even think you’d make it to the car and make use of the shitty public restrooms of the gross, dingy bar you were in. but no, that’s not what robin wanted. you deserved the best that night.

“mhm hm. like i said, we gotta celebrate your big show.” she smiles with a shrug of her shoulders, leaning back against the couch as she takes another long drag from the blunt. you can’t help but squirm in your seat, eyes fixated on her for the rest of the night.

robin loved a woman who knew what she wanted, someone who would stop at nothing to achieve their dreams. she loved seeing you on stage, exuding dominance that certainly earned you a dedicated fan base. she loved your flirty and confident nature that could make anyone swoon, her included. and fuck, did she think you looked pretty when you were in your element, fingers wrapped around the neck of your guitar.

but looking at you now, robin thought you never looked prettier than in moments like these.

legs spread wide open in the backseat of your car, skirt bunched up around your waist and lace panties discarded as two long fingers curl inside your plush walls. the leather corset long forgotten, your tits lightly bouncing with every buck of your hips.

your hands grip her wrist, nails digging into her skin as her fingers pump in and out of you at a relentless pace. eyes half-lidded, swollen lips parted. your pussy drools onto the leather seat below you, your inner thighs glistening with your arousal but you’re too far gone to care. as pathetic moans spill from your throat, your hips mindlessly roll against her hand, silently begging for more.

“such a greedy girl, aren’t you? look at you, two fingers stuffed in your needy cunt and you still want more.” she chuckles, eyes darkened with lust as she stares down at you. if she thought you looked heavenly earlier, the image before her now would put that to shame. chest rising and falling with every pant that leaves your puffy, glossy lips, eyes struggling to stay open as she pushes your body closer to pleasure.

her condescending tone goes straight to your head, making your mind even more fuzzy and a whine fall from your lips. the only thing worth thinking about is her and the feeling of her fingers pushing inside of you. your free hand flails to find something to grab onto, landing on her shoulder with a firm grip as she reaches that spongy spot deep inside of you. the car fills with the filthy sounds of her fingers pumping inside of you, along with the broken cries of her name.

“yeah? that feel good? come on, pretty girl. tell me what you want.” her lips graze the shell of your ear, voice a sensual whisper but her words are truly cruel. with the way her fingers are fucking into you, it’s impossible to think let alone speak. your eyes snap up to look at her, brows laced together in a pleading expression as incoherent whimpers leave your lips.

she chuckles, the sound taunting in your ear. “don’t be shy now, i just wanna make you feel good, baby. be a good girl and tell me.” she coos, pressing her lips against your jaw. her fingers continue their merciless pace, her thumb beginning to rub torturous circles on your poor, neglected clit.

“r-robbie please!” you let out a choked gasp as her thumb presses against your clit, a loud moan falling from your lips. your breathing becomes heavier, clenching around her fingers as she pushes you closer and closer to the edge. “god, fuck! baby, m’gonna-“

“yeah? you gonna cum for me?” robin’s almost as breathless as you, her finger hooking under your chin to force your gaze to lock onto hers. as much as your girlfriend loved to tease you and wanted to make you beg for it, tonight was about rewarding you. she looks down at you, eyes hooded with a smirk tugging at her lips when you nod desperately. “go ahead, doll. cum all over my fingers.”

a choked moan leaves your lips, eyes almost rolling back into your head as you gush around her fingers. your thighs tremble uncontrollably, hips involuntarily rolling against her hand as you ride your high. robin feels her own cunt throb as she watches you reach your climax. your face scrunched up in pleasure, walls clamped down around her fingers as they slow, prolonging your pleasure.

“holy shit.” you pant heavily, gasping for breath. your grip on her shoulder loosens, slumping back against the leather seats. a dazed smile rests on your lips, eyelashes fluttering as you come down from your intense orgasm.

“look at you, my gorgeous girl.” she sighs dreamily, nose grazing your cheek as she eases her fingers out of you. she could almost moan from the sight of your juices dripping down her hand, lifting her head to look directly at you as she slips them into her mouth, making a show of licking them clean.

you watch her with bated breath, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as you watch her. pink lips wrapping around slick fingers, her eyes boring into yours as she does so. your trembling thighs press together, a new wave of arousal washing over your body despite how sensitive you were.

her eyes flutter shut, a satisfied groan leaving her lips as her tongue swirls around her fingers. she pulls them out of her mouth with an audible pop, a small smirk tugging at her lips as she sees the way your body reacts. her head tilts down, hot breath tickling your cheek. “you taste so fucking good, baby. you drive me insane.” she mumbles, eyes blown wide with lust as she cradles your jaw.

another pathetic whimper barely escapes from your lips before she’s silencing you with her own. the kiss is sloppy, tongues swirling together hungrily.

when she finally pulls away, her forehead presses against yours as she gazes down at you, smirking at the sight of your flushed cheeks and the uneven rise and fall of your breath, all just for her to see. the hand on the side of your neck shifts to wrap around your throat, a sharp gasp leaving you at the action.

she chuckles, applying a small amount of pressure around your neck, just enough to have a small mewl escape your throat. “yeah? is this what you wanted, doll?” her voice is a seductive rasp, breath fanning across your face. “poor baby just wanted me to treat her like a dirty whore, hm?”

the frantic nod of your head is a clear answer for her. her lips twitch in amusement. “that’s what i thought.”

her grip tightens, pushing your head up with a gentle squeeze. her gaze locks onto yours, half-lidded eyes staring deeply into your own. “you look so pathetic like this. what would they say, baby? what would all those people say if they knew how much of a slut you were for me, hm?”

you whine, an arm lifting up to hide your face in your elbow as her words fill you with embarrassment.

she shushes you, gently guiding your arm back down to your side. “i know, sweet girl… only i can see you like this.” she whispers, her hand moving away to instead grip your thighs firmly.

her lips slowly make their way down your body, shuffling down the backseat of your car. they skim down the valley of your tits, down your stomach. travelling further and further down until they ghost over the inside of your thighs.

your eyes widen as she hooks your legs over her shoulders. she smirks when she comes face to face with your pussy, eyes trained on yours as she leans down.

her tongue slowly slides through your folds, coating it with your slick. she groans, eyelashes momentarily fluttering as she laps up your juices. you let out a high-pitched moan, hand flying to her hair to stable yourself. the vibrations of her grunts and hums make your grip tighten, grabbing fistfuls of her hair.

she’s merciless. tongue licking and sucking like a woman starved. her hands wrap around your thighs, pulling you closer as her tongue flattens against your folds, slowly dragging up and up until she reaches your clit. her eyes stare up into yours, watching your face twist in pleasure, jaw becoming slack as she wraps her lips around your puffy clit. it elicits a sharp whine from your throat. your hands run through her hair, unable to decide between tugging her away from your sensitive cunt or pushing her head closer.

“fuck, fuck, fuck! ohmygod, r-robs!” the words spilling from your lips are nothing but incoherent whimpers, babbling uncontrollably as she sucks harshly on your clit. hips mindlessly rutting against her face, hands feverishly tugging strands of her hair. you feel her lips curl into a smirk against you, blue eyes piercing through your half-lidded ones.

your thoughts are practically mush, consumed by the overwhelming pleasure that drives you closer and closer to another orgasm. robin can tell, by the way your trembling thighs clench around her head, pushing her even further between your legs, and the way your moans get more breathless and whiny.

she reluctantly pulls her mouth away. the hot breath hitting your pussy, making you squirm. “come on, pretty girl. you gonna give me another one, hm?” she peers up at you, watching your vigorous nod and the desperate buck of your hips. a small chuckle leaves her before she’s burying her head between your thighs once more, eating you out as if her life depended on it.

it’s not long until your back arches off the leather seat, a final broken cry of her name spilling from your lips as you cum on her tongue. she lets out a soft groan, greedily lapping up everything you give her.

“b-baby s’too much!” you whine as her tongue continues to glide through your folds. your thighs tremble with sensitivity around her head, inevitably pulling her mouth away with a harsh tug to her hair.

her mouth detaches from you with a soft laugh. your feet landing on the floor with a soft thud as she sits up on her knees, your legs slipping from her shoulders. “i know, i know. i’m sorry, sweet girl.” she chuckles, patting your thigh comfortingly.

she leans down, resting her forehead against yours as her hands trail up your sides. her touch admiring every dip and curve of your body. there’s a moment of silence between you both, only your heavy breaths filling the void. she tilts her head, pressing her lips against your forehead before leaning back. her back hits the car door, hands finding purchase on your hips as she pulls you into her lap.

her arms wrap around your waist, holding you close to her chest as your face nuzzles into the crook of her neck. she sighs contentedly, nails grazing over the bare skin of your back as your breath tickles her collarbones.

“i’m so proud of you, baby,” she murmurs, pressing her lips against your temple. you hum in response, shuddering as her nails rake over your spine.

“thank you…” you mumble, breath fanning across her neck as you place a tender kiss to her collarbones. her lips curl into a smile, feeling your own smile against her skin.

she puts both her hands on either side of your head, gently lifting it up to look at her. she gazes down at you with pure adoration in her eyes, fingertips grazing your cheekbones as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“my gorgeous, talented girl.” she smiles fondly, touch lingering on your face before she’s pulling you into a sweet kiss.

you could get used to this kind of post-show celebration.

[parwatisingari]

Madras 384

Madras Day, celebrated annually on August 22nd, commemorates the founding of the vibrant city of Chennai, formerly known as Madras. This event is a joyful reflection of Chennai’s rich history, culture, and diversity. On Madras Day, the city bursts into life with a plethora of activities. Residents and visitors alike participate in heritage walks, cultural events, exhibitions, and discussions…

[patito-oward]

I recently found your account and I love it!!

Could you write a pato x reader who have been doing long distance and the reader randomly decided to surprise him?

im sorry ive been so MIA i love you all and miss writing for pato. life has been so. crazy. recently.

YN loves a lot of things about Pato. How adventurous he is, his love of animals, how outgoing and funny he is, but she does not love his job. Ok, maybe being able to say your super hot boyfriend is also a super cool race car driver has its perks, but him traveling so often is definitely not a perk.

When they met in October, YN knew she had found her person. She never believed in love at first sight until him. YN is a school teacher in San Antonio, working extra hours after school bartending to pay her bills. She met Pato when he visited the bar, and they instantly clicked.

If she had known he lived over a thousand miles away, she probably would have never answered his text. None the less, they made long distance work, Pato stayed most of the off-season in Texas, and by the time the season really picked up, YN was able to travel to many of the races on her summer break.

August has to be the worst month of the year. YN is exhausted, getting back into the rhythm of working two jobs, and she misses her boyfriend. She sounds childish even to herself, like one of her students who doesn’t want to separate from their significant other for chem class, but she can’t help that every night when she lays down she misses his body next to hers.

As the season is wrapping up, YN knows Pato is ready for it to be over. He misses his family and Mexico, and because he’s out of contention for the championship, he’s already focused on next season. YN knows that going into Nashville, Pato is dreading the entire weekend.

YN hates seeing Pato so upset, and wants to do something to cheer him up. After talking with Felix, who told her that all Pato does is mope around and complain that she’s so far (which secretly makes YN happy to hear), she decides to surprise Pato in Nashville.

YN was miraculously able to get time off from both jobs, making her able to take a long weekend to fly out and see him. After planning with Felix, YN was able to secure his schedule. When she arrived at the track, Pato would be in practice one, giving her plenty of time to sneak into his bus.

YN had a spare bus key from the summer when she was often at the track with Pato, and let herself into his bus. She decided to begin making dinner while she waited for him to come back.

As she put the chicken in the oven, she heard a key turn in the door. When Pato walks in and sees her, he drops his belongings on the counter and immediately wraps her into a hug.

“What are you doing here!” His voice is muffled by her hair, and she can’t see his face, but she can tell how excited he is.

“I missed you, and we’ve been apart for way too long, I wanted to come see you.”

Pulling back to look at her face he says, “You have no idea how happy I am to see you, I can’t believe your real.” He jokingly inspects her face, turning her head from side to side.

“You’re ridiculous” She laughs at him pulling his hands away from her face.

“You’re incredible.” He finally kisses her and she feels as if it’s scratching a month long itch. “By the way, if you don’t move to Indiana this year I’m sure to lose my mind.”

[caitified]

ooo how about a caitlin fic where they dated in high school and they ended on good terms but didn’t really talk anymore after they went to college. but then they meet again later while cait is with the fever and they rekindle their relationship??

begin again

caitlin clark x reader

warnings:none (we ran out of gifs guys and i don’t wanna scroll🥲)

you never thought you’d settle down in indiana. growing up, it was always just a place on the way to somewhere else, somewhere bigger. but college brought you here, and slowly, the state started feeling like home. years later, you have a life here—a routine, a rhythm. the memories of high school and of caitlin have faded a bit, softened by time and distance. you never planned for her to be part of your life here, but you can still remember the last night you two spent together, sitting on her porch, looking at the stars and talking about everything you’d be.

when she went to iowa, and you left for indiana, it was hard, but you both knew it had to happen. you’d both needed space to grow and to chase what you wanted, and you were glad to have left on good terms. you watched her career from afar, cheering her on from the comfort of your living room, letting her stay a part of your past while your life moved forward.

until now. when you hear the news that caitlin’s been drafted to the fever, it feels unreal, like a memory resurfacing at the wrong time. part of you wonders if you’ll see her, but it still catches you off guard when you run into her at a local café, both of you frozen for a moment before she smiles.

“well, if it isn’t my indiana connection,” she says, her voice warm and just a little uncertain.

you give a small laugh, trying to calm the unexpected nerves fluttering in your chest. “hey, caitlin. i heard you were joining the fever.”

“yeah, guess i finally made it to indiana,” she says, her smile widening, the familiar glint of mischief in her eyes. “who would’ve thought we’d both end up here?”

there’s a pause, comfortable but heavy, filled with things unsaid. she looks just like you remember—maybe more confident, but still the same caitlin who used to talk about making it big, eyes shining with dreams. seeing her like this, up close, feels like an echo of the past and a strange twist of fate.

“so, how’s life been?” she asks, sliding into the seat across from you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and maybe it is. “i mean, besides me showing up and ruining your quiet indiana life.”

you smile, leaning back and matching her easy posture. “quiet, yeah, but it’s been good. settled in, made some roots. not quite as exciting as yours, though.”

she laughs, running a hand through her hair. “it’s…different, i guess. i love it, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes i miss the simple things, you know? the days before everything got so serious.”

“i get that,” you say softly, and for a moment, there’s a shared understanding in the air, a reminder of all those late-night talks you used to have. “feels like we grew up overnight.”

“feels like yesterday and forever ago at the same time,” she murmurs, glancing down as if the table holds some of those old memories.

the conversation slips back into old rhythms, like picking up a favorite book after years and finding it as familiar as ever. you talk about college, life in indiana, what it was like for her at iowa, and how she’s adjusting to the fever. neither of you bring up high school or what you had back then, but it’s there, resting between every pause, a steady beat beneath the surface.

“you know,” she says eventually, her gaze steady and serious, “i never really expected this—seeing you here, now.”

you smile, letting the words linger. “neither did i. but it’s…nice, i guess.”

she nods, her eyes softening. “yeah, it really is. maybe we could catch up again sometime? properly, i mean.”

your heart skips, and you feel that familiar pull—the same one that drew you to her all those years ago. “i’d like that,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

as she leaves, she gives you one last look, a quiet promise in her eyes, and you feel the start of something rekindling. it’s different now—older, wiser, maybe even better than it was. and as you watch her walk away, you can’t help but feel like fate brought her back to you, right where you both belong.

🪽🪽🪽🪽

over the next few weeks, meeting up with caitlin turns into a regular thing. it starts with a coffee here, a lunch there, each time stretching a little longer, neither of you wanting the conversation to end. you go to a few of her games, trying to be subtle but still catching her eye when she glances into the crowd, and every time she finds you, she grins like she’s won something more than just points.

one night, after a particularly close win, she invites you out for a late dinner. the restaurant is quiet, dimly lit, and she’s still buzzing with the energy of the game, her excitement spilling over as she tells you about the highlights. her eyes are so alive, her laugh loud and familiar, and you can’t help but feel like you’re falling all over again.

“you know,” she says eventually, her gaze softening as she looks across the table at you, “this is starting to feel like old times… but also not.”

you tilt your head, curious. “not?”

she nods, a small smile playing at her lips. “it’s…different. better, i think. i know i’m different, and you are too. but something about it still feels so right.”

your heart pounds, and you realize that you feel the same. “yeah, it does.”

there’s a beat of silence, thick with anticipation, and she reaches across the table, her fingers brushing yours. “so… do you think you’d want to make it official? i mean, for real this time?”

you laugh, more out of surprise than anything, but you can feel the warmth blooming in your chest. “are you asking me to be your girlfriend again?”

she squeezes your hand, her face breaking into that lopsided grin you remember so well. “yeah, i am. what do you say?”

and you don’t even need to think about it. “i’d love to, caitlin.”

she smiles, pulling you into a hug as you both laugh, the moment perfect and unhurried. it’s not like high school anymore—it’s better, it’s grown up, and it’s real.

[aphrogeneias]

it's been seven hours and fifteen days —

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (soulmate!au)

summary: the aftermath of your reunion takes more unexpected turns. you and eddie find a new rhythm.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: angst, fluff, drinking, more backstory, more soulmate lore. reader is referred to by a nickname (joan).

series masterlist

The Deuce was a literal hole in the wall. Just an inconspicuous door and a small neon sign on the outside that blinked a little too much. That door led to a set of stairs that led to the actual bar, right underground. A number of people you’d met over the years called it a hidden gem, an oasis of true hard rock under all the glam that seemed to sweep over Sunset Strip since the last decade. People had a lot of adjectives to describe it, but you just like to call it home.

It wasn’t your actual home, of course. What you really called home was a shitty apartment a few blocks from there you shared with another girl you barely saw given your opposite work schedules. Home was a small house in Hawkins, Indiana, you used to share with your mother, with whom you seldom kept contact. The Deuce was your home the same way anywhere that welcomes you with open arms is, anywhere you feel comfortable to be yourself in. Where your family is, blood or not.

Home was also a person, who seemed to feel quite at home too on his first night there.

You watched Eddie from the bar the whole night, sneaking glances between tables, getting a little too distracted after he got on stage. The bartender, a southern girl named Heather who you were pretty sure had magic potion recipes under all her tattoos, noticed your distraught state and offered you one of her concoctions. 

That night was the first night you'd ever drank on the job, and it didn’t occur to you to care too much. Not when the boy you thought you’d left behind was working that stage like he owned the place. The crowd loved him, flocking to the front of the stage like hearing a siren call, but it was just Eddie and his larger than life persona, too big for this small bar, but yet undiscovered by the rest of the world.

You felt lucky to be able to witness that, and being honest to yourself, you missed being in his presence. Once upon a time, being close to Eddie made you feel like you could do anything, like anything could happen as long as he was beside you. You were starting to believe that again.

In another moment of your seemingly constant distraction, as you waited for Heather to fill up your tray with your most recent drink orders, Linda leaned up to the counter, catching you by surprise. “What is it between you and Van Halen?”

Caught between a sigh and an eye roll, you knew she was going to give you a hard time after seeing your too emotional reunion earlier. “His name is Eddie, and not that Eddie.” You tried to busy yourself pretending you’re checking what the bartenders were doing. “There’s nothing between us, we just haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

“You haven’t seen any of those boys in a long time and you weren’t holding them like they’re your husband who just came back from war.”

You snort, unable to keep your scowl for too long when she’s here. “The closest to war that boy’s ever seen is a mosh pit at a Slayer concert.”

“Honey, don’t deflect.”

The thing about Linda was that she knew every single one of you like the palm of her hand. It was one of her many gifts, really. She was the one who kept you afloat, who didn't let you keep running, gave you a reason to stay. 

You admired her for a lot of reasons, but maybe the biggest reason was because you saw yourself in her. Linda didn't talk about her past much — used to say lingering in it was not worth it — but what you knew, from what little she would tell, was that her soulmate was taken from her too soon, before she made her way here and took control over her life. 

Maybe, deep down, she knew you knew her pain, and that's why she took you in without hesitation when you came in asking for a job. But, then again, Linda has a thing for strays. You, Heather, Mitch — the practically non-verbal bouncer who liked making bracelets in his down time, the other waitresses, Corroded Coffin. The woman collected strays wherever she went, maybe because she knew what being strayed felt like first hand.

You almost felt bad for omitting the truth from her, but hiding had become second nature at that point. 

"Eddie is… a childhood friend. Our moms were close, his mom died when we were little, we got closer after that, but, um…" You tried to choose your words wisely under the scrutiny of her gaze. "After high school our paths just diverged, I guess. We graduated, had different plans. I left Hawkins, he stayed. That's all."

That was not all. What "all" meant really meant was that you were tired of pining over someone who was never going to accept he was the love of your life and who, during your senior year, went out of his way to deny any chance he had of being tied to his potential soulmate, which he claimed to not believe in, anyway.

"All" was too many years of blows to the bond you shared.

Once again, you busied yourself with the tray in your hands, making sure all the drinks were counted for and stable before lifting It up and starting to make your way to the table you were waiting. Linda reached out, a hand to your arm, making you halt.

"Whatever it is that you're not telling me, because I know you're not telling me everything, he feels it too. He hasn't taken his eyes out of you all night." Before you could open your mouth to argue, she brushed you off with a wave of her hand. "Now go think about it while you serve those hooligans."

More to think about? You thought. Great.

Closing shifts on Saturday nights were not something to be taken lightly.

The floor was a mess — spilled drinks, broken glass, blood and other bodily fluids, lost objects (most likely the patrons' soulmates', not theirs) — and the tables were not looking better. The stage needed to be unset and cleaned, everything needed to be put up for the next day. By the time you were finished, you were craving a shower and your bed, but you knew you owed Eddie a conversation. 

Those drinks you were not so discreetly slipped by your bartender friend were going to come in hand at that moment.

You went outside, going up the stairs to the back door, expecting to find all of Corroded Coffin still setting up the van with their equipment, but instead you found only Eddie, in the middle of finishing a cigarette and lighting a new one.

"Still chain smoking, I see."

He smiled at you with his cigarette between his lips, the cherry making his dark eyes shine, but you could still notice the smirk didn't quite reach them. You were sure you had a similar expression on your face.

"You came." He said, simply.

"I promised."

An uncomfortable silence fell upon you, nothing but the sounds of the night, almost early morning, around you. The weakening yellow light of the lamp post your only witness. Silences never used to be uncomfortable with Eddie, but now they're a testament of the distance that has grown between you.

A single thread of red stretched beyond miles and miles until it grew loose, but never once broke.

"So… how have things been going for you? Apart from the band, of course." It took a lot of effort not to cringe at your own awkwardness. You shuffled on your feet, grazing the concrete with your boots.

"Good. Things have been good." Eddie drew out his words, as he would whenever he was trying to find something to say, but couldn't quite say it. "I think they just got better."

"Who knew, huh?"

You got closer to him, almost unconsciously. He did the same.

"I knew. Didn't know how but I guess I knew we'd see each other again."

There's no doubt Eddie was speaking his mind when he said that. He was nothing if not earnest. The original plan was for you to leave town together, and maybe that plan was never entirely lost to him. You were never entirely lost to him.

What left your lips was almost a whisper. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He nods, curls bouncing with his head.

Silence befell you again. Eddie kept on smoking, you stayed beside him, thinking about what to say next, but never coming up with something good enough. He breaks first.

"Except that it's different now. In my mind, we'd take it from where we left off, but it's weird, isn't it?"

You swallowed hard. "Weird how?"

"I was gonna say, it's like I don't know you anymore," he took a long exhale before continuing, "but I really don't."

"Don't say that." You don't hide the frown that's taken over your face. "You'll always know me."

"I know the old you, the new you is a stranger to me."

You're a stranger to me. He said with such ease, like it was practiced — and it might have been, maybe he'd thought of this reunion as much as you had. It never occurred to you that, yes, you are strangers now. People change in a year, in two years, they change a lot in five years.

Eddie had become a stranger to you, and the concept was so foreign that you had to take a moment to breathe, lest the reality of it came crashing down too hard on you.

"If we're strangers now, then, we can always meet again."

It was the most sincera you could be at that moment. If you could start over with Eddie, if you had that opportunity, then you would grab it, and you wouldn't let it go a second time.

"I'd really like that."

The following weeks required some adjustment on your part.

You began to understand what Eddie meant with you being a stranger to him now. He was also different, the same person but ultimately changed by life experience, and you were beginning to catch up with each other. Every Friday and Saturday, the days Corroded Coffin were performing their residence at The Deuce, you helped the boys set up and take down their equipment, calling it a bonding experience, but the truth was you felt bad that they couldn’t pay for their own roadies. After closing time, you and Eddie went out to have something to eat at a nearby diner. It nearly felt like old times, except instead of late nights at Benny’s, you were having early mornings at a much less homey diner in L.A.

Eddie still liked his coffee with too much sugar, you still preferred tea. Some things never changed.

He had lost one of his rings, one of those nights. You saw it from away, a big skull ring fell to the floor of the stage as he thrashed around. Jeff accidentally kicked it completely out of view, and as expected, it didn’t take longer than a day for it to appear right beside your feet. Hours later, way into Sunday morning, it was sitting in your pocket as you watched Eddie down a mixture of pancakes, hashbrowns and overly sweet coffee as he filled you in on their latest attempts to record a demo tape.

As you sipped on your tea and pulled apart your blueberry pancakes with your fingers, an old childhood habit you found hard to break — Eddie always made fun of you for eating pancakes with your hands, but you fought back saying that it just made it taste better. He couldn’t argue with you on that since he tried doing the same and thoroughly approved — you listening, making questions from time to time. He was a storyteller, and even a tale of boring recording sessions at a cheap studio they fought hard to pay for was an epic one coming from him.

“Hey,” you interrupted him mid-story, the silver ring weighing in your pocket like it was about to burn a hole through it, “sorry, but I just remembered I found something of yours. Or at least, I think it’s yours?”

“Where did you find that?” He stage-whispered, reaching for it.

Years of lying didn’t make you a good actress, you just didn’t have the talent. However, Eddie never seemed to catch on, and it wasn’t any different at that moment. He watched with naturally wide eyes as you pulled the ring out, and the smile that appeared on his full lips was already enough to make you smile too.

“On the floor at the bar, when we were cleaning. I thought I saw you wear one similar to this, so I thought I would keep it and see if it was yours.” Only a half lie now, but it still made you fidget with your rings in order to keep it together.

“It is! Wayne got me this one. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Of course.” Those words almost don’t come out, the air stopping midway to your lungs at the sound of that nickname you hadn’t heard in years, heart racing despite your efforts to not let it affect you too much. Eddie didn’t seem to register, and simply went on with his tales and woes of a struggling musician in the search of the perfect demo tracklist.

You lost your wallet on a Thursday night, and it went against every rule you set yourself in order to preserve your peace.

It started early, soon after you realized Eddie wasn’t going to buy the whole soulmate thing, even if it was undeniable. You kept close track of everything you owned, you stopped putting your name on your personal belongings, just in case you’d lose them. You practically glued your documents to yourself, your wallet was always secure in your bag, all of your signature jewelry was carefully counted for. You didn’t mind losing things of little value, like small household items or tubes of lip gloss. Nothing that could be traced back to you.

Your wallet was very much off limits, and it was one of those things.

The lost wallet — you were pretty sure you’d lost in the street, exiting the supermarket in a hurry — ignited a domino effect. You were distressed because of it, losing sleep, overthinking what would happen once Eddie found it. Did it appear to him at the place he was sharing with the boys? Was he going to freak out once he realized the circumstances? Was he going to run from you, or was he going to act like nothing happened? For the second time since his unexpected arrival, you felt like the world was falling under your feet, and you were free falling into the deep and dark unknown.

Friday night, because of your lost wallet induced spiral, you arrived late at work. Hair in disarray, short breath, heart pounding as you made your way down the stairs, the posters on the walls around you, all a blur. 

Heather was the first one that greeted you, waving at you from the bar as she wiped the counter in front of her. “Joanie! Van Halen said he needs to talk to you. They’re about to start the soundcheck.”

You gave her the awkwardest thumbs up, nodding. Taking your time, as if you were walking to your literal death, you put your things in your locker at the staff room, and slowly made your way to the stage, being greeted by the boys’ excited hand waves. Your smile was tight, but managed to wave back. Eddie jumped off the small platform, “Hey!”

“Hey, Eddie. Heather said you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah, wait a sec.” He reached inside one of the hidden pockets of his jean vest, and pulled out your wallet. You couldn’t feel a thing anymore, the only thing you felt was a blackhole threatening to swallow you from right under your feet, and the sweat that was starting to gather on your palms. “Found this at the back, when I parked the van. Were you looking for it?”

You could have fainted right then and there. From anxiety or from relief, you didn’t know. 

“Oh, thank you! I was looking everywhere for it. I must have dropped it when I took the trash out last night.” Again, not a good actress. You let out a strangled laugh as you picked the wallet from his hand, visibly cringing at yourself. The next thing you did was more of a distraction than a genuine display of affection. You wrapped your arms around Eddie, clinging to his shoulders, hiding yourself from his gaze.

He chuckled, but wrapped his own arms around you all the same. “What was that for?”

Oh, Eddie. Sweet, oblivious, Eddie. Either because he genuinely didn’t see it, or because he didn’t want to see, it didn’t matter. You shook with relief, and disguised it as a different kind of worry.

“Just, uh… Thank you. I was really worried about it.”

“Oh, it’s okay. You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

You held onto each other for a little longer than comfortable, in the same position you found yourselves that night, almost a whole month ago. You vowed to never lose anything ever again, because you had just been reminded of how dangerous it was.

[aaknopf]

Martyr!, the poet Kaveh Akbar’s propulsive debut novel, tells the tale of Cyrus Shams, the son of a lost mother (victim of a 1988 U. S. Naval snafu in the Persian Gulf that killed 290 people on a commercial airliner) and the long-suffering father who emigrated to Fort Wayne, IN with his baby boy. We meet Cyrus as a student of poetry at Keady University and a reformed addict. In this excerpt, he’s at the local open mic with his friends; we also share one of the poems from Cyrus’s bookofmartyrs.docx, helpfully supplied by Akbar, the poet behind the fictional poet.

. .

The Naples Tuesday night open mic had become a mainstay of Cyrus and Zee’s friendship. It was a small affair, not much to distinguish it from the myriad other open mics happening elsewhere in the country—except this was their open mic, their organic community of beautiful weirdos—old hippies singing Pete Seeger, trans kids rapping about liberation, passionate spoken-word performances by nurses and teenagers and teachers and cooks. As with any campus open mic, there was the occasional frat dude coming to play sets of smirky acoustic rap covers and overearnest breakup narratives. But even they were welcome, and mostly it felt like a safe little oasis of amongness in the relative desert of their Indiana college town, a healthy way to spend the time they were no longer using to get drunk or high.   Naturally, Naples didn’t have its own sound equipment, so Zee would usually show up fifteen minutes early with his beat-up Yamaha PA to set up for Sad James, who hosted every week. Sad James was called this to distinguish him from DJ James, a guy who cycled nightly through the campus bars. DJ James was not a particularly interesting artist, but he was well-known enough in the campus community to warrant Sad James’s nominative prefix, which began as a joke but somehow stuck, and to which Sad James had grown accustomed with good humor, even occasionally doing small shows under the name. Sad James was a quiet white guy, long blond hair framing his lightly stubbled face, who played intensely solemn electronic songs, punctuated by sparse circuit-bent blips and bloops, and over time at Keady, he had become one of Zee and Cyrus’s most resilient and trusted friends.   On this night, Cyrus had read a poem early, an older experimental piece from a series where he’d been assigning words to each digit 0–9, then using an Excel document to generate a lyric out of those words as the digits appeared in the Fibonacci sequence: “lips sweat teeth lips spread teeth lips drip deep deep sweat skin,” etc. It was bad, but he loved reading them out loud, the rhythms and repeti­tions and weird little riffs that emerged. Sad James did an older piece where the lyrics “burning with the human stain / she dries up, dust in the rain” were repeated and modulated over molten beeps from an old circuit-bent Game Boy. Zee—a drummer in his free time who idolized J Dilla and John Bonham and Max Roach and Zach Hill in equal measure—hadn’t brought anything of his own to perform that evening, but did have a little bongo to help accompany any acoustic acts who wanted it.   On the patio listening to Cyrus talk about his new project, Zee said, “I could see it being a bunch of different poems in the voices of all your different historical martyr obsessions?” Then to Sad James, Zee added, “Cyrus has been plastering our apartment with these big black-and-white printouts of all their terrifying faces. Bobby Sands in our kitchen, Joan of Arc in our hallway.”   Sad James made his eyes get big.   “I just like having them present,” Cyrus said, slumping into his chair. He didn’t add that he’d been reading about them in the library, his mystic martyrs, that he’d taped a great grid of their grayscale printed faces above his bed, half believing it would work like those tapes that promised to teach you Spanish while you slept, that some­how their lived wisdoms would pass into him as he dreamt. Among the Tank Man, Bobby Sands, Falconetti as Joan of Arc, Cyrus had a picture of his parents’ wedding day. His mother, seated in a sleeved white dress, smiling tightly at the camera while his father, in a tacky gray tux, sat grinning next to her holding her hand. Above their heads, a group of attendees held an ornate white sheet. It was the only picture of his mother he had. Next to his mother, his father beamed, bright in a way that made it seem he was radiating the light himself.   Zee went on: “So you could write a poem where Joan of Arc is like, ‘Wow, this fire is so hot’ or whatever. And then a poem where Hussain is like, ‘Wow, sucks that I wouldn’t kneel.’ You know what I mean?”   Cyrus laughed.   “I tried some of that! But see, that’s where it gets corny. What could I possibly say about the martyrdom of Hussain or Joan of Arc or whoever that hasn’t already been said? Or that’s worth saying?”   Sad James asked who Hussain was and Zee quickly explained the trial in the desert, Hussain’s refusing to kneel and being killed for it.   “You know, Hussain’s head is supposedly still buried in Cairo?” Zee said, smiling. “Cairo, which is in which country again?”   Cyrus rolled his eyes at his friend, who was, as Cyrus liked to remind him when he got too greatest-ancient-civilization-on-earth about things, only half Egyptian.   “Damn,” Sad James said. “I would’ve just kneeled and crossed my fingers behind my back. Who am I trying to impress? Later I could call take-backsies. I’d just say I tripped and landed on my knees or something.”   The three friends laughed. Justine, an open mic regular whose Blonde on Blonde–era pea-coat-and-harmonica-rack Bob Dylan act was a mainstay of the open mic, came outside to ask Zee for a cigarette. He obliged her with an American Spirit Yellow, which she lit around the corner as she began speaking into her cell phone.   In moments like these Cyrus still sometimes felt like asking to bum one too—he’d been a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker before he got sober, and continued his habit even after he’d kicked everything else. “Quit things in the order they’re killing you,” his sponsor, Gabe, told him once. After a year clean he turned his attention to cigarettes, which he finally managed to kick completely by tapering: from one and a half packs a day to a pack to half a pack to five cigarettes and so on until he was just smoking a single cigarette every few days and then, none at all. He could probably get away with bumming the occasional cigarette now and again, but in his mind he was saving that for something momentous: his final moments lying in the grass dying from a gunshot wound, or walking in slow motion away from a burning building.   “So what are you thinking then? A novel? Or like . . . a poetic mar­tyr field guide?” asked Zee.   “I’m really not sure yet. But my whole life I’ve thought about my mom on that flight, how meaningless her death was. Truly literally like, meaningless. Without meaning. The difference between 290 dead and 289. It’s actuarial. Not even tragic, you know? So was she a martyr? There has to be a definition of the word that can accom­modate her. That’s what I’m after.”

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar.

Browse Kaveh Akbar's poetry collections and follow Kaveh on Instagram @kavehakbar.kavehakbar.

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[goatcheesecak3]

More Rodrick headcanons bc apparently that's the only thing that yOU PEOPLE CARE ABOUT

FULL DISCLOSURE I am absolutely bladdered right now so if there r any spelling errors lowe it

His favourite TV show is futurama, and he has a huuuuuuge crush on leela

He's a massive star wars fan, and he often goes on rants about how deeply he hates palpatine

His go-to "add something to the playlist" song is "every day I love you less and less" by the kaiser chiefs, because it's obscure enough to feed his individuality complex but tame enough for him to not get made fun of

His mancrush is Harrison Ford, and he absolutely loves indiana jones

He flirts by saying "oh my god, you've never seen (insert film here), you should come over and watch it, you're missing out'

He's really into pirates, knows a lot of facts about them and thinks they're sick. He would love to have a date night where he and his partner watch all the pirates of the Caribbean films and he gets to pause the film to point out historical inaccuracies every few seconds.

He's a gobby shite, so he's always getting himself into trouble, but he's a bit of a pussy so it's always down to his friends or his partner to back him when he gets in shit.

He can't dance to save his life, but being a drummer has made him develop a pretty impressive sense of rhythm, so even though his dancing looks like he's going into cardiac arrest, it's always on beat at least.

He's always at least 2 hours late to every event because he always oversleeps

[upsidedownwithsteve]

I need to know that she's going to art school in philly. A reunion, maybe Eddie helping her move. Her meeting Wayne pls. love your writing!!

The acceptance letter came and two weeks later, you were on a flight.

It had been easy to pack up another suitcase, clothes and belongings flung into the bag, shoes still stained with mud from camp, Eddie’s sweater folded on top, his mixtape in your walkman, never taken out. You packed Polaroids in the front covers of books, printed emails folded neatly between the pages, the letter from the university tucked beside it.

You’d told your parents, got yelled at and then watched them cry. It was simultaneously the hardest and easiest thing you’d ever done. You’d spent the rest of summer at home, thinking you’d craved the camp grounds, the noise, the forest. But each email that pinged into your inbox brought the same excitement and eventually, you realised that it was Eddie you missed the most.

You called him the day the letter arrived. Hands shaking on the plastic receiver, the paper clutched to your chest and you stuttered and stammered your way through an introduction when his uncle

Wayne picked up but god, the feeling that came over you when the man yelled for his nephew and said, ‘it’s your girl, son,’ was completely and utterly indescribable.

You bought your tickets the next day. You didn’t have an apartment lined up, not yet. But your parents took you to the airport and they both hugged you, told you to stay safe and call them when you landed, so things didn’t seem as scary as they once did.

Eddie told you he’d meet you in arrivals and you spent the flight wondering if he’d changed, I’d he’d looked different, if he’d feel different when you hugged him. ‘Cause it had been almost six weeks since you last saw him and almost every bit of communication you’d had with him since had been in black and white, words on a computer screen.

Philadelphia looked like the biggest city you’d ever seen from the sky, and god, maybe it’s cause it was. You’d barely strayed from Michigan before, a summer spent in a forest in Indiana the most adventurous it had gotten. The plane seemed to skim the tops of skyscrapers as it came into land, the sky blue and the ground grey concrete and littered with cars that looked like multi-colored ants.

Big bridges, long stretches of water, roads that criss-crossed over each other and somewhere, hopefully, amongst the brownstones and suburbs, would be your future apartment. You dreamt about paint colours, thrift store coffee tables, how you’d get a couch in the front door, a bed you didn’t have to make every morning.

You thought of Eddie in it, more often than not, maybe, eventually. Eddie in your kitchen, a tiny space, more than likely, Eddie at the stove, sleepy eyed and shirtless with messy hair and coffee for you and him. You thought about the boy in your bed, a proper bed that fit both of you, where you could do more than just kiss and let hands wander.

Your stomach flipped at that, heart cartwheeling in your chest. But maybe that’s just because the plane had hit the runway with a bump and a jerk and oh my god? You were in Philadelphia.

Home.

Eddie was waiting where he said he would, his last email tucked under your arm with the rest of your documents, your boarding pass, your paperwork for the rest of your luggage that wouldn’t be arriving for another few days.

‘I’ll get you in arrivals,’ he’d typed. ‘I’ll be beside the coffee shop there, there’s a huge ass plant, look for that.’

Your heart thumped to the same rhythm of the roll of your suitcase, the wheels clickclickclicking over the tiles and everyone was simultaneously moving to slow and too fast at the same time. You wondered if Eddie smelled the same, if he used the same cologne, if he’d still smell like summer and rain and smoke now that he wasn’t at camp.

Would he look at you the same way? Would he still like you? Would he still want you? Was this a mistake?

You paused, chest heaving and eyes blinking back tears that were brought on with from the familiar feeling of panic but then you looked across the lounge and saw a face in the crowd, right next to a huge fern, right where he said he’d be.

Eddie looked the same, black jeans ripped at the knees, a T-shirt with a band logo on the front that you’d never heard of, faded and sun bleached. He looked a little tan still, like he’d spent just as much time outside in the city that summer as he had at camp. His hair was the same, except he’d cut his bangs, a tiny bit squint, just like he’d told you in an email. You knew there was a new tattoo on his right forearm, a line of trees in black ink, the keast metal thing on his body, he’d said. But it reminded him of camp and summer and a second home.

You couldn’t wait to see it, you’d told him.

You were walking over before you realised, your feet carrying you across the large room with less panic than you previously had. ‘Cause looking at Eddie was like waking up on a summer morning, hazy blue skies outside your bedroom window, cotton sheets, bed warm skin, the smell of sunscreen, rainstorms from the night before, coffee through pine tree forests.

It was familiar, comforting, like home.

He saw you then, grinned like you remembered, wide and all consuming, a bright stretch of a smile across his face, dimples deepening at the sight of you. You picked up your pace when he stepped forward, feet almost tripping over themselves and you flung yourself at him, suitcase rolling away abandoned.

Eddie caught you, groaning into your neck as his arms wound themselves around your waist and he sounded relieved. He smelled the same. Like smoke and rain and summer and Eddie and you clung to him, arms a vice around his neck, squealing when he lifted you from the floor.

“Fuck,” he murmured into your skin, nose pressed to your pulse point. His voice was a rough rasp, thick with emotion. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

You nodded, agreeing, pulling back to press your nose against his, pressing a your lips to his in what was more a shared smile than a kiss - but it felt just as good, just as nice.