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We Mount TV

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At We Mount TV, we specialize in offering top-notch mounting services for a variety of display screens, including TVs, monitors, and projectors, both for residential and commercial customers. Our team of experts provides tailored mount recommendations based on your specific requirements, ensuring that you get the best solution for your needs.

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[calicoups]

౨ৎ sweater — csc

synopsis when missing seungcheol turns into you wearing his sweater and socks. pairing seungcheol x fem reader genre fluff word count 1.3k hani’s note cheol calls reader baby, sweetheart and doll. this idea literally just came into my brain because of me taking a sweater out of my wardrobe…inspo by this reel btw hehe!

his sweaters smell like him. like fresh laundry but also a strong masculine scent. it’s comforting, as if seungcheol is all around you. whenever seungcheol isn’t around, you wear his clothes — whether that be his silly looking socks with characters on them, his shirts or his sweaters — and in a sense, they’re grounding, warm and not to mention so cosy. which is why you lay in bed with his sweater. but now your feet are cold. so, you get out of bed for the top drawer, bracing yourself for the cold biting at your feet and face. at the sight of a folded pair of shark print crew socks (seungcheol’s favourite), you jump back in bed and pull the socks on.

a cold draft sneaks in from somewhere and into the bedroom where you’re laying. every few minutes, you’re wiggling around in the blankets you’ve wrapped yourself in, trying to gain as much heat as possible. that draft is beginning to provoke agitation in you and you wonder if you even closed all the windows.

there is no way you’re going to get up (again) to check in this cold, though. you had switched the radiators on, surely you’ve closed all windows and you had closed the doors to rooms that weren’t in use. this was all in an attempt to keep the heat in because you were starting to freeze.

the clock reads 10:18 PM, seungcheol isn’t home yet. he had shouted a quick ‘don’t wait up, sweetheart!’ before he had left in the morning and yes, you weren’t going to wait for him at first but god, you miss him so bad right now. you don’t think you could fall asleep without seeing him first.

reaching out of the blanket for the remote, you decide that the best thing to pass the time with is to watch something. so, you switch on the tv and flick through before settling on whatever seems interesting enough to hold your attention until seungcheol arrives home.

multiple yawns had left your mouth by 11:06 PM, seungcheol was still not home. you begin to doze off after a few minutes, eyes fluttering closed every few seconds before you open them wide and squeeze them to stay awake.

a key turns in the lock, it reaches your ears and has you alert. seungcheol’s keys jangle and you know that the jangling sound is the little batgirl keychain colliding with the wall as seungcheol plugs the guitar key into the wall mounted key holder (your keys held a batman keychain — seungcheol had bought these for you both, opting to have each other’s characters).

as seungcheol sets his coat in the closet near the front door and his shoes on the wooden shoe rack, he turns around and almost goes to slump onto the couch when he catches you staring at him through the open bedroom door.

seungcheol tilts his head a little and smiles at you, “i thought i had told you not to wait up, sweetheart.”

“i know but i wanted to wait for you.” you watch as he walks out of eyesight and hear the tap run, a glass filling up with water. seungcheol walks into the room as he takes a sip from the glass and then takes a seat on the edge of the bed next to you, the glass hanging from his fingertips where his forearm rested on his thigh.

“you missed me? oh, my baby,” he coos and lifts your hand to his lips and gives it a quick peck. he gulps down another sip of water and there is half left which he gestures for you to drink the rest, “all this waiting for me and i bet you haven’t even hydrated yourself, silly girl.”

you shake your head as the water runs down your throat, “not true, i am so hydrated!”

“really?” seungcheol’s lips twitch, trying not to smile as he notices your dry lips. his hand holds your jaw and his thumb is on your bottom lip, “why are your lips chapped, then?”

at this, your tongue darts out to lick at your lips, “what do you mean?”

seungcheol shakes his head, he reaches for the vanity table drawer and takes out a lip balm. its cherry flavoured, his favourite. you set down the glass on the bedside table.

his hand tilts your chin and applies the lip balm to your lips and oh, that concentrated look on his beautiful face. lips parted, eyes shining and focused on your lips, trying so hard to not get the balm anywhere other than your lips.

and when he’s done, he asks you to rub your lips to together so that the balm is spread evenly. he watches you intently as you follow his instructions.

seungcheol carefully moves your head around (at this point, you’re just letting him do whatever, it’s endearing to watch him do things like this) to check that the balm hadn’t smudged anywhere else then he lets go, “there, all done! now, make sure you drink a lot of water if you don’t want chapped lips, okay?”

you nod your head slowly as a response and he gets up to put the lip balm away. seungcheol turns around and squints at you, “are you wearing my sweater?”

“huh? yeah, it was getting cold and also, i missed you,” you explain, “wearing your socks too!”

he looks at the end of the bed where you stick out your feet from the blanket, “you can have all of my sweaters and socks if you look that adorable in them, doll.”

the nickname makes your heart skip a beat. doll. it sounds lovely coming from his pretty lips.

seungcheol smiles and you reach for his hands which he gives. you tug with all the strength you have to quickly press your lips to seungcheol’s, pulling back with an audible ‘mwah’ and you make sure that the lip balm he applied had transferred to his lips too.

seungcheol’s dimples form on both cheeks as he laughs with his gummy smile. full cheeks become rosy and seungcheol shrinks a little in his place. every time you pull your little ‘mwah’ trick, seungcheol gets so shy and you love it. you adore his shyness.

“you’re so silly,” seungcheol ruffles your hair, “i’ll go get changed, be right back,” he pinches your cheek and leaves the room.

when seungcheol re-enters the room, you immediately raise a corner of the blanket to invite him over. he climbs onto the bed, except not next to you. seungcheol hovers over you then lowers himself down onto your chest, his legs between yours and his arms going under yours to hug you.

your heart melts at the sight of his head on your chest, being able to feel his chest rising and falling against your own and his hair tickling the base of your neck which you run your hand through, giving him a slight massage. reaching for the blanket you threw to the side, you pull it over both your bodies to stay warm.

“good day at work, cherry?”

seungcheol’s chest vibrates as he hums, “yeah, and jeonghan dragged me to dinner and he paid, can you believe that? i mean, he always ‘forgets’ his wallet at home!”

seungcheol’s after work stories never fail to make you giggle. it’s the way he tells them with big eyes and even acts them out sometimes.

after the laughter stops from both of you, seungcheol speaks up again, “but i’m tired after that. i would have been home earlier to cuddle with you but jeonghan…” he laughs again, “he wouldn’t let me go! now, i just wanna lay like this with you.”

“yeah? i got you, i’m right here,” you rub his back under the blanket and seungcheol moves his head to kiss your collarbone.

a few minutes later, you’re positive that seungcheol has fallen asleep with the way he becomes heavier and heavier the deeper he sleeps — you feel like your hugging an actual bear — so you give him a quick kiss to his forehead and hold him closer to you before dozing off just after him.

[torscrawls]

Batman’s no-kill policy is ectophobic

Summary:

“Well that just makes it sound like he thinks ghosts are worse than humans, you know? And! It got me thinking, Batman refuses to kill his enemies, right?” “Right,” Tim faintly agreed, desperately trying to make sense of this conversation. Phantom relentlessly continued, oblivious to Tim’s spiraling sanity. “Maybe that’s because he thinks that ghosts are less than humans! He doesn’t want to create more of us.”

Phantom is upset that Batman refuses to kill his enemies. Tim just wants his shift to start so he can get out of this conversation.

Words: 1 245

You can read the whole thing on AO3.

-

Tim was sitting in the break room of the Watchtower, mindlessly flipping channels on the big wall-mounted TV while trying to wake up for his next shift. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Phantom slowly drift in front of the big windows, face almost pressed against the glass and his whole attention fixed on the stars outside.

This in and of itself wasn’t anything uncommon; Phantom seemed to have an almost obsessive fascination with space, but what had caught Tim’s attention was the frown on the ghost’s face. Normally he would have a dreamy expression if not a big smile on his face as he watched the expanse outside the windows, but not today. And Tim was willing to admit that it was getting to him.

After another few minutes of switching between channels, silence, and no change in the frowning Tim pressed the off button on the remote and heaved a sigh as he turned to face the window and the floating ghost. “What’s wrong?”

Phantom startled as if he had forgotten he wasn’t alone in the room, or as if he had forgotten he could be seen by others. He had a bad habit of forgetting to turn himself visible and scaring the shit out of people around the tower. He looked over his shoulder and fixed Tim with a wide eyed, literally shining, look of confusion. “What do you mean wrong?”

Tim made a vague gesture at the ghost. “You’ve been frowning ever since I got here. Did something happen?”

Phantom turned around in the air, spinning on his own axis until he was looking at Tim upside down. Tim noted that his hair stayed in the same position throughout. He wasn’t jealous, not at all.

“Well, I was just thinking... Does Batman hate ghosts?”

Tim blinked, thrown by the direction the conversation had taken. “What? No?”

The frown on Phantom’s face deepened as he righted himself in the air. “But he just told me that he ‘was sorry for my loss’, as if something bad had happened? And when I asked him what he meant he said he regretted not being able to save me.”

Tim paused, weighting his words carefully before slowly saying, “I’m sure he just meant that he was sorry that you had… You know…” Tim trailed off, winced, and then forced out, “Died.”

It was always a hard subject to breach, nobody liked to think about death. The Justice League and the Batfamily had all come to the unanimous decision to avoid the subject around their newest member since they were convinced that he would react badly to the topic.

Phantom snorted. “Yeah I know. Kinda hard to miss.”

“I didn’t mean—”  

But Phantom cut him off, “Wait. Is that why none of you talk about death around me? You’re scared that I’m gonna be, what? Offended?”

“Well… No?” Tim said unconvincingly.

Phantom laughed. “Oh my Ancients! You did! That’s so cute!”

“You know, we don’t really talk about death with each other either,” Tim said, feeling like he had to defend himself somehow.

Phantom tilted his head, still smiling. “Why?”

Tim blinked, thrown by the question. “Because… People don’t like to think about that?”

Phantom pursed his lips in thought. “See, that’s what I meant! Isn’t that just kinda rude? I mean, I’m dead, does that mean you guys don’t wanna think about me?”

“No?” Now it was Tim’s turn to frown. “That’s different.”

“Hmm,” Phantom hummed, looking unconvinced.

Tim scrambled for a change in subject and latched onto the first thing that came to mind. “So why would you think that Bruce hated you just because he said he was sorry for your loss?”

“Well that just makes it sound like he thinks ghosts are worse than humans, you know? And! It got me thinking, Batman refuses to kill his enemies, right?”

“Right,” Tim faintly agreed, desperately trying to make sense of this conversation.

Phantom relentlessly continued, oblivious to Tim’s spiraling sanity. “Maybe that’s because he thinks that ghosts are less than humans! He doesn’t want to create more of us.”

Tim had to step in at that, feeling like they weren’t on the same page when it came to some very important fundamentals. “Phantom, you—you understand that people don’t like dying, right? It’s the end.”

Phantom tilted his head with a look of confusion. “It’s not though?”

And Tim guessed that was true. He couldn’t really argue the point with a literal ghost, now could he?

“The town I come from, people don’t really care. Death, life, it’s kinda all the same,” Phantom said happily, as if that wasn’t a very troubling statement to make. And with no respect for Tim’s quickly dwindling sanity, he continued with a thoughtful finger tapping at his lower lip, “Except that death has a lot more flying in it. And energy beams.”

Tim made a mental note to try and find out exactly what town Phantom was talking about. Hopefully it wasn’t one on Earth. He managed a resigned, “Of course,” and hoped that was the end of the conversation. He needed to have enough energy left for his whole shift after all.

But Phantom just nodded and continued on, “Batman refusing to kill his enemies is all just an obvious ploy not to have them move on as ghosts!”

“Obviously,” Tim faintly agreed.

“That’s messed up! He just wants to trap them in the human realm with him so he can torment them forever!” Phantom shook his head. “I know a couple of people in the Zone who would love to exchange torture ideas with him. I thought that Fright Knight was scary and now I’m working with a guy like that, can you believe it?”

Tim couldn’t. “I—I don’t think that’s what he means by that.”

Phantom huffed in annoyance and crossed his arms. “It’s blatant ectophobia, is what it is!”

Tim opened his mouth to try and come up with an argument when the subject of their argument stepped into the break room. Bruce addressed him with clear disapproval in his voice, “Red Robin, you’re late for your shift.”

Tim had never been so grateful to receive Bruce’s disappointment. At least he wasn’t alone in this shitshow of a conversation anymore. “I’m sorry. Me and Phantom was just having a conversation about how you’re clearly discriminatory towards ghosts.”

Bruce stopped from where he had turned to leave. “…What?”

Phantom nodded. “Yeah! Don’t think I’ve forgotten your rude comment earlier about your condolences!”

Despite the bizarre situation, Tim almost laughed at the shocked expression on Bruce’s face, visible even under the mask. His father opened his mouth, closed it, and tried again, “I was just saying that I wish I could have helped you before you ended up as a ghost.”

“And I’m saying that that’s clearly showing a preference for living people!”

Bruce pressed his mouth into a thin line before saying, “I think we need to have a conversation about the value of life if you’re going to be joining us on any more rescue missions.”

“See!” Phantom looked at Tim as he gestured angrily at Bruce “There he goes again!”

Tim got up from the sofa. “I’m late for my shift.” And he left the break room as if the ghosts of hell were at his heals. Which they kind of were; Phantom’s angry voice following him down the corridor. He really wasn’t awake enough for this shit.

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

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

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

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991 

The air here smells like sulphur. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin. 

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

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

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

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh-huh," you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or when you're with Eddie. 

As you stupidly told him. 

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

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

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

You want to see him again.

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

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

You grip the door. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll see what I can do," she says. 

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

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

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

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

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

"And is he expecting your call?" 

"No, ma'am." 

"Who's calling?" 

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

"Hold please."

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

"Transferring now." 

You hold your breath. 

The phone clicks twice. 

"Hi?" 

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

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

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N." 

"Hey. How's Florida?" 

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

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

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

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

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

You can still save it. 

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

Wrong. 

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

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

"Okay, good." 

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

"How's Houston?" 

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

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

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

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

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

You know exactly what he means. 

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

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

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

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

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

"I should hang up on you." 

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

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

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

“Where’s the question?”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

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

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

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

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

“So what if I am?”

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

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

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

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks. 

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

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

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery. 

“Did you hear that?” he asks. 

“No? What was it?”

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

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

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

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

“Uh…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

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

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

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

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

Another patch of silence. 

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

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

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

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

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

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

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

-

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you say. 

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ditto.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you like it?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

“Will you share it with me?”

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

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

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

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The fans,” Eddie repeats. 

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

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

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says. 

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

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

“Can I just sit here a while?”

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

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

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

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

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks. 

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile. 

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

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

Your answering hum tickles. 

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

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

“You're not subtle.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie could get used to this. 

—

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

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

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

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

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re too busy,” you finish. 

“I'm way too busy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For what?" he asks.

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

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

"No, at the store." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nerd." 

"Loser." 

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

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

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

"They'll have yours." 

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

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

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

You gawp at him. "You did not." 

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't think you would?" 

"I'm not really tenured." 

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

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

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

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

"What do I play?" you ask. 

"Anything." 

"That's not helpful." 

"Something fun," he says. 

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

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

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate. 

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

"I'm telling people you said that." 

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

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks. 

"No." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks. 

"What do you know?" 

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

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

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

You're in awe. 

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks. 

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

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

He licks his lips. "You're cool." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," you mumble. 

"Oh. Good." 

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

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

"They've clocked on." 

"Cruel!" he says, delighted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What am I getting into?" 

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you call this?" he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay," you breathe. 

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

"You're not on thin ice." 

"I should be." 

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

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

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

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

"What's for dinner?" you ask. 

Eddie smiles. 

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

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

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

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

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

"I miss you," he'd said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is there any room?" 

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

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

He whistles. Can't help himself. 

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

"Sorry. You're just pretty." 

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

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

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

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

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

About what? he'd asked. 

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

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

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

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

"Don't push me away," he whines. 

"Don't make fun of me." 

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

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

"You don't like that word?" 

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

"You like Status Quo?" you ask. 

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

"Showaddywaddy?" 

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes. 

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

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

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still. 

"Don't ask stupid questions." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Because you didn't know me." 

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

"Sweetheart, we met before." 

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

"We did," he says. 

"What do you mean?" 

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

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

I'll put you on the list. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah." 

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

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

"You took your time," he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're already forgiven. "Three photos." 

"Deal." 

"Should've asked for five." 

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

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

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

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling. 

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

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

"I've seen them," he disagrees. 

"You have not." 

"Have too." 

"Have not." 

"I'm seeing them right now." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You beam at him. "Right." 

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

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

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

"It's really perfect," you say. 

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss. 

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

He hadn't meant to ask like that. 

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

—

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

The camera clicks. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

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

[tiltingheartand]

several sentence sunday

tagged, at various points over the last week, by: @perfectlysunny02 @actuallyitsellie @reformedplayerbibuck and @desert--moonchild; thank you all, i would apologize for taking so long but ... reasons, you know

Okay, Buck thinks. Showtime. 

He turns the camera on; there’s already fifteen people in the chat, mostly wondering if they’re all early or if HotPilot79 is late. “Okay, babe,” he says, once he sees their guest room bed centered in the shot, Tommy perched on the edge in black briefs and nothing else. “You’re on. For real this time.”

“Thanks, baby,” Tommy says, throwing an eye-crinkling smile his way. “And thanks, all of you watching, for waiting! It’s been — what is it we’re saying now?” 

“A hot minute,” Buck supplies, trying not to laugh. 

“Right. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve streamed, my setup has changed a little, we were having a little bit of trouble.” He pauses, catching up with what chat he can see — they set it up so it’s displaying on their wall-mounted TV, big enough they can both read it from the bed. “Yes, I said we, no, I’m not losing it. C’mere, baby,” he says, tilting his head back slightly in invitation. “Come say hi to everyone.”

no-pressure tagging: @between-two-fandoms @dadvans @wakeupnew @smallandalmosthonest @mooshkat plus everyone who tagged me who hasn't done this yet today.

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 3/58

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Dana reluctantly steps out of the passenger seat and follows her mother to the front door. Cal keeps his hands in his pockets, bobbing his head at her with a pained smile. They all stand there awkwardly for a beat until Maggie pushes the front door open and steps past the threshold, looking over her shoulder at Dana expectantly.

Dana steps into the foyer and looks around. There’s a staircase immediately in front of her with a hallway running adjacent. To her left is a living room, to her right a dining room. The floors are all hardwood, the walls bordered with crown molding and chair rails. It’s a nice house, one she might have dreamed about living in one day when she was a young woman just setting out in her career. She spots a stuffed elephant at the foot of the stairs and she picks it up, a flush of fear washing through her as she recalls the children.

“The kids are at the neighbors’,” Cal says suddenly, and she turns to see him standing near the front door. “I thought maybe it would be easier for you if they weren’t here right when you got home.” His expression is empathetic but also wounded, and his jaw twitches jerkily to one side like it did at the hospital this morning. One of his shoulders lifts spasmodically and his head tilts toward it, and she looks away.

“Why don’t you give her a tour, Cal?” Maggie suggests, and she can feel them exchanging meaningful looks behind her.

“Good idea, Maggie,” Cal acquiesces, and walks slowly into the room to their left. “This is the formal sitting room,” he says, gesturing around. There’s a small sofa across from an armchair, and a shelf loaded with books. “We don’t really spend much time in here.” He looks at her, clearly expecting some kind of response or recognition, but she feels nothing. He leads her through a set of French doors at the back of the room into another living room. “This is the family room. This is where we usually watch TV or whatever after the kids are in bed.”

She realizes that the we in his statement means the two of them: Dana and Cal. The married couple, working parents of two young children. She looks at the sectional couch and the TV mounted to the wall above the fireplace and tries to imagine them there, curled up with glasses of wine and network TV. She just can’t see it. On the wall beside the fireplace there’s a large family photo mounted in an ornate frame. She glances at it, but she can feel Cal watching her so she looks away.

The back wall of the house is covered in windows, and she can see a generous deck and well maintained yard. At the other end of the great room is a well-appointed kitchen with granite countertops and an island. She walks across the room and runs her palm over the cool stone, wondering how many times she’s prepared dinner here, or baked birthday cakes.

“That hallway leads back to the front door,” Cal says, pointing to a hall between the living and kitchen areas. “And this one over here leads to the dining room. The garage is just through here,” he says with a thumb hitched toward a door near the pantry. She meets his eye briefly and his melancholy tugs at her heart. She feels as though she’s stolen something from him, but she doesn’t know how to give it back. His jaw jerks and his shoulder jumps, and her doctor’s mind begins to wonder. He must see it on her face, because he looks down and sighs heavily. “I have Tourette’s,” he supplies, his tone defeated. “My tics get worse when I’m stressed.”

“Oh,” she answers, stopping short of adding a platitude. She realizes that this is information she should already have, that this is a disclosure he’s made to her already, years ago. She realizes that he went to bed a few days ago with a wife who loved and accepted him exactly as he is, and now has a stranger in his wife’s body standing in his kitchen gawking at his tics. “You have a beautiful home,” she says, trying to break the tension, and Cal lifts his head and looks at her like she slapped him in the face.

“Let’s look upstairs, Dana,” Maggie says, and Dana turns to see her hovering near the hallway that Cal indicated leads to the front door. Dana steals a glance at him but his head is down, so she follows her mother back to the stairwell. “You fell in love with this house the moment you saw it,” Maggie explains as Dana trails behind her to the second floor. “Cal felt like it was too big of an investment, but you insisted.”

The stairs turn and then end at a large landing, and to the right there is an open space that runs along the front of the house. The floor is littered with toys and a dollhouse is pushed against the far wall, and she infers that this area serves as a play space for the children. Maggie stands at the top of the stairs and watches her as she picks up a naked Barbie and smooths its hair down, then sets it in the driver’s seat of a plastic sports car. Dana wanders past her mother to the hallway that runs along the other side of the stairwell. She starts at the furthest room to the left, which hosts a queen bed and neutral decor. A guest room, she assumes, not one occupied by anyone on a regular basis.

The next door opens to a child’s room with green walls and a lofted bed. The floor is a carpet of Hot Wheels, LEGO, and action figures, and wooden letters mounted between the two windows read “Peter.” There’s a poster near the closet of a brown-haired man beside a blue cartoon dog boasting “We just figured out Blue’s Clues because we’re really smart.” She quietly closes the door and moves to the next, which is a bathroom that looks to be shared by the children. The next door is a girl’s room, much neater than Peter’s. The four-poster bed is hung with a white lace canopy, and a fleet of neatly arranged stuffed animals sits atop the carefully made blankets. On a desk near the window there are several sheets of paper with a child’s messy scrawl attempting the same message over and over.

Deer Mommy, I mess you.

Deer Mommy, kum home soon.

Deer Mommy, do not forgit about Jessis birtday.

Dana’s chest feels tight and she walks away from the desk, back into the hallway where Maggie looks at her with a concerned wrinkle of her eyebrows. Dana pauses, taking several steadying breaths, and looks from the final door at the end of the hall back to her mother.

“That’s the master bedroom,” Maggie supplies, and Dana nods.

She steps through cautiously, feeling like an intruder. There’s a king size bed on a maple sleigh frame in the middle of the furthest wall, and a matching dresser opposite. She approaches the bed, picking up a framed photograph on one of the side tables and inspecting it with clinical detachment. In it, she and Cal stand on a beach, sun on their faces and wind pushing her hair around haphazardly. Cal’s arm is extended and the photo is close cropped, indicating they took it themselves. He is smiling broadly and her lips are pressed to his cheek, her eyes closed. She stares at the photo, begging her mind to call forth a memory, a feeling, a sense of recognition. She feels nothing.

She returns the picture and looks over the rest of the items on the table: an alarm clock, a Dean Koontz novel, a set of foam earplugs. She crosses to the other side table and finds a dog-eared copy of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a bottle of lotion, chapstick, and a pair of reading glasses. While the items are not familiar, it seems clear that this is her side of the bed. She carefully pulls the drawer on the side table open, and almost slams it back closed before she realizes that these are her belongings. A half-used box of condoms, a bottle of KY jelly, and a small egg-shaped device attached to a remote that she has to assume is a vibrator, though it looks nothing like her most recent recollection of such a tool.

She wanders into the master bathroom and feels her first glimpse of a positive emotion when she sees a large soaking tub. There is also a stall shower, and a large walk in closet. She runs her hands over the fabric of her clothes, gathering it up and bringing it to her nose. She does the same with Cal’s clothes, hoping for some kind of spark. It’s all just stuff, neither offensive nor familiar. Just things in a room in a house in a town. Things that could belong to anyone, but somehow belong to her.

She makes her way back to where Maggie is still standing at the top of the stairs. Dana flashes her eyes only briefly at her mother, long enough to watch the hopeful look fall from her face.

“It’s okay, Dana,” Maggie says reassuringly, though Dana can hear the tightness in her throat. She feels like a disappointment, like a letdown. She wishes she knew when she might feel something other than lost.

They find Cal in the kitchen, hunkered down at the island scribbling on a legal pad. He stands when they enter the room, and Dana averts her eyes so she doesn’t have to watch Maggie confirm that no memories were called forth while they were upstairs. She still doesn’t remember. She still doesn’t know who she is.

“I wrote some things down for you,” Cal says hopefully, sliding the legal pad toward her. “Just some basics about me and the kids. Michelle said it might help you remember, or at least feel less confused.”

Dana pushes her mouth into a smile and glances at the paper. At the top it says:

Calvin Michael Rose DOB 05/29/62

Abigail Margaret Rose DOB 12/12/93

Peter Calvin Rose DOB 03/29/96

Beneath the three names, squeezed in as a clear afterthought:

Dana Katherine Rose DOB 2/23/64

“I do remember my own birthday,” she says softly, then looks at Cal and attempts a genuine smile. “So at least I’ve got that going for me.”

Cal hesitates, trying to read her, and then a relieved smile stretches across his face.

“Damn, I was hoping maybe I could get away with forgetting it next year,” he quips half-heartedly, and something that feels a little bit like hope stirs in her chest.

There’s a screech from outside and Dana’s eyes widen.

“That’s the kids,” Maggie says with thinly veiled panic as she hurries to the front door.

Dana stays put, her heart leaping into her throat. Cal gives her a long look and then follows Maggie down the hallway, and Dana listens as they greet the children.

“Grammie!”

“Abby girl, did you grow again since I saw you last? I specifically told you to stop that!”

“I can’t stop growing, Grammie, that’s unpossible.”

“Grammie, I growed a million feet last night!”

“Oh my goodness, you’re right, Pete! How will you fit in your bed?”

A long pause.

“Grammie’s joking, bud, you’ll still fit in your bed.”

“Is Mommy home?”

Another long pause.

“Yes, she is, would you like to say hi?”

“Does she remember me?”

“You know what, kiddo, her brain is still working really hard to remember everything.”

“Mommy doesn’t know us?”

“Of course she knows you, Abby. Her heart knows you, okay? Her brain is just still a little confused from getting bumped on the head.”

The quick tramp of feet skitter down the hall, and Dana braces herself.

“Whoa, Pete, hold on—”

“Mommy, I finded a rock what looks like a dinosaur egg!”

A small boy comes flying into the room, looking around and then making a determined beeline toward her with an outstretched hand. He has dark features and big, protruding ears. She immediately notes how much he looks like Cal, though she’s unsettled by the familiar set of his mouth—one she’s seen in the mirror on many occasions. He steps right up close and holds out a smooth white rock that is speckled with black spots.

“It’s a egg from a T-Rex, Mommy! I finded it in Eric’s yard!” he says proudly, grabbing onto her arm for leverage as he pushes up on his tiptoes to get the rock as close to her face as possible.

“Wow,” she stammers, accepting the proffered rock and examining it. “This is really cool, Pete.”

She looks up and sees Cal and a young girl standing in the doorway of the kitchen. The girl is half-hidden behind Cal’s body, her cheek pressed against his hip. She has long, reddish-brown hair and a fair complexion, and her mouth is twisted into a suspicious scowl.

“Hi, Abby,” she says gently, her heart aching with the knowledge that a known and loved mother has been swapped with a changeling, that being herself. Whatever her own struggle to find her place in this life, she cannot allow these children to lose their parent.

Abby moves further behind Cal, only one of her eyes peeking out around his body. Cal reaches behind his back and tries to encourage her out, pivoting to make himself less useful as a barrier.

“Come on, honey, it’s okay,” he gently coaxes her.

“It’s okay, Cal, don’t force her,” Dana insists, and Cal drops his arms in resignation as Abby presses her face into his lower back and wraps her arms around his hips.

“Mommy, do you know me?” Pete asks, his face screwed up into a comically emphatic expression of doubt.

Dana crouches down so that she is eye level with the child and searches his face. He’s a cute kid: long, dark eyelashes, little chiclet teeth, a button of a nose. She has the distinct impression that she has never before seen him until this moment.

“Of course, you’re Pete!” she says brightly, and the child’s mouth springs into a wide, gummy smile.

“I knowed it!” he declares triumphantly, turning to address his sister. “Mommy knows us, Abby!” he tells her, but the elder child only tightens her grip on her father.

Dana stands and meets Cal’s eye, and he blinks at her somberly as he understands that she is just placating the children.

“Who wants pizza?” he asks with energy in his voice that does not translate to his body.

“Me! I do!” the children squeal, Abby emerging from behind her father to jump up and down with one arm raised.

“Sounds great,” Dana says, though she doubts that she has any room for pizza beside the rock that currently sits heavy in her gut.

-

“I’m only forty minutes away, Dana,” Maggie says as she lowers herself into the driver’s seat of her car.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Dana asks hopefully, glancing over her shoulder to the house—her house.

“I’ll end up stuck in rush hour traffic if I wait much longer,” Maggie explains.

“Oh…okay,” Dana says, taking one step back so Maggie has room to close the door.

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” Maggie reassures her, and a sudden onslaught of tears thickens Dana’s throat. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

Dana looks at the ground and nods, feeling like a fearful child.

She watches from the driveway until her mother’s car disappears around the corner and out of sight, and then slowly makes her way back into the house. She hears chatter from the kitchen as soon as she steps through the door, and she pauses to listen for a moment.

“Look how long my cheese can stretch,” Abby says with a full mouth.

“Very impressive,” Cal replies.

“What’s that, Daddy?” Pete asks.

“It’s a mushroom, bud.”

“Blech! That’s a-scusting!” Pete shouts dramatically.

“That just means more for me,” Cal retorts, following it with a series of yummy noises as Pete laughs heartily.

Dana makes her way down the hall, standing uncomfortably at one end of the island and surveying the scene. One box of cheese pizza lies open, and another with an assortment of meats and vegetables that doesn’t look especially appetizing. Cal is seated between the two children, and there is an open seat beside Abby that is presumably meant to be hers.

“Sit down,” Cal suggests with a nod toward the open chair. “I got half with no sausage for you.”

Dana takes a plate and selects a slice of pizza sans sausage, then moves carefully toward the seat beside Abby. Abby glances at Cal and he nods softly in reassurance. Dana takes a small bite, pushing it around in her mouth.

“How was your day today, Abby?” she asks, and Abby looks at her like she has three heads.

“Abby had soccer today, right?” Cal prompts her, and Abby stares at her plate.

“I can throw a ball really, really far!” Pete interjects.

“I’d love to see that,” Dana tells him, and the four-year-old beams.

“You’ve already seen him do it a hundred million times,” Abby grumbles.

“Abigail,” Cal warns her sternly.

“It’s okay,” Dana says quietly, giving him a pleading look over Abby’s head.

They finish their meal amiably, with Pete happily taking the spotlight and filling any gaps in conversation. Dana offers to clean the kitchen while Cal takes the children upstairs to get ready for bed, then spends the better part of fifteen minutes trying to find the recycling before she concludes that they must not recycle. Finally, she pads up the stairs and follows the sounds of voices to the half-open door of Abby’s room.

“It’s okay, honey, Mommy just needs some time for her brain to feel better,” Cal says gently, and there is a wet sniff.

“She doesn’t even know who I am, Daddy,” the little girl whines, and Dana’s heart clutches. “She keeps calling me Abby.”

“That’s your name!” Pete points out, and Cal shushes him.

“I know it is, bud, but Mommy always calls Abby her special name, remember?”

“She calls me Peter Peter Punkin Eater,” Pete says sadly.

“Only sometimes, Pete.”

“What if she never, ever remembers us?” Abby asks pleadingly, and there is a long pause.

“I think she will, honey. I don’t know how long it will take, but I know Mommy loves you so much, she could never forget you.”

Another wet sniff and a shuddering inhale.

“Can you read Animal Daddies and My Daddy?” Abby asks.

Dana waits in the formal sitting room until she hears a heavy sigh and Cal’s footsteps on the stairs. She stands abruptly and he startles, then rubs one hand over his face.

“They’re asleep,” he says, and she recognizes the domestic familiarity of the exchange.

“Cal, I’m sorry—” she starts, and he holds up his hand.

“Don’t do that, Dana. It’s not your fault. They’ll be okay, kids are resilient. And I can see—I know you’re trying.” She nods in agreement, and he gives her a long look. “I’m exhausted, I’m just going to grab a few things from our room and I’ll take the guest bed.”

Our room.

“No, please, I hate to kick you out of your own bedroom,” she says, though she is immediately relieved that he hadn’t been expecting to share a bed with her tonight.

Cal stares at her, and she senses that he is debating whether to say what he’s thinking.

“It’s your room too, Dana,” he points out with pain in his voice.

Dana closes her eyes briefly, wondering if she will stop stepping on landmines anytime soon.

“I know, sorry. I’d just feel more comfortable if I take the guest room, if that’s okay,” she tries.

“Sure,” he aquiesces with a sigh. “Why don’t you go up and grab whatever you need? You can use the kid’s bathroom if you want. Whatever feels…best.”

She slips past him up the stairs and rifles through her own belongings in search of what she needs. Thirty minutes later, she pulls back the covers on the guest bed and tries to get comfortable. She feels wrung out and overtired, but her brain keeps buzzing and buzzing, searching for something to hold on to. Something real.

_

Her hands move through hot, soapy water that nearly reaches her elbows. She feels around for something to wash, green countertops bordering her visual field. She’s comfortable, safe, a little bit excited. She feels like this is a place she’s supposed to be. Music pipes in from somewhere nearby and her hips sway along. Suddenly, someone is right behind her, touching her. Hands slide down her arms and beneath the water, fingers intertwining with hers. She steps back, and begins to turn to face the figure—

“Mommy, I finded the clue!”

Dana sits up with a gasp, her heart pounding in her throat. She scans the room, disoriented. Where is she?

“Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper didn’t find the clue before me!”

She looks to her right and sees Pete, clad in Superman jammies, clutching a stuffed blue dog to his side.

“Hey, Pete,” she croaks, her heart slowing as she places herself. “You found a clue?”

Pete scrambles up onto the bed and climbs under the blankets beside her.

“Yep, I finded the paw print what Blue left and they didn’t even see it. I figured out Blue’s clue cause I’m really really smart,” Pete explains proudly.

Dana looks down at him, tucked comfortably against her side. While she doesn’t remember him per se, she does feel a maternal tug towards his impish disposition and how readily he’s accepted her. She wraps one arm around his shoulder and gives him a half-hug.

“That’s really cool, Pete. Great job,” she says fondly.

“I’m gonna go see the rest,” Pete says, and just as quickly as he arrived, he disappears from the room.

Dana flops back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. Her dream is already slipping away, and she tries to cling to the details. She was washing dishes, maybe. Someone else was there. It feels like a memory, but she can’t access the rest of it.

He. He was there. Him. She doesn’t know it by any factual measure, but she knows it in her heart. Where is he? Who is he? She wants to find out so badly it hurts.

Tagging @today-in-fic

[daegudrama]

Title: This Friday Night

Pairing: Yeonjun/Reader

Summary: Reader finally gets Yeonjun where she's been thinking about being with him for the last three years.

Word Count: 2,691

ao3

Yeonjun’s room is far cleaner than any other frat boy’s room you’ve ever been in. His dirty clothes are actually in his laundry basket and it smells faintly of lavender. The only mess you can see is papers strewn across his desk. As the vice president of his Fraternity he has his own room, but it’s much like the other rooms you’ve seen.

There is a lifted single bed with a navy blue bedspread pushed into one corner and a desk on the opposite wall. Yeonjun has a TV mounted above his desk and a book case where he stores his gaming console and a few textbooks. He has a white side table next to his bed that you suspect he bought from IKEA which sets his room apart.

He sits on the edge of his bed with his legs spread letting his feet dangle as he watches you. Yeonjun leans back against his hands flexing his muscles without even meaning to. How can someone wearing a white cutoff shirt and black basketball shorts look so sexy? His hair is tucked under the backwards Giants cap he wears nearly every time you see him.

You stand in front of him for a moment contemplating whether coming up here was the best choice you could’ve made. At least he’s not the weird Phi Delta Theta guy you saw last month. Your roommate, Mina, almost banned you from coming to Frat parties after that.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to let me kiss your pretty lips?” Yeonjun asks, tilting his head to the side with a lazy grin.

“Just wondering if this is a good choice.”

Yeonjun reaches out a hand and you let him pull you between his strong legs. He rests his hands on your hips easily like he’s done it to you a million times. In reality you’ve never even kissed him let alone let him hold you.

“I’ll make it worth your time, YN.”

You hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. How many times have you heard that line since you started college three years ago? Very few have lived up to that promise and never a Frat boy.

“They all say that.” You find yourself saying against your better judgment.

There is something different about Yeonjun not just in the way he carries himself but overall. You almost cringe knowing where your brain is going. There is no room to think about what a good guy Yeonjun is. You are here to make him forget his own name.

“My brothers are a lot more selfish than me.” He says slipping his hands under your shirt.

Grabbing the back of his neck you pull him into a kiss which he happily accepts. He tastes like bud light but at this point you don’t really mind. His lips move against yours with an intensity you don’t expect. Your stomach flutters as you push yourself closer. His hands wander up the back of your shirt to unhook your bra. You pull away to take your shirt and bra off.

He lifts you onto the bed with him then removes his tank top leaving on the backwards cap. You’ve seen him shirtless at quite a few parties but that doesn’t compare to seeing his toned stomach up close and personal. He kisses you again while your fingers trail over his prominent abdominal muscles. It’s a wonder he stays this fit with all the beer he drinks.

Yeonjun cups your breast in his large hand gently squeezing. You swing your leg over his hip pulling him closer until your bodies are pressed against each other. His cock is nearly fully hard despite only kissing you. Yeonjun moves his hand to cup your ass over your shorts as you stick your fingers into the waistband of his shorts. You tug them down with his help and palm him through his boxers. The others weren’t lying about his size. He’s not massive but definitely bigger than average.

He unbuttons your shorts with one hand while he kisses down your neck with an open mouth. His tongue leaves your skin tingling. You shimmy out of your shorts flinging them off the bed with your foot. Yeonjun’s hand cups your pussy over the thin fabric of your lace blue thong. You chose this one specifically knowing who you were trying to sleep with tonight. Once at a formal you overheard Yeonjun say his favorite color was blue.

“You’re so gorgeous. Did you wear these just for me?” he whispers, eyes trained on the panties he’s pushing his fingers under.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You say because you will not be the cause of his ego inflating.

“Guess I’ll just have to show you why they should be just for me.” He says, then drags his finger over your clit three times before he pulls back to remove his own underwear then yours.

Though you want to act like every cell in your body isn’t yearning for his touch, that is exactly the case. Since freshman year you have been finding excuses for reasons not to do what you are doing right now. Nearly all of them were to avoid the feelings you’ve repressed far inside your heart. This is your last ditch attempt to forget about him. You want to go into the rest of senior year with no regrets.

With light pressure he rubs his fingers through your folds collecting your lust before touching your clit. Your fingers wrap around his hard length giving it a gentle stroke. He draws in a sharp breath at the contact like he hasn’t been touched in awhile. For all you know that could be the truth. The girls who usually tell you who is hooking up with who, haven’t had any news on Yeonjun in awhile. You tighten your grip and a low whine passes his lips.

A smile touches your lips as you slowly stroke his cock. He pushes your shoulder until you lie flat on the bed. Yeonjun hovers over you giving a soft kiss to your lips before he crawls down the bed. He spreads your legs taking his place between them.

He wraps his arms under your thighs resting his hands on your bare hip bones. Yeonjun’s head dips down and his tongue licks a thick strip against your waiting pussy. A shock works its way from your stomach straight to your cunt as he continues. He drags his tongue over your slit in a zigzag motion. You want to grab his hair but it’s still covered by that stupid hat. He locks eyes with you as he sucks your clit into his mouth making your back arch off the bed.

“Yeonjun!” You can’t control the sounds of pleasure that escape your lips. “More, please.”

He flicks his tongue across your clit and inserts his two middle fingers into your soaked cunt. The sound of your moans fill the air as he fucks his fingers into. Yeonjun continues to suck and lick at your pussy.

“Your noises are so pretty, YN.” He murmurs, keeping his steady pace. “So wet for me.”

Yeonjun presses his lips to your thigh several times before he pulls his fingers away. A whine leaves your lips and he smiles with the cutest nose scrunch. He gets to his knees reaching for his bedside table when you stop him. You pull him down for a kiss the trade places with him. He sits up on his bed and allows you between his legs.

“Do you want me to suck your cock?” You ask looking through your lashes with his cock just inches from your face.

“I’ve been thinking about it for years.”

You hide your shock by taking the tip of his cock into your mouth and suckling. He’s been thinking about you sucking his cock for years? Has he also wanted to do this for years? Why would he also wait for this random party? There are so many questions you wish you had the answer to but for now you need to make him fall apart.

Deep breathy moans leave Yeonjun’s mouth as your lips sink further around his cock. His head is tilted against the wall behind his low headboard while he holds your hair away from your face. He’s not pulling your hair, though you wouldn’t be opposed to that.

When his tip hits the back of your throat he whines bucking his hips up in a motion that seems involuntary. You sputter, pulling your mouth off of his cock to look into his eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” He rushes to apologize, letting go of your hair so he can stroke the back of your head. “I didn’t mean to do that. Your mouth just feels so good.”

“Fuck my throat.” You demand letting the alcohol flowing through your veins take over. Normally you would never be so bold with someone like Yeonjun. Especially given the circumstances of your stupid brain chemicals. When he hesitates you say something you wouldn’t dare to utter to another frat boy. “Please!”

He pulls your hair back into a ponytail and gently guides your lips back to his leaking cock. You swirl your tongue around his tip once before he pushes you further down. He’s careful to let you get used to the feeling for a moment before he thrusts. He starts slowly just letting the tip of his length kiss the back of your throat. Pretty whines are coming from Yeonjun’s mouth as he guides your head. You relax your jaw allowing him to move you how he likes.

“Slap me if it’s too much.” He says and you try to nod your head with his cock in your mouth.

Your scalp stings as his grip on your hair tightens. He pushes your head down and you take a deep breath letting his cock slide down your throat. This time you don’t choke knowing what is coming. He pulls your head off then thrusts back in and continues to repeat the motions with quiet moans leaving his lips every time he hits the back of your throat.

You don’t tap out liking the feeling of him fuck your throat a little too much. He finds it in himself to stop after several minutes and pulls you onto his lap. He kisses your cheek as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. You are resting against his cock fighting the urge to grind against it. You scoot back to sit on his thighs instead.

“Are you ready?” You ask and he nods reaching for the drawer of his bedside table.

He pulls out two things. The first a condom and the second a small blue bullet vibrator. Somehow in your many years of sex, a man has never used a toy on you without you asking first. Yet here is your favorite frat boy breaking stereotypes again.

Yeonjun hands you the vibrator and quickly tears open the condom wrapper. He rolls the condom onto his hard length then takes the toy back. He turns the vibrator on the lowest setting as you lift yourself up. You grip his cock lining it up with your entrance before sinking down. Both of you take in a sharp breath and Yeonjun curses under his breath.

While you are getting used to the feeling of him inside of you, he presses the vibrator against your clit. You fold over in a wave of pleasure resting your head on his shoulders. With one hand he rubs your back while continuing to press the toy against your most sensitive area.

It takes a few moments for you to begin stirring your hips pulling sultry moans from Yeonjun pouty lips. You lean back bracing yourself against his thighs as you bounce yourself on his cock. He moves the vibrator up and down your slit in time with your movements. Waves of pleasure are washing over you making you feel almost tingley.

“Come here.” Yeonjun whines reaching out for you.

He keeps attention on your bundle of nerves while he pulls you against his chest. You move your hips back and forth as he leans in to kiss your lips. Fireworks erupt in your mind as he puts one hand on the back of your neck. He wants you close and he wants to keep kissing you for as long as he can. Part of you doesn’t want this to end even if that’s greedy. Your breasts press against Yeonjun’s chest as you hug him. Knowing that any second this could be over and you’ll have to move on.

Yeonjun reaches up to finally takes that stupid hat off his head then slides down the bed to lie flat with you still on his dick. He keeps you against chest, putting the vibrator to the side. Yeonjun holds you still and thrusts into you quickly and you are glad it's loud downstairs or someone would surely hear the curses that leave your mouth. That only further encourages him and he continues to snap his hips hitting the deepest parts of you with his cock.

“Yeonjun! I’m going to cum.” You cry, and he once again picks up the vibrator and lets you sit up.

He pushes the button twice and rubs the blue bullet against your clit without slowing the thrust of his toned hips. Heat pulls in your stomach as you watch Yeonjun help you come undone. Your goal was to make him forget his own name but that’s the only name you can think of right now.

“That’s right, YN. Cum for me.” His words send you over the edge. “Ah, you’re so gorgeous cumming all over my cock.”

A hot flash of pleasure works its way from your head all the way to your toes so strongly you lean against Yeonjun’s chest. He abandons the toy wrapping both arms around you. You can feel his smile against your head as he continues to fuck into you. He feels so good fucking into your over sensitive body. His body tenses under you when he’s close and his moans sound even more melodic and beautiful as he finishes in the condom inside of you.

For a moment you lie against his chest listening to the quickened beat of his heart while he hugs you. He is gentle when he moves you off his chest onto his mattress. Yeonjun ties off the condom and throws it away in the trash next to his desk. He then takes a gulp of the beer on his desk before joining you on his bed.

“I know this is a shitty time to finally admit this, but I’ve had a crush on you since Freshman year.” He wraps an arm around you as he speaks, pulling your head to his chest.

Immediately, you pull away jaw dropping. There is no way this man has had feelings for you all this time and hasn’t tried anything. What is so special about right now? There has been no shift in the way you interact with each other. What finally gave him the courage to ask you to come to his room?

“Why are we so stupid?” You mutter and his eyes light up like he knows what you are going to say next. “I’ve had a crush on you for years. This was my last ditch attempt to get over you. I thought maybe if I had you once it would be enough.”

“Was it enough?” Yeonjun asks in a tone that makes you sure he knows the answer is no.

“Let’s go on a date then I’ll let you know.”

Yeonjun takes your hands in his with a big smile playing on his face. You can’t believe it’s taken the two of you this long to finally admit that there is something here. Being touched by him makes your body warm and cared for. Maybe you were afraid that he would reject you even when you had no real reason to think that. He’s always seemed to have a soft spot for you.

“Okay, it’s a date, finally.”

[sinsiriuslyemo]

Chapter Seventeen: Somber Histories and Hopeful Futures

The scent of maplewood and peaches was one of the most pleasant smells he had ever encountered, and it was right under his nose at that very moment. Stirring gently against the warmth that was pressed against his side, he realized it was hair. Silky, smooth, long hair that tickled his nose with each breath. As pleasant as that was, it paled in comparison to the soft, warm skin wrapped around his arm. The corner of his lips curled upward as a sleepy sigh reached his ears, and the head tucked against his shoulder moved to snuggle closer to him. Rain pounded the ground outside and… was that a violin?

He must’ve been dreaming again.

Inhaling deeply, he tucked his nose into the soft hair as the lovely scent washed over him again. For a moment, he imagined that the last twelve years had been nothing more than a terrible nightmare, one which he was finally waking up from.

“But what about us?”

“We’ll always have Paris.”

Knitting his brows, Sirius slowly opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. Penny’s blonde hair was just below his eyeline, and something was moving on the TV in front of them. He turned his head toward it.

Right. They’d been watching a movie, and must have fallen asleep. Looking down at Penny, he realized that she was snuggled up to his side, their arms intertwined, and her head resting against his shoulder. Not wanting to wake her just yet, Sirius did his best not to move even as the pins and needles in his arm swelled.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” the black and white man in the box said.

Penny stirred against him, lifting her head to look at the TV first, then up at him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Much to his dismay, she slowly sat up, a chill hitting the side she had been leaning against as her warmth moved away from him. “What time is it?” she asked no one in particular as she looked at the clock mounted on the wall above the TV.

7:15pm.

“Did you at least like the movie?” she asked, looking back at him.

“Actually, I fell asleep as well,” he replied. It was the first time he had done so and not had his usual nightmare in fact.

“Aw, that’s too bad,” she said, her voice straining a bit as she stretched. “It’s a good one.”

“What I saw of it, I liked,” he said. If there was one thing he took from it, it was that in a time of war, just as in love, there is always a choice to be made, and it is neither clean nor painless.

“Hey can I ask you a question?”

He looked back at her. “Sure.”

“What do wizards do when they go on dates?” She brought her legs up, tucking them slightly under her bottom and turned more toward him.

Sirius arched a brow in amusement. “The same things muggles do, I imagine. Go to a restaurant, or to the cinema —”

“You guys have cinemas?”

“In this country, just one.”

“That’s it?”

“They’re not exactly in high demand,” he answered. “Besides, our community is much smaller than the muggle community.”

Penny hummed thoughtfully.

“What made you think of that?”

“Oh it’s nothing, just…” She gestured to the TV. “The first time I watched this movie was on a date.” She gently bobbed her shoulders. “I guess I was just curious.”

“You? On a date? I thought you had a strict policy about dating,” he teased.

“I do now, this was in high school,” she answered, turning slightly toward him. “I guess here, you’d call it secondary school.”

“You haven’t been on a date since secondary school?”

“I have,” she replied a bit defensively, her brows furrowed. “Not very many, but I have.”

Sirius smirked softly, and propped an elbow on the back of the sofa. “What’s the best date you’ve ever been on?”

Just when he thought he couldn’t find her more adorable, she twisted her lips and tilted her head pensively. “There was this one guy who took me to a street fair. We played some games, ate good food. It was fun.” She shrugged. “I’m a pretty cheap date.”

Sirius hummed thoughtfully, nodding once. Perhaps if all went well with Wormtail — and assuming he could clear his name — he could come back and take Penny out as thanks for her kindness. “Cheap dates are often the best dates.”

“What about you?” she asked, a light pink blooming on her cheeks. “Best date you’ve ever been on.”

“Merlin, that was so long ago,” he replied, almost to himself. “I’ve only really ever been on two dates.”

“Seriously?”

“Mhm, one was to a place in Hogsmeade called Honeydukes. It’s a rather popular date destination for Hogwarts students. And the other was a Quidditch game,” he said. “I wasn’t exactly the kind of bloke who went on dates per se.”

“You were a player,” she replied, a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Was, and it isn’t something I’m terribly proud of.”

She hummed behind a coy smirk. “So which was the best date?”

Sirius pursed his lips. Part of him didn’t want to answer since it wouldn’t exactly make him look good, but the other part of him sensed that Penny wasn’t the sort to hold it against him, especially considering that he was 16 at the time.

“The Quidditch game.” He bobbed his shoulders. “Our house won, which she wasn’t terribly thrilled about. Especially since her house was the one playing against ours. We never went on a second date.”

“Gee, I wonder why?” she teased. “I guess you’re competitive then.”

“You could say that,” he replied. “I was a lot more wild back then than I am now… for the most part.”

“Well that’s good at least,” Penny said. “So since you were apparently a ladies man —”

He let out a bark of laughter, one hand moving to cover his face.

“Does that mean you have someone waiting for you to come back?” Her eyes were down as she picked at the hem of her dress.

A soft smirk pulled at one corner of his lips. “If there was, I wouldn’t be here with you, love.”

Meeting his eyes again, she beamed at him, her lips parting as if to say something when the phone began to ring. Sirius smiled softly at her, moving to stand and stretch.

“I think I’ll have a shower if that’s alright.”

“You don’t have to ask me permission to take a shower,” she answered in a chuckle, scooting herself closer to the phone. “Hello? Hey! Did you get my email?”

Sirius pulled the wand out of his pocket and vanished their empty take out containers before he made his way to the bathroom.

“Wait, seriously?” Penny asked whoever was on the phone. “Oh my God, yes! Of course!”

As he started to close the door, he heard her say, “Oh, I don’t know if it’ll be possible,” and wondered for a moment what she might be referring to. Whatever it was, she sounded disappointed. Perhaps if he knew what it was, he might be able to help. She had done so much for him, and had offered to do so much more that he felt compelled to repay her as soon as he was able.

For now, his priority was to enjoy every last moment of luxury he could, starting with having a shower whenever he pleased. He would need to go without one for the foreseeable future while he put his plans into motion to expose Wormtail.

He stepped under the water and thoroughly wet his hair as his mind began formulating plans to come back to Penny after this whole business with Peter. Of course, that was assuming he wouldn’t be caught before that, and that he would be able to exonerate himself. It seemed foolish to think so far ahead, but after the conversation he had just had with Penny, he couldn’t help but imagine himself taking her out on a date. He wasn’t sure whether he would be able to top the street fair, but he was determined to try.

Making quick work of washing and conditioning his hair and scrubbing his skin, Sirius rinsed himself off and wrapped a towel around his hips. Carefully opening the door, he stepped out and walked across the hall to her bedroom. He hadn’t wanted to keep his clothes there, but she had insisted that he live like a human being while he still had the resources to do so. Apparently that meant keeping his clothes hung in a closet or folded in a drawer, and sleeping on the sofa with a blanket and pillow, though he had avoided the latter in favor of his dog bed.

Once dressed, Sirius pulled out his wand and cast a drying charm on his hair and a scourgify on the clothes he had been wearing before he put them away in the drawer she had cleared for him to use. Just as he was shutting the drawer, she knocked on her bedroom door.

“Are you decent?” she called out from the other side.

Snorting softly, Sirius opened the door. “Yes.”

“I just got off the phone with my friend, Bianca,” she said, clarifying, “The one that’s getting married.”

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, she was just wanting to ask me to be her maid of honor, and also tell me that she wants to go to a musical festival next summer for their joint bachelor/bachelorette party,” she answered, wringing her hands in front of her.

“That sounds fun.”

“Yeah,” she replied, though her tone didn’t sound quite as enthused as he would’ve thought.

“Do you not want to go?” he asked.

“It’s not that,” she said with a long exhale. “I do, I just don’t know if I’ll be able to if I get the job on that expedition. Besides, I just know that if I go to Connecticut, my mom is gonna wanna see me, and that means having to hear all about so and so’s son is so star spangled awesome and don’t I want to meet him?”

“Don’t stress over what your mother thinks,” he replied. “If I had heeded even a quarter of what my mother told me I would probably be married with an heir and a spare and a respected position in the wizarding community.”

Penny arched her brow slightly. “Aren’t those good things?”

“No,” he answered. “I would’ve had to destroy my soul to have them. I’ve regretted very little in my life, but telling my parents to piss off is not one of them.”

“Even after everything that’s happened?” she asked.

“Especially after everything has happened,” he replied, flicking his wand at his towel and sending it to hang itself.

Penny leaned against the doorframe, absently kicking one foot in front of her. “Well, you know, if I can go… Bianca said I could invite someone since the rest of the wedding party are bringing their significant others, and… I know it might not be possible, but the only person I really want to invite is you, so… yeah.”

Sirius blinked, a bit taken aback by the invitation. He had already accepted that she enjoyed his company as much as he did hers, but he never expected for her to want him to meet the other people in her life. He also realized that her asking meant that she thought he would be successful in bringing Wormtail out of the shadows. She was much more optimistic than he was about whether he would be deemed innocent by the Ministry.

“I’m very flattered,” he said, one corner of his lips curled upward.

“I know it depends on whether or not you can get to Wormtail, and obviously you have to be able to prove you’re innocent,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m just saying if you’re able to do all that… would you wanna go with me?”

The curl in his lips deepened as he stepped toward her, his hands going up to the top of the doorframe. “Penelope Mitchell, are you asking me on a date?” he teased.

The pink that bloomed on her cheeks made his heartbeat quicken, and his skin grew hot as her lips stretched into a shy smile.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Not quite a street fair, is it?”

She chuckled softly, bringing her eyes up to his. “I think it’ll be better.”

Snorting, Sirius nodded once. “I’d be honored.”

He couldn’t be sure that it was the most prudent to make plans when his future was so uncertain, but perhaps it would help him make better decisions if it meant he would get the opportunity to spend more time with Penny once it was all over. It seemed like a fool’s dream; that everything would work out so ideally in his favor, but perhaps hope was just what he needed to succeed.

Sirius clung to the moments of normalcy that he and Penny shared, where he could imagine that he was like any other wizard in Britain, living with his muggle flatmate, for whom he secretly pined for. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest to linger on such fantasies, but he also couldn’t help but think that the memories would help sustain him when he would need to stay away from people again. Having someone show him compassion and friendship had given him strength when he hadn’t realized he needed it. It seemed cruel that in just three days he would have to say goodbye without knowing whether he would ever see her again. But for now, he would cherish every last second he could spend with her, even when they spent the majority of the time talking about Peter bloody Pettigrew.

“It won’t be easy,” he said, turning a page in The Dark Forces.

They had just finished breakfast and had been looking through the books that Uncle Jack had sent over for something that would help keep Penny well hidden from any Ministry officials. There was little reason for anyone to suspect that she’s been helping a wanted wizard, but he was erring on the side of caution, especially since Penny had been insistent that he let her help him when and how she could.

“By now he will have heard that I’ve escaped. He’ll be expecting me to come looking for him.”

Penny looked up from where she had been leafing through Olde and Forgotten Bewitchment and Charmes. “That’s why you have to be smart about this. You’ll have to catch him off guard.”

“That may be difficult.”

“Except he won't be expecting for you to have help,” she replied. “If Uncle Jack went to Hogwarts, then there’s a good chance he knows Dumbledore, right?”

“Likely, but that doesn't mean Dumbledore knows him,” he answered, shifting closer to her so that he could show her the page he’d just read. “This is what I was talking about.”

“Do you think it’s the best idea to be taking spells out of a book about Dark Forces?” she asked, leaning over slightly to look at the page he was trying to show her.

“All of the wards and protections my father put on our family home came from books like these, and our house is still protected till this day. The best spells to keep something hidden will come from books that dodgy people read,” he answered, sitting back against the cushions and he ran his finger over the ingredients.

Penny sighed softly. “Okay. I trust you.”

“Do you happen to have pixie sweets?”

Penny narrowed her eyes and deadpanned, “Fresh out of pixie sweets.”

“You call them cinnamon sticks.”

She blinked, looking surprised. “Oh, uhh… yeah, I think I do. I’m not much of a baker, but I made cinnamon buns a while back, so I should still —”

“What the bloody hell is a cinnamon bun?” he asked, arching a brow.

“You’ve never had a cinnamon bun?” Penny asked. “I take back what I said about the wizarding world sounding awesome. You guys don’t even have cinnamon buns.”

Trying to suppress a smile, Sirius looked over at her. “Well, perhaps you can show me what it is, and if it’s any good maybe I’ll take a recipe to Ambrosius and Mrs Flume for them to sell at Honeydukes.”

“It would be the best thing you’ve ever done,” she replied.

“I’ll, of course, take all credit for it,” he teased.

“Typical wizard, just straight up stealing muggle ideas to pass off as your own,” she teased back, earning a chuckle from him. “Hey, I never asked you… what was the war over? I mean, I know you told me that you, Remus, Peter, James and Lily fought in the resistance, but you never explain what started the war to begin with. That Volden guy, was he, like, wronged by the government or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbled, his eyes still on the book in front of him. “Voldemort. He believed that muggles and muggle born wizards were inferior. He wanted to eradicate them, turn them into slaves for all the pureblood families who supported him.”

“Is that why killed Harry’s parents? Because they weren’t pureblood?”

“No, James was a pureblood,” he replied, closing the book but keeping it on his lap. “My little brother — Regulus — he was a Death Eater, that’s what they called themselves. They were followers of Voldemort. Anyway, he — Voldemort — wanted as many pureblood families on side as he could get. He already had Reggie, my mum and dad weren’t Death Eaters themselves, but they supported him. And he wanted me as well. He likely knew how close I was with the Potters, and he knew I was a member of the Order. I think he believed if he could take James and Lily out of the equation, it would be much easier to get me on side.”

Reaching forward with a sigh, he set the book down on the coffee table, a grimace on his face.

“He was wrong. If anything it only made me want him dead all the more.”

“Your mom and dad were alright with innocent people being killed all because they weren’t pureblood?” she asked.

He looked at her somberly. “Much more than just alright. They hated muggle born witches and wizards. They hated muggles even more. Reggie and I grew up listening to our mother go on and on about how pureblood wizards were the only true magic folk in the world. And that half bloods and muggle borns were corrupting that magic. It’s all bollocks. I knew that from the time I was five years old.”

“What about Reggie?” she asked softly.

“Reggie was always the soft one,” he mumbled. “He was their favorite, even if I was their heir. He was always much easier for them to manipulate.”

Penny frowned and reached to lay her hand in his. “That must’ve been really hard on you. Seeing your brother turn into someone like that.”

His fingers curled around hers as he gently bobbed his shoulders. “I accepted that he would never change.”

“Still, he’s your brother.”

“Was,” Sirius corrected grimly. “He’s dead. They’re all dead. My mother was the last to go, a few years after my arrest.”

She squeezed his hand gently. “I’m so sorry.”

He nodded once, offering a faint smile in her direction. “It was long ago.”

Sighing deeply, Sirius leaned back against the sofa and gestured to the book with the hand that wasn’t holding hers.

“You’ll need a sneakoscope for that spell to work, and there are only two places to get one I’m afraid,” he said.

Penny arched her brow.

“One is Dervish and Banges in Hogsmeade. But that’s in Scotland. So we’ll have to go to Diagon Alley.”

“What about the goblins?” she asked. “I thought you said —”

“As long as we keep you out of Gringotts, we should be alright,” he said. “The question is, are you up for a bit of adventure?”

“And get the chance to see a wizard mall? Yeah, I’m in,” she replied as a grin formed on her lips.

He smirked back at her, his eyes lowering to take in her clothes. She would need to look like a witch if there was any chance of them pulling this off. “Right then. We’ll need to make you look like a proper witch.”

[jaspavca]

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Testing and User Training

After the installation is complete, professionals test the entire setup to ensure that everything is functioning correctly. This includes checking connections, ensuring that the remote control works properly, and verifying that all devices are communicating as expected. Additionally, technicians provide training on how to use the TV and its features, including setting up favorite channels, using smart apps, and navigating settings. This training helps you maximize the potential of your new TV and avoids frustration with unfamiliar technology.

Ongoing Support and Maintenance

Some professional TV installation services offer ongoing support and maintenance options. This can be particularly useful if you encounter issues or need to make adjustments in the future. Whether it’s troubleshooting problems, updating software, or relocating your TV setup, having access to expert assistance ensures that your entertainment system remains in top condition.

Conclusion

Professional TV installation and setup services offer a comprehensive solution for optimizing your home entertainment experience. From expert mounting and cable management to precise calibration and seamless integration with other devices, these services ensure that your TV not only looks great but performs at its best. By entrusting your installation to professionals, you can enjoy a hassle-free setup and take full advantage of your TV’s features, enhancing your overall viewing pleasure and ensuring a sleek, functional, and enjoyable home entertainment environment.

Contact Us

(760) 315-7015

jasp_av@outlook.com

PO Box 3910,

Ramona, CA, 92065

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[lex-play]

Light My Soul on Fire pt 5

~*~

Katsuki was a little nervous. He hadn’t been sure he’d wanted to bring the omega to this place. SmashBang was his baby. He’d built it from the ground up, even going so far as to get a loan. The hag thought he was nuts. Katsuki remembered the confusion on her face and the way she’d tilted her head as she’d asked why he hadn’t just used the money he earned from the stock he had in their company.

But he wanted to build something himself. Yeah, he knew he’d never really need to work or need to do anything by himself. He knew he’d always have their support, financial and otherwise, but he wanted to be able to look at something and say “I made this myself.”

“What is this place?” Izuku asked, pulling Katsuki out of his thoughts.

“It’s a rage room,” he said with a grin. “You seemed pretty stressed both times I’ve seen you so I thought we could let loose.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of these,” Izuku said. He followed Katsuki as he opened the door for him.

“You ever gone to one before?”

Izuku shook his head and tucked some hair behind his ear. He looked nervous and Katsuki swallowed the tease about popping his Rage Room cherry. It was way too soon for shit like that and he knew it.

“I used to come to these a shit ton as a teenager. It was a great fucking stress reliever,” he turned to the kid behind the counter. “Reservation for Bakugou.”

The guy clicked a few buttons on the computer. “Looks like you prepaid, cool. Follow me.”

They followed the kid to an open door. He gestured inside where there were thick black jumpsuits, face shields, and boxes of facemasks by the door.

“Everything is unisex so choose your size. You guys are in room three,” he pointed down a hallway lined with doors. “I’ll come get you when your time’s up.”

“Thank you,” Izuku said with a smile. Katsuki nodded at the kid, who gave them an awkward thumbs up and went back to the front counter.

“So you said you’ve been to these before?” Izuku asked as he went in and started looking for his size.

“Yep,” Katsuki said. “This is the best one in the city though.”

Izuku raised an eyebrow at him. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word on that. For now.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a fuckin expert on Rage Rooms,” Katsuki snapped playfully. He grinned over at Izuku as he zipped up his jumpsuit and the omega stuck his tongue out at him.

“Sure, Katsuki. Whatever you say, Katsuki.”

Katsuki’s mind immediately sunk into the gutter and he wanted to bash his head into a wall. He wasn’t this much of a knothead, never had been, so what the fuck? What was it about this omega that sent him and his enigma into such a damn tizzy?

He sauntered over to Izuku and looked down his nose at him with exaggerated flare.

“Exactly, whatever I say.”

Izuku smacked him in the stomach with a snort and Katsuki doubled over as the wind was knocked out of him. Damn the little omega was stronger than he looked.

“Goddamn nerd,” Katsuki wheezed. “I was joking.”

Izuku grinned and grabbed a facemask, shield already on his head, and left the room. Katsuki grinned, grabbed his own stuff and followed.

~*~*~

Izuku hoped it didn’t look like he’d fled. He had, but he didn’t want Katsuki to know that. He was so embarrassed about smacking him like that. That’s something he’d do to Shouto or Ochako or even Hitoshi. People he’d known for years that he was comfortable with.

Katsuki caught up to Izuku right when he was turning the knob on the burnt orange door with a metallic black 3 on it.

“Oh wow,” Izuku breathed.

Against one wall were targets with numbers, there was a table piled high with different types of glass and porcelain, another long table had a few computer monitors and there was a tv mounted on another wall.

Katsuki put his hand at the small of Izuku’s back and nudged him forward gently, closing the door behind them.

“Do you wanna throw shit or smash shit?”

Izuku looked up at him with wide eyes and the alpha pointed out a couple different types of baseball bats.

“Oh, um…” Izuku pinched his lower lip between his fingers and looked back at his options. “Maybe throw shit? This is weird for me,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Why?” Katsuki led him to the table.

“Well omegas are generally encouraged to be soft and sweet and chaste and-“

Katsuki’s derisive snort cut him off.

“Yeah, no. I get what you’re saying, and I’m sure you’re right, shit you’d know better than me, but that stereotype of ‘the perfect omega’ would bore the fuck out of me. Just be yourself, ok?”

Izuku felt warm. He knew it wasn’t a compliment, not really, but it felt like one. Katsuki actually seemed like he wanted to get to know Izuku, not just as some omega he thought was cute but as himself.

“Ok.”

Katsuki nodded. “Good. Now pick something to throw, picture the person you hate the most, and throw it like you’re trying to break it on their face.”

“K-Katsuki!” Izuku squeaked, scandalized.

Katsuki just grinned wider.

“What? It doesn’t hurt anyone. And it’s so fucking satisfying, watch.”

Katsuki picked up a beer bottle by the neck, cocked his arm back and threw it at the target. Izuku had to admit that the sound of it shattering was way more satisfying than he’d expected.

“Who’d you think of?” Izuku asked.

Katsuki grinned over at him. “This fucking moronic waste of oxygen I came across at work this week. Dumbass lit a candle and wound up leaving the house. Surprise fucking surprise it caught something else on fire because nobody was watching it.”

Izuku winced. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“No. Thankfully someone just walking by happened to see the fire through a window and called it in. But it could have been really fucking bad.”

Izuku shivered. “Your job seems scary.”

“It can be,” Katsuki shrugged. Then he picked up a hollow glass ball of some sort and handed it to Izuku. “Your turn.”

Izuku swallowed and lifted it in his hands.

“Think of someone you really can’t stand.”

Immediately Hitoshi’s ex, Monoma Neito came to mind.

“You’ve got someone in mind. I can see it on your face,” Katsuki sounded delighted and Izuku didn’t know how to take that. “Tell me about ‘em.”

“My friend’s ex,” Izuku said. “Hitoshi and I have known each other since high school and then here comes Monoma the freaking jerk acting like I’m trying to steal Hitoshi from him or something.”

“Wow, he said that to you?” Katsuki’s tone was goading, Izuku could hear it, but he was getting so mad that he rose to the taunt anyway.

“Yes! But I never told Toshi because I knew he’d break up with Monoma and I didn’t want him to think he was right! And then!” Izuku was on a roll now. He squeezed the glass ball between his hands as he spoke. “Then he cheated on my friend and had the absolute audacity to blame him and accuse him of cheating first! With me!”

Katsuki looked a little dazed for a moment, and Izuku would probably feel bad for dumping all of this on him later, but he’d literally asked. Then he pointed to the target on the wall and grinned.

“Throw the damn glass like it’s his face, Freckles.”

Izuku growled, cocked his arm back and threw the glass as hard as he could. It shattered against the wall and it was even more satisfying than when Katsuki had done it.

“Oh,” he said, panting. Izuku turned around to face Katsuki again, grinning. “You were right, that felt great.”

“You looked like you enjoyed that,” Katsuki said. His voice was raspy and Izuku swore it was a little deeper for a moment but then he cleared his throat and tossed him a bottle from the pile. “Do it again.”

Izuku’s grin sharpened.

“Gladly.”

[vigortvbracket]

Vigor TV Bracket Singapore | TV Wall Mounting Services

Address : 1090 Lower Delta Road #03-07H, Singapore 169201

Phone : +65 3158 8367

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Description : Vigor TV Bracket Singapore provides homes with a one-stop supply and installation of the highest quality and most premium TV bracket products like fixed TV brackets, tilt TV brackets, swivel TV brackets, and adjustable/movable TV brackets island-wide. We also provide TV bracket installation and TV wall mount installation services. Contact us now or send us a WhatsApp message to learn more about our products and services.

[atplblog]

Price: [price_with_discount] (as of [price_update_date] - Details) [ad_1] NURAT Heavy Duty full motion TV wall mount offers an attractive way to display a TV while also providing the most flexible viewing options. The arm can easily be adjusted, allowing you to watch your shows in a more comfortable, ergonomically correct position. This TV wall mount can hold a flat screen TV between 14 and 40 inches with a max 200x200 VESA compatibility and 14Kg max loading capacity. This universal mount fits most TVs such as Samsung, LG, Sony, Micromax and many more... . . Features: 1. Full motion allows maximum flexibility: Extend your TV between 1.9" and 15.4" from the wall 2. Move your TV for perfect viewing: Adjust the angle in every direction for easy viewing from any seat in the room. 3. Extended articulating system: Wide-angle swivel between -90 degree to +90 degree meets different viewing needs. The TV set can be manipulated in several positions to accommodate normal TV shows, video gaming, fitness programs, video chats and more. 4. 3 degree horizontal adjustment: You can fix minor installation errors within negligible degree. . . Specs: 1. Model name: IN-301 2. Compatible with VESA mounting hole pattern:75x75mm(3"x3"), 100X100mm(4"x4"), 200X100mm(8"x4"), 200X200mm(8"x8"). 3. TV size: 17"-32" 4. Weight capacity: 17kgs 5. Distance to the wall: 1.9"-15.4" 6. Tilt angle: Adjustable tilt 5 degree forward or 10 degree backward 7. Swivel angle: -90 degree to 90 degree . . . Package Includes: 1 x TV Mount All Hardware kit BRAND : NURAT Wall Mount Compatibility : 14" to 40" TV's (LCD / LED / Monitors / OLED/ 4K / Plasma / CC-Tv / Smart TV's ) Complete Viewing Flexibity : This TV wall mount offers complete viewing flexibility allowing you to rotate your TV 180 Degrees Right to Left and tilt the TV 15 Degrees Up to Down . Full Motion rotation makes it easy to find the best viewing angle and reduce glare from lights or windows Built Quality : Heavy duty well built Tv wall mount . Strong , sturdy and long durable built quality . Solid dual arm construction for additional safety . Low profile and elegant design [ad_2]

[anmolsmsblog]

FORGING MOUNT TV Wall Mount Bracket Full Motion TV Mount for Most 37-75 Inch Flat Screen/Curved TVs Swivel Dual Articulating Arms Extension Rotation Tilt Max VESA 600×400mm Holds up to 132lbs

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[handymanproservices]

How to Optimize Your TV Viewing Angle

Achieving the perfect TV viewing angle enhances your home entertainment experience. For residents of Mundelein 60060, mastering this aspect can transform your living space. Below, we share refined insights to ensure optimal TV wall mounting installation, featuring Handyman Pro Services for expert guidance.

Set the Ideal Height

Mounting your TV at the correct height is paramount. Aim for the center of the screen to align with your eye level when seated. Typically, this means positioning the TV around 42 inches from the floor, depending on your seating.

Handyman Pro Services suggests marking your eye level on the wall from your usual seat to achieve this. This technique aids in perfect placement, ensuring comfort and preventing neck strain.

Determine Viewing Distance

The distance between your TV and seating area is crucial. A general guideline is to sit at a distance 1.5 to 2.5 times the diagonal length of your TV screen. For instance, a 55-inch TV calls for a viewing distance of approximately 6.9 to 11.5 feet.

Maintaining this range ensures a clear, immersive experience without pixelation. During installation, Handyman Pro Services can help you measure and position your TV accurately.

Adjust Tilt and Swivel

Utilize your TV mount’s tilt and swivel features. A slight downward tilt minimizes glare from lights and windows. Swiveling the TV ensures optimal viewing from various room angles.

Handyman Pro Services specializes in mounts offering this flexibility. Their expertise allows for precise adjustments, enhancing your viewing experience in Mundelein 60060.

Minimize Glare

Glare can ruin your TV viewing. To reduce it, avoid placing your TV directly opposite windows or light sources. Ideally, position the TV perpendicular to them. If unavoidable, use curtains or blinds to manage light.

Handyman Pro Services recommends anti-glare screen protectors in bright rooms. These tools can enhance visibility without compromising picture quality.

Ensure Secure Mounting

Secure mounting is essential. Attach the mount firmly to wall studs to support the TV’s weight. If unsure about the process, seek professional help.

Handyman Pro Services offers reliable TV wall mounting installation in Mundelein 60060. Their professionals ensure secure and precise TV placement, enhancing both safety and viewing pleasure.

Conclusion

Optimizing your TV viewing angle involves thoughtful consideration of height, distance, tilt, and glare. Implement these sophisticated tips to elevate your home theater experience. For those in Mundelein 60060, Handyman Pro Services provides expert TV wall mounting installations, ensuring your TV is perfectly positioned for an unparalleled viewing experience.

Trust their expertise to transform your living space into a cinematic haven.

[howzitsa]

37-70 Inch Slim-Sliding Curved/Flat Wall Bracket The innovative LPA35-462 Sliding full-motion mount places 37"-70" curved & flat panel TVs just 45 mm from the wall, yet still allows full-motion capabilities. Support up to 40kgs/88lbs, it also passes a four times weight test. This mount slides to extend out up to 680mm from wall and allows large TV to swivel left and right up to 90 degree. Post-installation level adjustment allows the TV to “roll” up to 3º clockwise and counterclockwise to ensure it is perfectly level. The LPA35-462 always has a finished appearance with a decorative cover that conceals assembly and mounting hardware. FEATURES Easy Assembly: Installation is as easy as 1-2-3 Sliding Long Arm Offers: maximum viewing flexibility Built-In Level Adjustment: ensures perfect positioning Decorative Covers: for a more elegant look SPECIFICATION Product Category: Full-motion TV Wall Mount Rank: Premium Material: Steel, Aluminum Metal Sheet Thickness: VESA Panel THK=2mm cold-rolled sheet, Wall Plate THK=3mm cold-rolled sheet (VESA Panel THK=0.079" cold-rolled sheet, Wall Plate THK=0.12" cold-rolled sheet) Pipe Size: 120x30mm (4.7"x1.2") Surface Finish: Powder Coating Color: Matte Black Dimensions: 680x824X430mm (26.8"x32.4"X16.9") Fit Screen Size: 37"-70" Fit Curved TV: Yes Mounting Hole Pattern : VESA & Universal VESA Compatible: 200x200, 300x300, 400x200, 400x400, 600x400 Max. VESA: 648x400mmWeigh t Capacity: 40kg (88lbs) Strength Tested: 4 Times Approved Profile: 45~680mm (1.8"~26.8") Tilt Range: +8°~-12° Swivel Range: +90°~-90° Screen Level: +3°~-3° Screen Freely Tilting: Yes Installation: Solid Wall, Single Stud Panel Type: Detachable Panel Wall Plate Type: Fixed Wall Plate Cable Management: Yes Anti-theft: No Bubble Level: No Accessory Kit Package: Compartment Polybag Instruction Manual Included: Yes Certification: GS UL Patent: 2015300641665 By Function: Full motion

[amigofixit]

Professional TV Mounting Services in Alpharetta, GA

Mounting a television may seem like a straightforward task, but ensuring it is securely installed while achieving the best viewing experience requires expert precision. In Alpharetta, GA, there are professional TV mounting services that take the hassle out of the process, ensuring a sleek, safe, and perfectly positioned television for any space.

Why Choose Professional TV Mounting?

While mounting a TV on your own can be tempting, especially with DIY kits available in many stores, professional TV mounting services offer several advantages:

Safety and Security: Mounting a TV improperly can lead to disastrous consequences. A TV that is not securely fastened to the wall can easily fall, posing a danger to family members, especially small children. Expert technicians ensure the television is mounted safely, preventing accidents and ensuring the longevity of the equipment.

Proper Tools and Techniques: TV mounting experts Alpharetta GA come equipped with the right tools and equipment to complete the job efficiently. Whether it’s handling drywall, concrete, or brick surfaces, they know the best methods to use to avoid damaging walls and cables.

Optimal Viewing Angles: One of the key aspects of mounting a TV is ensuring that it’s placed at the perfect height and angle for comfortable viewing. Professional installers take into account room layout, seating arrangement, and lighting conditions to determine the best position for your TV, ensuring a perfect line of sight.

Cable Management: One of the most frustrating aspects of TV installation is dealing with messy cables. Experts not only mount the TV but also offer clean and efficient cable management solutions. This ensures that unsightly cords are hidden, giving your room a modern, clutter-free appearance.

What to Expect from TV Mounting Experts in Alpharetta

Residents of Alpharetta, GA, looking to mount their TV should expect nothing less than excellence from local experts. Here's what you can look forward to:

Consultation and Assessment: Before mounting, professionals assess your space to determine the best wall for installation, evaluate the type of wall material, and review other structural elements that could affect the process. They also help choose the best mounting style based on your TV size and the room’s layout.

Seamless Installation: Once the assessment is complete, the team proceeds with mounting. Using top-quality brackets and fixtures, they ensure the TV is securely attached and level, providing peace of mind that it won’t budge.

Integrated Setup: TV mounting services often extend beyond just installation. Many experts also connect devices such as soundbars, gaming consoles, or streaming devices, ensuring a smooth and integrated entertainment experience.

Post-Installation Support: Reputable TV mounting Milton GA companies provide aftercare services such as fine-tuning the positioning or adjusting cable management as needed. Some may even offer warranties on their services for added reassurance.

Types of TV Mounts and Installation Options

There are several types of TV mounts that professionals use depending on customer preference and the layout of the room:

Fixed Mount: This mount keeps the TV flush against the wall, offering a clean and simple look. It's ideal for rooms where the TV will stay at a fixed height and angle.

Tilting Mount: A tilting mount allows the TV to angle up or down slightly, making it useful for installations where the TV is positioned higher than eye level.

Full-Motion Mount: A full-motion mount offers the most flexibility, allowing the TV to swivel and extend from the wall. This is perfect for larger rooms where viewing from different angles is necessary.