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defmaybe · 5 months ago

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Not Shy

1k words

aespa’s Yoo Jimin/Karina x Male Reader

Sequel to J’adore

Prequel to Afterglow

See also: Sticky, Bahama

“Are you sure no one noticed us coming in here?”

“The five-minute interval shouldn’t alarm anyone, f–fuck.”

You whimper as Jimin drags her lips on where the suit doesn’t cover, so—the hollow of your throat. Your back is leaning on the women’s bathroom door.

“And by the way, ngh, it’s like they’d snitch on a student president, anyway.”

“You’ve got nothing to lose, baby. You’re a fucking treasurer, mmm.”

“I–,” are the last things you can rebuke before the buttons of your shirt are unlocked.

It’s true, aside from a few bills collected onsite, you have absolutely no worries at this second, both at work and in reliability. Background works—billing, accounting—won’t be affected by whether you’re getting fucked by your head of student council, anyway. Treasurer is quite a passive position to do, isn’t it?

“Not so witty anymore, mmh?” Karina bends down; her tongue paints a straight line up your abdomen, and you clench your mouth tightly to not have the other partygoers hear your symphony—her words.

“C–Can’t you just like, ngh, forbid them o–or something?” you ask, legs shaking with her hand groping your bulge, her lips still printing endless marks on your chest. Your composure is stripped off with each clothing removed.

“I wish secrets work like that, dumbass,” she responds, fingers grabbing your crotch–tightly, sending a shock throughout your lithe frame.

“Ngh! F–Fuck~ Alright, I–I get it, Jimin.”

“Be a good boy for me and keep quiet, alright?” She pulls back from your now-reddened body, locking you within her eyes–brown, alluring. It helps that her hair is tied to the back neatly with no stray strands, so that you can see her face—god, that face, the perfectly sculpted nose, the rosy red lips—clearer.

“S-Sure.” You can do nothing but comply.

Now, the logistics of the bathroom aren’t very complex. There are stalls—perfect for a sitting position. There are walls, obviously—pin Jimin against the wall and fuck her brainless. Though, is she a woman like that—the kind that is so eager to become a student president in college, and so pliant at the same time? You’d argue that there exists a woman in this intersection; it’s just not Jimin.

This is where the mirrors and the sinks come in.

“Ready?” The stark eye contact is still there, and she’s still grabbing your aching erection under the pants.

“Ready what?”

“You know, fucking my cunt,” Jimin growls, letting go of your bulge onto the back of her neck, trying to unlatch her thin, black strap holding her night together.

“O–Oh, yeah.” And swiftly, the clanks of your belt, the swoop of your pants, and another swoop of your underwear finally unshackles your raging length for her.

At the same time, her dress comes undone, freeing her voluptuous breasts topped by the hardened brown peaks just for you, and you don’t realize that you’ve been entranced by them for a little too long.

“Hey,” Jimin says, snapping her fingers. “Yeah, I fucking know they’re big. Now fill me up already.”

You gulp, “Y-Yeah,” as you watch her taking off her laced purple panties.

She then hands you the garment. “Here, a souvenir for our underappreciated treasurer.” She rolls her eyes while saying so, not believing the words coming out.

With not much time to lose, you quickly shove her used underwear into your pockets, making sure no tails of it can be seen. And getting ready, Jimin walks towards the marble sink, planting hands on it. Her immaculate features are shown in the mirror. She pulls the charcoal-black dress up, looking at you in the reflection.

“Fuck me.”

It would be the sight of your ass jerking back and forth if someone is to walk in on the debauchery—not your cock, not her tits (helps that your hands are using them as handles—grabbing, squeezing). Every thrust in and out of her, the sight of her contorted expression, the sound of her silent moans are sending you into rapture.

“Y–Your vagina feels so good, J–Jimin, ngh,” you moan. Your cock now glistens with her juice.

“Say ‘cunt’ or ‘pussy’ like a normal person, idiot. I’m not a fucking prudish,” Karina scoffs.

You aren’t in the right state of mind to debate, really. Her wet, tight cavern is so determined to milk every drop of essence out of you to drought. The walls squeezing around your needy length is just too much to handle.

And there it is, your impending release. You can feel it in your loins, far, but it’s there. Karina gives you a stern eye contact along the act—purposeful, ardent. Hell, she’s even smirking at you. She’s always this confident, isn’t she? It has been like this since the first meeting. She’s headstrong, not swaying by a bit, even if she’d be alone with the choice. She’s kind, not swaying by a bit, even if it means getting herself into harm. She’s perfect. She’s fucking perfect.

“F–Fuck, Jimin, I think I’m gonna–”

“Just fucking cum inside me, baby. I wanna feel your cum dripping down my legs. I wanna feel your cum–, ngh,” she cries out, unable to form the last words. She doesn’t seem to care about her forte anymore.

And it’s like you’d care, anyway.

“Cum with me, alright?” Jimin looks back at you, before mumbling under her breath, “Ha, fucking bye-nior prom.”

It’s not much more for you to release your seed inside of her, as you can feel her body shrieking around your cock. It’s a euphoria—eyes fluttering, hips slowing down, panting and such. You can hear your cacophony echo throughout the bathroom.

As you two come down from the orgasm, Jimin’s breaths are still ragged. “F–Fuck, that’s great, my dear treasurer.”

“Y–You’re t–too, my dear president.” You’re also unable to catch your rhythm.

“Do you think anyone would hear us?”

You ponder for a few heartbeats before replying, “Yeah, definitely… maybe.”

#karina #karina smut #aespa #aespa smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader #male reader smut

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natsaffection · 7 months ago

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Save Heaven. | Wandanat

Natasha x Fem!Reader x Wanda

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Threesome, begging, Oral, Strap on (r receiving) vibrator use, multiple Orgasm, overstimulation, nipple play, aftercare

Word Count: 2,1k

A/N: I DELETED THE REQUEST, IM SO SORRY ANON😭 It was requested, that Wandanat is fucking reader rough and then aftercare, so here it is. 🫶🏼

Natasha’s piercing green eyes gleamed intensely as she surveyed your submissive form, taking in the softness of your skin, the curves of your hips, and the way your long black hair fell over your back.

“You look absolutely delicious,” Natasha whispered, her breath hot against your ear. “Ready for us?” You trembled with anticipation, your body already tingling with excitement. “Yes,” you breathed.

“Please, I’m ready.” And you were. You had been longing for this moment all day, your body vibrating with electricity at the thought of being taken by your two lovers.

Without another word, Natasha and Wanda pounced on you, their lips meeting yours in a rough, passionate kiss. Hands roamed over your body, teasing your nipples and stroking your thighs. You could feel your pussy getting wetter with each touch, your clit throbbing with desire.

They pushed you back onto the bed. “Remember your Colors, Detka.” Natasha and Wanda exchanged a knowing glance before Natasha reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a strap-on dildo.

The thick, veined dildo glistened in the dim light as she held it in her hand, her fingers suggestively tracing its length.

“Please,” you begged, your body tense with longing. “I..I want to feel you inside me.” Wanda grabbed your thighs, spreading your legs and exposing your wet, swollen pussy. Natasha grinned wickedly, spreading your labia and letting the tip of the dildo glide up and down your slick folds.

You bucked your hips, desperate for more. “Look at her, Wanda,” Natasha said, her eyes fixed on your exposed pussy. “Her little cunt is so wet for us. Look how desperate she is,” Wanda growled, her dark brown eyes filled with wild hunger. Natasha felt herself getting more aroused with each telling glance she exchanged with Wanda.

You moaned softly, your head moving side to side as both women continued to tease your sensitive flesh. Without warning, she thrust the dildo deep into your greedy pussy, making you scream with pleasure. Wanda buried her face in your neck, nibbling on your delicate skin and whispering dirty words in your ear.

Natasha began thrusting the dildo into your pussy, faster and harder than ever before. Natasha moaned, enjoying the feel of your tight pussy gripping the dildo. She thrust into you with long, hard strokes, her hips slapping against your ass with each thrust.

Wanda watched with hungry eyes, her own body tense with desire as she saw Natasha taking you roughly. She let her hands glide over her own breasts, teasing her hardened nipples and pinching them between her fingers.

The feel of your tight pussy squeezing her cock made Natasha’s head swim with lust, and when Wanda’s mouth found one of your breasts, Natasha knew they would all come soon.

“God, you two are so hot together,” Natasha groaned, gripping your hips and thrusting deeper into you. Wanda moaned in agreement, her hand slipping between your legs to rub your clit.

You screamed with pleasure as Wanda touched you, your body arching against Wanda’s hand. But Natasha held you firmly, her fingers digging into your hips as she continued to thrust into you. Wanda’s lips moved from your breast to your neck, nibbling and biting at the soft flesh as she brought you closer to the edge.

“Please!” you begged, your voice hoarse with lust. “I can’t take it anymore. I need to come..!“ Natasha grinned, her thrusts becoming harder and faster as she denied you the release you so desperately craved.

“Not yet, my love,” she growled. “You’ll come for both of us when we’re ready.” You whimpered, knowing you shouldn’t push Natasha further. You arched your back, trying to bring your breasts closer to Wanda’s mouth, desperate for the release that would come soon.

Her wet tongue flicked over your erect nipples, making you moan with anticipation. Natasha wanted to push you further, so she reached out and slapped Wanda’s ass with her free hand. “Lick her clit..” she demanded.

Wanda eagerly released your breasts and crawled between your legs. Your dominant lovers grinned at each other as they watched Wanda’s tongue swirl around your clit, pushing you beyond your limits.

“Holy s-shit,” you moaned, arching your back off the bed as Wanda’s tongue danced over your sensitive flesh. With every stroke of Wanda’s tongue, you felt yourself getting closer to the edge, knowing it wouldn’t be long before you fell over that precipice.

Natasha could see your body trembling with lust as Wanda’s tongue explored your sensitive clit, and she felt a surge of lust flow through her own veins. Her thrusts into your pussy became more erratic, her breath shallower as she felt herself nearing the edge.

Wanda’s fingers worked in sync with Natasha’s thrusts, her tongue still swirling around your clit, driving you wild with lust. The tension in the room was palpable as the three women hovered on the brink of orgasm, their bodies taut with desire.

“Come for us,” Natasha growled, thrusting her cock into your greedy pussy. Your body shook as you responded, your moans of pleasure filling the air as you came hard and fast.

Natasha felt herself tipping over the edge, her own orgasm just within reach. With one final, powerful thrust, she let go, feeling the intense pulse of pleasure as she flooded your tight pussy with her warmth.

Wanda moaned, caught up in the wave of pleasure that washed over the room, and let go as well, adding her own release to Natasha’s.

Natasha reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face, her eyes gentle with affection. “Color, Y/n?” she asked softly. You looked at her and didn’t need long, “Green…”

Without words, Natasha bent down to the small drawstring bag on the nightstand. Inside was a selection of sex toys. Another dildo, a vibrator, handcuffs, a whip, and a pair of nipple clamps. Without hesitation, she took the vibrator Dildo and handed it to Wanda with a wicked grin.

Wanda’s eyes gleamed with lust as she took the Dildo from Natasha, her dark brown eyes filling with hunger as she watched you squirm beneath her.

She moved behind you, positioning herself behind your back, and let the Toy glide up and down your smooth folds. You gasped at the sensation, your breath hitching as Wanda teased you. You spread your legs wider, urging Wanda to penetrate you.

You moaned with pleasure, gripping the sheets as Wanda began to pump the vibrator in and out of you. Natasha watched, her emerald eyes following the movement of the toy in and out of your wet pussy, feeling more aroused than she ever had.

Your eyes widened as Natasha moved between your legs and pressed another vibrator against your clit. The sensation was intense, and you cried out in pleasure as Natasha turned it on. „Fuck! W-Wait..!“

The vibrations sent waves of pleasure through your body, and you felt yourself losing control. Natasha grinned mischievously as she watched you writhe beneath her, your body trembling with lust. You were so damn full, the stretching sensation almost too much to bear, and the vibrations directly on your clit were overwhelming, but you craved it, needed it.

Natasha watched your face, her piercing green eyes clouded with desire. She loved seeing you like this, completely lost in lust. She moved the vibrator faster against your clit, watching your body tremble with each pulse of the toy.

“FUCK, s-stop..” you begged, your voice barely a whisper. Wanda reached over and grabbed one of your nipples, twisting and pulling it as she watched your face contort with pleasure. “Unless you say your safe word, we won’t stop, Detka.”

Natasha grinned at her and continued to rub the vibrator against your clit, pushing you closer to orgasm. Wanda, still behind you, began thrusting harder and faster.

Your body trembled as you neared your climax. Your moans grew louder and more desperate, your fingers clutching the sheets as you tried to hold onto something solid. Natasha watched you with a hunger in her eyes that made you feel like the only thing that mattered in the world, “I-I can’t! It’s too muuuch-”

“Don’t worry,” Natasha said in a deep, soothing voice. “You can do it. Just let go and give in.” You closed your eyes, focusing on the sensations coursing through your body. Natasha’s hand still worked on your clit. You felt a fire building inside you, a fire that threatened to consume your entire being.

“You’re so close,” Wanda whispered, her voice dripping with desire. “Just let go..” Your body trembled as you fought to hold back your orgasm. You could feel the tension inside you building, threatening to break free and send you over the edge.

With a moan of pure lust, you let go, screaming as your orgasm overtook you. Waves of pleasure rolled through your body, leaving you weak and trembling, and Natasha and Wanda held you tight as if they were keeping you afloat.

Natasha and Wanda, both with satisfied yet tender expressions, exchanged a glance, silently communicating their next steps. They both understood the importance of aftercare, especially when you were in such a vulnerable state.

Wanda was the first to move, her magic shimmering faintly as she summoned a soft, warm blanket. She gently draped it over you, ensuring you were comfortable and secure. Her fingers brushed lightly against your skin, sending reassuring warmth through your body.

"Hey, sweetheart," Wanda whispered softly, her voice soothing. "How are you feeling?" Your eyes were half-lidded, your breathing still uneven. You managed a small, dreamy smile. "Fuzzy... good..."

Natasha approached from the other side, carrying a glass of water. She sat on the edge of the bed and helped you sit up slightly, supporting you with a strong yet gentle arm. "Here, drink this," Natasha instructed, her tone gentle but firm. "You need to stay hydrated, okay?"

As you sipped the water, Natasha's free hand caressed your back in slow, calming circles. The combined care from both women made you feel safe and cherished, the intensity of earlier moments giving way to a deep, comforting intimacy.

Wanda settled on the other side of you, her fingers now running through your hair in rhythmic strokes. "You did so good," she murmured, her eyes filled with affection. "We're so proud of you."

You felt a surge of warmth at Wanda's words, the praise making your heart flutter even in your hazy state. Natasha leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "You were amazing," she echoed, her voice a low, comforting purr.

The three of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and care. Natasha and Wanda continued their gentle ministrations, ensuring you felt completely relaxed and reassured. Every touch, every whisper was filled with love and appreciation, reinforcing the deep bond you all shared.

As you began to drift off, lulled by the tender care, Natasha and Wanda exchanged another look, this time filled with mutual understanding and love. They knew the importance of these moments, the delicate balance between their roles and the unwavering support they provided each other.

"Sleep now," Wanda whispered, her voice the last thing you heard as you finally succumbed to the comforting embrace of sleep. "We've got you."

With you safely asleep between them, Natasha and Wanda shared a gentle kiss over your resting form. They settled in, ready to keep watch and ensure you had the rest and care you deserved, their hearts united in a shared promise of love and protection.

#natasha x reader #natasha smut #natasha romanoff #dom!natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #nat x reader #natasha romanov smut #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #wandanat smut #wanda x reader #wanda smut #natasha romanoff x reader

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togrowoldinv · 1 year ago

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The Clubhouse

WandaNat x Female Reader

When the richest members of the country club approach you about joining their relationship, you can’t say no to them.

Warnings: Smut! 18+ please! Kissing, cursing, oral (N and R receiving), strap on sex (R and W receiving), essentially sugar mommies

Note: Enjoy!

WandaNat Masterlist, Main Masterlist

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Natasha’s raspy voice asks.

You barely hear her over the sound of your own heart beating. She is so close to you. Her hand is on your thigh, just a little too high to be friendly. Her nose presses against your neck.

“Yeah. It’s just- this is coming out of nowhere,” you say.

“Is it?” Wanda asks. Her tone is a bit condescending. You can’t help but press your thighs together at the way it makes you feel.

“We’ve been flirting with you for months now,” Natasha says. “You haven’t noticed?”

You shake your head. Wanda grabs your chin a little roughly to force you to look into her eyes. This is way too intimate for a public area of the clubhouse. A corner booth doesn’t offer much privacy.

Wanda and Natasha frequent this bar area often after their visits to the course. You never knew that they paid any attention to you working.

“Use your words, baby,” Wanda instructs.

“No, I didn’t notice,” you reply.

“That’s a shame,” Wanda says. “We thought about you every night. Didn’t we, Natasha?”

“Mhm, we did,” Natasha agrees. She moves her mouth to your neck and leaves a few opened mouth kisses. “Every night as I buried my face in my wife’s pussy I thought about what yours might taste like.”

You bite your lip and can’t help but close your eyes at the feeling of her lips, and her words make you feel unspeakable things.

Wanda presses her lips to the other side your neck, following the same delicate pattern that Natasha did.

“And when I rode her strap, I thought about how good you’d look doing the same. Being so good for us,” Wanda says.

“What did you say, baby? Will you join us?” Natasha asks.

You almost nod without speaking, but you remember Wanda said to use your words.

“Yes,” you breathe out. You’re not really sure why you agree, but you know that you want to see where this goes. “I- um- I don’t get off until 8.”

“I can fix that,” Natasha says. She gets up from beside you. You miss her warmth already.

“Let’s go to the car,” Wanda says. She holds your hand and walks with you to the door. Natasha meets you there.

“You’re free to leave,” Nat says. She places a hand on your back to lead you out of the clubhouse. “And don’t worry, this will be better than any tip you’ll get from these men.”

Outside, there is a car waiting for Wanda and Nat. They help you into the backseat with them. Their thighs press against yours as they sit close. Natasha fields a few calls on the car ride to their house.

When you arrive, the driver opens the door to reveal the absolute mansion Wanda and Nat live in. The two women walk you inside. They share a nod and Wanda walks to the other room. Natasha ushers you into the living room.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Natasha says. She gestures to the couch. You sit and watch as she makes a drink. “Would you like one?”

“I’m okay,” you reply.

“Y/n,” she says as she walks to the couch. She is wearing a fur coat that reveals enough of her chest that you want to see more. Her blonde hair is styled perfectly. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” you say too quickly. “Intimidated by you is actually it.”

“Ah, okay,” Natasha says. “And Wanda?”

“Same thing,” you tell her.

“We’re just people, you know.”

Wanda enters the room. She shed her blazer and is now wearing dress pants and a white blouse. Her brown hair cascades over the material.

“I made you a drink,” Natasha says to Wanda.

“Thank you, my love,” Wanda replies. She takes her drink from the table and sits on the couch on the other side of you. “So, what did I miss?”

“Oh nothing,” Nat replies.

“Did you tell her what we want?” Wanda asks as if you aren’t there. Nat shakes her head. “Well, then I will. Y/n, we are very attracted to you. And we wanted to ask you to join us. No strings attached. Just sex. What do you think?”

“I- um-”

“Wanda, don’t scare her,” Natasha jumps in. Her hand rubs your back. “We can take it slow. For example, can I kiss you?”

“Okay,” you agree.

Natasha’s hand comes to your neck as she pulls you in for a kiss. Her plump lips brush against yours softly. You feel your entire body burning with pleasure. She doesn’t deepen the kiss, but it was enough to make you think you’d say yes to anything she asked.

“How was that?” Natasha asks.

“Wow,” you say seriously. The blonde chuckles.

“Wanda, why don’t you try,” Nat tells her wife.

Wanda pulls you her way and kisses your lips much in the same way that Natasha did. She tastes different though. Her kiss is hungrier. You get the feeling this was her idea and Nat is doing it to make her happy. Not that she minds.

When Wanda stops kissing you, Natasha is quick to bring her in for a kiss. The two of them kiss in front of you. The sight of their tongues mingling alone is enough to get you off.

“You like that?” Natasha asks you. She noticed the way you were staring.

You nod. Wanda suddenly leans forward and bites your neck. It hurts but not more than it feels good.

“Words, detka. Words,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

Wanda seemingly forgives you as she kisses your lips again. Nat moves her deft fingers over your button up. It seems she is magic as she unbuttons all of them by the time Wanda moves her attention to your chest.

The brunette uses her hands to push open your shirt. Your bra falls to the side. You assume Natasha also took that off you when Wanda was distracting you with her intoxicating lips.

“So beautiful,” Wanda breathes out. “I have imagined this.”

Natasha stands from the couch. She opens her coat to reveal she is completely naked aside from a red strap connected to her hips. Your eyes go wide at the sight. Wanda grins. She takes your nipple into her mouth while she takes the other with her fingers.

“Do you want to ride my strap, baby?” Natasha asks you.

“Yes please,” you say.

“Good girl,” Natasha says.

She sits on the couch next to you, pulling you onto her lap. She moves the tip of the strap over your folds. Wanda sits up higher on the couch and takes her wife’s breast into her mouth. Natasha slips the strap into you. You press your forehead against hers as she fills you up.

“Fuck, I knew she could take your cock so well,” Wanda says.

“I know, sweetheart. She is so fucking wet and tight,” Natasha says.

“I can’t wait to taste her for myself,” Wanda says. “To make her feel so good.”

Natasha’s hands move your hips back and forth as she pounds the strap into you. She hits the sweet spot over and over again. You feel yourself losing control.

“Come for me, y/n,” Nat instructs you.

You come hard against her strap, slowing your movements until you fall against her. She kisses your head softly. A stark contrast of how she was just pounding into you. The two women give you a moment to catch your breath.

Nat helps you slip off her strap. Wanda kneels on the floor in front of the couch. She spreads your legs open again before burying her face between them. Nat situates herself behind Wanda. She pulls her pants down her legs enough to gain access to her. Nat presses her strap into her wife.

Wanda groans as she feels Nat bury herself deep into her. The taste of you gets her high quickly. You squirm under her tongue and that spurs her on further.

“So fucking good,” Natasha says, accentuating each word with the movement of her hips.

“Fuck,” you mumble. You won’t last much longer.

You see Natasha smirk as she feels Wanda coming against her. Her pleasure is enough to finish you off. Coming hard against Wanda’s tongue, you fall apart.

The two women stop their ministrations and catch their breath. Wanda takes the strap off of Natasha’s hips. She kisses the woman before directing her to sit on the couch.

“I want to see you eat her out,” Wanda says to you.

“Yes ma’am.”

You stand from the couch and kneel before Natasha. Her strong hands direct you exactly where she wants you. Natasha smirks at how in heaven you look between her legs. Wanda moves her fingers over Nat’s pussy lips to work in tandem with your tongue.

“That’s it, baby. Make her feel so good,” Wanda says. She lifts your head to kiss you before pushing you back to Natasha’s clit. You suck her until her hips stutter beneath you.

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” Natasha says.

Wanda removes her hand to let you have the moment when Natasha comes to yourself. She is so beautiful falling apart underneath you. Once she comes down from her high, she pulls you up into her lap. You rest your head on Natasha’s shoulder.

Wanda sits next to you and the three of you recover together.

“How do you feel, y/n?” Wanda asks.

“I’m good,” you say. And you really are.

“I think this is going to work out just fine,” Natasha says.

After that day, Natasha and Wanda continue to see you at the clubhouse. Whenever they ask you to leave with them, you never turn them down. Why would you? They are absolutely perfect.

#natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #wandanat #wandanat smut #natasha romanoff smut #Wanda maixmoff smut

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luvgavii · 5 months ago

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the color violet - (pg6)

summary: your ex boyfriend picks you up from an event and takes you home.

warning: smut!!! minors do not interact!!

The only sound in your ear was the rain hitting the pavement of the Catalan city. Your hair and dress were drenched, your make up smeared and you held your heels in your hand while waiting for your ex boyfriend to pick you up. Why him? Well, it wasn't practical for someone as famous as you to take an Uber home in the middle of the night, was it?

Truthfully, you and Pablo could never quite stay away from the other. Ever since you two had broken up mutually, it felt like you two got along even better. You two were healthier, you didn't need to deal with his constant jealousy and he seemed to enjoy his freedom, it was a win-win situation.

When you called him, about 30 minutes ago, he picked up on the 3rd ring and he was in the car the second he hung up the phone. Sure, he was a famous footballer in his early 20s who loved women and loved having fun, but there wasn't anything Pablo wouldn't do for you, in a relationship or not, he'd give you the moon and the sun if he could.

"Get in, bonita," he said as he rolled down the passenger window to look at you from his expensive car, his left hand on the steering wheel while the right was on his thigh.

You sat in the car and you practically heard Pablo's hiss as the leather seats got drenched under you.

"Thanks for picking me up," you said dragging your voice as Pablo started the car, his eyes never leaving the wet road, your own eyes watching the rain drops on the windshield.

"You're welcome, you know I don't mind," he spoke with his little Spanish accent, the small acting already sending a jolt of pleasure from your stomach to the spot between your thighs.

The rest of the drive was silent, you watched the wet road, the puddles, the lights of Barcelona, anything but the football player because you knew that one look was enough for him to pull over and for you to ride him right there, in the driver seat. It didn't stop you before. Pablo kept stealing glances at you, a small smirk on his face, the strip of three condoms in his pocket were proof that the thought of picking you up was not so innocent.

One thing leading to the other and you two were stumbling across the hallway of your apartment complex, trying to get to your door as he walked you towards it. His hands on your waist, yours around his neck as you kissed sloppily, the sounds of your kisses echoing through the hallway.

Pablo pushed you against the door, the wood cold against your bare back as you searched your purse for your keys, your hand moving over Pablo's boner and making him groan into your mouth.

"Your keys are definitely not there," he spoke lowly but with a hint of amusement, making you chuckle breathlessly before taking your keys out and twisting the doorknob, Pablo almost pushing you inside and his lips attacking yours once again.

Your hands were everywhere, his brown hair, his shoulders, his chest, his belt while trying to pull him closer to you.

"You always were impatient, nena," he hummed with a smirk, his fingers running through your wet hair while his other hand cupped your breast, caressing it over the material of your dress as his brown orbs were glued to your face, watching your lips part as a small moan escaped them, a sound only Pablo was able to get out of you.

His lips parted, dropping to your shoulder as his finger hooked in the strap of your dress, pulling it off your shoulder and replacing it with his warm, soft lips. Your head fell back, your fingers hooking in his hair, making him smirk against your silky skin as he continued to press wet kisses to your shoulder.

"Bedroom," he murmured, his hand creeping shamelessly behind you and pulling the zipper of your dress down, letting the light material fall off your body, revealing your bare chest and violet, lacy underwear, the very pair that was his personal favorite.

You nodded, immediately walking towards the stairs of your penthouse, Pablo following closely behind you, smacking your ass as you neared the bedroom, the skin to skin sound filling the air.

In your bedroom, Pablo sat on the edge of the bed, his legs spread the tiniest bit so you could stand between them as he caressed your near naked body. His rough hands roamed over your ass and thighs, squeezing as he did so, his mouth catching your nipple, all while he looked up at you and watched you fall apart on front of him.

His tongue circled your nipple as he hummed appreciatively, his hand squeezing your ass until you hissed, you looked down at him as he sucked on your nipple, your pupils dilated and your cheeks flushed.

"Pablo, I need you, please," you spoke quietly, the words slipping out of your mouth like a prayer.

"Get on all fours, hermosa," he said, your breast falling out of his mouth and his brown eyes looking up at you with such innocence it made your head spin. How can he look so innocent with those big eyes, yet so sinful at the same time?

You gulped and nodded, immediately taking the position on the bed, your ass up in the air while your cheek rested against a pillow. Pablo fidgeted with his pants, throwing the strip of condoms carelessly between the bedding before he stripped, throwing his shirt and pants somewhere in the room, he didn't look, his eyes were glued to your damp panties, your clothed core displayed perfectly in front of him.

"You're so ready for me, mi vida," he whispered, bending down and his finger running over the damp material before his finger hooked in the violet lace, pulling the panties to the side, his tongue running along your folds and making you moan and arch your back, pushing your pussy in his face as he ran his tongue up and down your core before pulling away.

Pablo delivered a smack to your ass as he stroked his cock, positioning himself behind you, running the tip of his dick along your wet folds, only making you moan in anticipation. He grabbed the condoms, opening one with his teeth and spitting the plastic out, rolling it onto his throbbing member.

He grabbed your hip as he began to push into you, feeling you stretch around his dick and cursing under his breath, praising you at how good you feel as your juices soaked him. You felt him hit every spot, your pussy clenching around him as you whimpered and moaned, knowing that Pablo Gavi would bring eternal bliss to you. Always.

"Mierda," Pablo hissed, picking up the pace, his skin slapping against yours louder with each movement, "I can't get enough of you."

Pablo Gavi was far from the most perfect man you've been with, he was jealousy, angry and possessive, but you wouldn't have it any other way. You were addicted and and just couldn't get enough.

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anshndsl · 2 months ago

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ragavndsl · 3 months ago

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aryanndspl · 8 months ago

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bisonstraps · 13 days ago

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spirit-lanterns · 2 years ago

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PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY

synopsis: crying during se.x with the xianzhou women

featuring: tingyun, yukong, fu xuan, jingliu

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: dom! afab gn reader (tingyun, fu xuan), sub! afab gn reader (yukong, jingliu), reader is called pretty/beautiful, crying during se.x, overstimulation, edging, gagging, strap ons, vibrators, face sitting, cunnilingus, begging, slight sadistic tendencies, tingyun and fu xuan are kind of brats.

art credits: sadistic beauty side story A

TINGYUN

Warm hands gripping your back, Tingyun whined when you moved your hips forward and snapped the thick strap on into her hole. Her nails digging crescent moons into your back, as her tail wrapped needily around your leg in an attempt to keep you still.

“Ah…too big…way too big…” Tingyun whimpered and instinctively squeezed your shoulders, fleshy walls sucking your cock in, to the point you couldn’t even pull out. “Babe, you chose this size…” you grunted, finding resistance when Tingyun wouldn’t let you leave. “The most you could do is just let it adjust…”

Tingyun growled slightly and nipped at your neck in annoyance. “I know! I just…” she sucked in a breath and tried to relax her body. “Give me a moment…”

But you couldn’t wait a moment, Tingyun looked so pretty all spread out for you, so fuckable and so yours. You felt nothing but pure desire to make her tremble, so you gripped her hips closer to pull her to your body.

“W-Wait—!”

“Sorry, I’ll go slow…”

Without another word, you gave a gentle thrust to Tingyun’s core and she let out the most exhilarating moan you’ve ever heard. So high pitched and so needy, you knew you made a good choice as you started moving slowly to let Tingyun process the girth inside her.

“Ahhhh fuck…” Tingyun‘s ears flattened in pleasure as she felt you sink deeper with each thrust. “That feels so good…”

You were surprised with how quickly she adjusted and slowly dragged your hips in and out, watching her expressions turn heated and needy with each little movement you made. “I’m gonna go faster, then…okay?” You murmured quietly, resting her ass on your lap so you could start moving at a quicker pace. Your girlfriend gasping at the sudden speed change, and moaning as her cute little hole took you in with all she had to offer.

“Ah…hah…mnngh…” Tingyun was fully immersed, feeling her body drown in an infinite sea of pleasure, “Darling…”

She opened her eyes and you saw it. Tears decorating her beautiful brown lashes as you pounded your length deeper into her hole. They glistened in the light of the room and you felt something snap inside you, something awakening that urge to see her cry more.

“Are you crying?” You smiled softly, reaching over to get a better look at her face. “Are you crying because it hurts or crying because it feels good?”

“G-Good!” Tingyun sobbed immediately, choking on the whines clawing out her throat. “So good…!”

A look of pure satisfaction grew on your face as you only quickened your pace, reveling in the sight of your cute little girlfriend crying so prettily. Crying just for you.

“Then I’ll make you cry some more…” You chuckled, holding up her legs to push your cock deeper inside her, Tingyun sobbing more and more, as she felt the tip reach what couldn’t be reached…

YUKONG

Yukong had you sitting in her office chair with a bullet vibrator stuffed up your cunt. A smug smile left on the foxian’s face, as she turned the settings up and down to prolong your orgasm longer than usual.

“Getting desperate there?” Yukong chuckled, watching as you squirmed when she turned down the settings once more, a puddle of slick and cum forming from where you sat, as she had been toying with you for the past half hour… “You’re getting my chair all messy, cum is hard to get out of leather, you know.”

You grit your teeth and try to lunge at your girlfriend but to no avail. You keep forgetting that she had tied you to the armrests before your little session, and the knots dug into your skin as you struggled to grab the remote. “Oh dear, that’s not very smart of you.” Yukong tsked, a small smile stretching upon her lips. “You want me to let you cum…?”

You groaned and looked at her with needy and defeated eyes. Arousal dripping down your legs as you let Yukong see the filthy mess she had reduced you to.

“Please…” you begged pathetically, eyes glistening as if you were about to cry. “I need to…need to…”

Yukong’s ears twitched at the sight of you looking so defeated, her eyes filled with some sort of…amusement?

“Are you…about to cry?” Yukong grinned, her tail swishing back and forth.

“Ah…” your voice cracked, and as if to answer her question, a single tear rolled down your face. The stimulation proving too much for you to handle as you wanted nothing more than to have Yukong fuck the living daylights out of you. “No…”

“You’re a bad liar, darling.” Yukong chuckled, a predatory glint in her eyes as the sight of you tearing up only spurred her on even more. She strutted over, parting your legs so she could sit on your lap and switched the vibrator to the highest setting.

“Nngh…hah…!” Your eyes widened at the sudden increase and Yukong held your chin to look up at her. “Go ahead, it’s not often I see you cry…” she whispers, squeezing your cheeks together to make a cute pout as you weep.

“Because you look so pretty when you do…”

FU XUAN

Fu Xuan looked so pretty sitting above you. Eyes rolled back, face all flushed, and pussy absolutely suffocating your face…

The Master Diviner of the Xianzhou Alliance proved not to be the dainty lady people always saw in public, as she was currently making a mess of your tongue with her slick and cum alone. “Ah…hah…” ever so slightly, your girlfriend began to lose herself as she gripped the sheets below you, trying to stabilize herself from screaming in pleasure.

“Enjoying yourself up there?” You had the gall to tease her. Your girlfriend scowling and looking down at you with frustration. “Sh…Shut up…hah…”

She was growing breathless. Legs trembling at your sides as she ground her folds deeper against your tongue, clit bumping with your nose while pathetic whimpers and gasps bubbled out of her throat. “Deeper…now…nngh…”

“Tch, I didn’t hear a please…” you purred, sliding your tongue out from the diviner’s puckering hole. Enjoying the little whine your girlfriend let out as she grabbed your hair in need. “No…! Please! I meant to say please…!”

She gritted her teeth and whimpered at the loss of your tongue. The warm muscle no longer caressing her walls as all that was left was empty space and overproduction of slick. “I meant to say please…wait…”

She threw her head forward and let out the most breathtaking sob you ever heard. Your eyes widened at the sight of your master diviner tearing up, as pretty fat, pretty tears glistened under her lashes.

Fuck. That was so hot. You never expected Fu Xuan to be such a pretty crier…

“I never took you as the type to cry like this, master diviner…” you chuckled, giving her rear a little spank and watching as she jolted. “It suits you…”

“Ugh…” Fu Xuan glared at you through teary eyes, unable to take your teasing anymore. “I’m…sorry, just please…please put it back in…” her hole quivered as it begged to be filled by your muscle again.

“Hmpf. As you wish, master diviner…” you chuckled, slotting your tongue back in and smirking at the sight of her crying more.

She got what she wanted. Now it was time for her to cry for other reasons…

JINGLIU

Rough fingers gripping your hips, Jingliu bounced you on her lap with her strap plummeting in and out of you with ease. Her blindfold gagging your mouth to keep you from screaming, as drool and sex-drunk moans leaked through the black fabric.

“Tch. Even when I gag you, you still moan like you need more…” Jingliu grunts, lifting you up until only the tip was left before slamming you back down, a cacophony of screams trying to rip out of your throat, as each plunge of her cock had you drooling from both ends…

“Mmmmpf…nngh…” the fake veins rubbed so tenderly against your folds as you clung to your girlfriend in need. Her strength proving too much for you to handle as she kept you riding her cock for what seemed like hours. “Are your legs tired yet?” Jingliu murmurs, looking down at you with lustful eyes, “They keep trembling.”

“Mmhn.”

Oh, right. She forgot she gagged you with her blindfold.

Jingliu yanks the gag down so that you could finally speak, drool running down your lips, as you lean forward to rest your head on her shoulder. “More…” you whispered out breathlessly, shuddering at the cockhead pushing you deeply. “I need more…”

“More?” Jingliu raised a brow before slowly ceasing her thrusts. You groaned at the loss of friction and nudged her neck with your nose, almost whining about why she decided to stop. “Jingliu…why?”

But you were met with silence. Jingliu’s breaths growing more husky as she suddenly picked you up by the hips and threw you down onto the bed. A yelp escaped your lips as she climbed on top of you with hunger, her arms pinning you down to the mattress while she gripped her cock to angle it.

“I’ll give you more…” she grunts, pushing it back in and reveling in the way your body twitched. Shit. Now that you were spread even wider for her on the bed, her tip was able to puncture you more deeply, hitting that spongy area where you so desperately wanted.

“J-Jingliu!” An instant wave of pleasure overcame your body as she started thrusting wildly into your cunt, your body too sensitive and too overstimulated to focus. “Ah…s-slow…down…!”

And then she saw it. Watery eyes and beautiful little whimpers emitting from your quivering lips, cute little sniffles and blemished cheeks from all the stimuli she was giving you.

She loved it.

A wicked smile immediately grew on the swordmaster’s face, as she instantly towered over you to get a better look at your eyes. “Are you crying?” She murmurs against your ear, still brutally slamming her length into your folds.

“How beautiful.”

#tingyun smut #tingyun x reader #yukong smut #yukong x reader #fu xuan smut #fu xuan x reader #jingliu smut #jingliu x reader #hsr x reader #hsr smut #star rail x reader #star rail smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut

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pinkskiessss · 23 days ago

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LACY - chapter 1

Paige Bueckers x oc

Warnings: language, harsh self talk

A/N: Hi! I decided to rewrite the first chapter and change some of the original ideas I had. I hope you enjoy!

Layla Johnson adjusted the strap of her volleyball bag as she walked into the sprawling UConn athletic center. The air was cool and crisp, with the faint smell of sweat and rubber lingering from the early morning practices. The building was alive with movement—athletes in navy and white uniforms darting between weight rooms, courts, and locker rooms. Layla’s sneakers squeaked softly against the polished floor as she made her way toward the volleyball gym.

Her reflection caught her eye in the glass of the trophy case. She paused for a moment, brushing a strand of her chestnut-brown hair behind her ear. Her loose ponytail was slightly messy, but it suited her, framing her heart-shaped face. Her brown eyes scanned the rows of championship trophies. UConn was a legacy school for athletes, and she was determined to leave her mark. In fact, she put entirely too much pressure on herself to do so.

Layla was dressed in her usual practice gear: a fitted black tank top that showed off her toned arms and high-waisted spandex shorts that hugged her athletic figure. She was shorter compared to most of her teammates, standing at just over five foot seven, but her presence on the court was anything but small. She was the setter, the orchestrator, the one who controlled the tempo of every play. The one who had people watching her every move.

Today, however, her confidence wavered. She had been called to a joint media event for UConn athletics, an event designed earlier this year to highlight the school’s star athletes and promote women’s sports. Normally, she would welcome the chance to represent her team and women’s sports, but the thought of sharing the stage with Paige Bueckers filled her with a strange mix of apprehension and irritation.

Paige was everything Layla wasn’t: loud, cocky, and egotistic. The basketball guard was six feet tall, with long, blonde hair that went past her shoulders. Every few months, Layla noticed that it got blonder. She must get it touched up often. Her piercing blue eyes seemed to notice everything, and her smirk—always a little crooked—gave her an air of effortless confidence. Paige had a lean, athletic build, her tan shoulders and long legs making her look… good, to say the least.

Layla had seen Paige around campus before, usually surrounded by a group of friends or fans. Normally, fans, when Layla saw her. She was the kind of person who drew attention without trying, her voice carrying across rooms as she cracked jokes or shouted encouragement during games. Layla couldn’t understand how someone could be so comfortable in their own skin, so unapologetically themselves.

The thought irritated her as she entered the gym, where the media event was already underway. Cameras flashed, and reporters buzzed around the players like bees to honey. Layla scanned the room, spotting Paige almost immediately. She was leaning against a table, arms crossed, dressed in UConn basketball warm-ups. Her stance was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in her eyes as she glanced around the room.

Layla swallowed her nerves and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t about to let Paige Bueckers of all people intimidate her.

Paige’s Perspective

Paige Bueckers noticed Layla Johnson the moment she walked into the gym. It was hard not to. Layla had this quiet intensity about her, the kind of energy that made people stop and take notice without understanding why. Paige watched as Layla adjusted her ponytail, her movements precise, almost calculated.

She had seen Layla play before, of course. The girl was good—really good. As the setter, she was the backbone of the volleyball team, and Paige had to admit, grudgingly, that she respected her skill. But there was something about Layla that got under her skin. Maybe it was the way the media had started comparing them, calling Layla the “Paige Bueckers of volleyball.” Paige hated that. She didn’t want to share her spotlight with anyone, especially not someone who played a completely different sport.

Paige’s gaze lingered on Layla’s outfit: the black tank top and spandex shorts showed off her tan, toned legs and arms. She had this effortless athleticism about her, the kind that came from years of hard work and dedication. Paige’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t used to feeling… whatever this was.

She leaned back against the table, crossing her arms over her chest. Her basketball warm-ups felt loose and comfortable, but she was suddenly aware of how casual she looked compared to Layla. Not that she cared.

When Layla’s warm brown eyes met hers across the room, Paige smirked. Layla’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. Paige could almost hear her thoughts: What’s she smirking at?

Paige loved getting under people’s skin, and Layla seemed like an easy target.

Layla’s Perspective

Layla’s heart skipped a beat when she saw Paige smirking at her. She wasn’t sure why, but it made her stomach twist uncomfortably. She forced herself to look away, focusing on the reporters instead.

“Layla, over here!” a journalist called, waving her over. She plastered on a polite smile and walked toward the group, answering their questions about the upcoming season.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paige moving closer, her tall frame cutting through the crowd with ease. Layla’s pulse quickened, though she wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or annoyance.

“Looks like volleyball’s getting some love this year,” Paige said, her voice low and teasing.

Layla turned to face her, keeping her expression neutral. “Looks like basketball’s still hogging the spotlight,” she replied smoothly.

Paige’s smirk widened. “You sound bitter.”

“Not bitter,” Layla said, tilting her head slightly. “Just observant.”

The tension between them was palpable, drawing the attention of nearby reporters. Cameras flashed, capturing the moment.

—

The next morning, Layla’s phone buzzed incessantly as she walked to her first class. She groaned, checking the screen. It was a link to an article from one of the major sports outlets. The headline read: “UConn’s Rising Stars, Layla Johnson and Paige Bueckers, Show Tension at Joint Media Event.”

Her stomach sank as she clicked the link, her eyes scanning the article quickly.

“At the UConn women’s sports media day yesterday, a rare moment of tension surfaced between volleyball star Layla Johnson and basketball guard Paige Bueckers. The two athletes, both in the spotlight for their respective sports, exchanged pointed words, with Johnson calling out Bueckers for ‘hogging the spotlight’ while Bueckers fired back with a smirk, saying Johnson sounded ‘bitter.’ The tension between the two was palpable, and it’s unclear if this is a sign of rivalry or simply a clash of personalities. Fans are already speculating about the tension between the two.”

Layla’s face flushed with embarrassment as she read the words. She hadn’t meant for things to get so heated, but now it was all over the internet. Her phone buzzed again—texts from teammates.

“Have you seen this?” Grace, my teammate texted. “You and Paige got some serious beef, huh?”

“What the hell happened?” Loren added.

Layla sighed, setting her phone down as she tried to focus on class. She hated how the media twisted things. It wasn’t like she was “bitter”—she was just tired of being compared to Paige all the time. But of course, the media would turn it into something else.

—

Later that night, Layla sat in her dorm room, her laptop open in front of her. She stared at the Instagram app, her finger hovering over Paige’s profile. She hated that she was even considering this, but she couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling in her stomach. She needed to say something.

Taking a deep breath, she opened a new message to Paige.

“Hey Paige, I don’t know if you saw the article, but I just wanted to say I’m not trying to make this a thing. I know the media likes to stir up drama, but I just want to focus on volleyball and not have unnecessary attention. Can we just keep things professional from here on out?”

She hit send, her heart racing. She stared at the screen, waiting for a reply. After a few minutes, the dots appeared.

Paige’s response came through. “Yeah, sure. But maybe don’t be so sensitive next time. It’s just a joke. Don’t take everything so seriously.”

Layla’s jaw tightened as she read the message. She wasn’t sure what the hell she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. She had hoped for something a little more… mature.

“Whatever, Paige,” she typed back, her fingers shaking. She hit send before she could second-guess herself.

She closed the app, feeling a sense of frustration wash over her. The last thing she wanted was to get caught up in some petty rivalry with Paige Bueckers. They both play for the same college, and for the same thing. To win.

—

Layla’s Perspective

The final buzzer rings in my ears, a sound I can’t escape. The loss to DePaul feels like a punch in the gut, and it’s only made worse by the fact that it was a home game. We were supposed to win. I was supposed to help us win.

I stand frozen on the court for a moment, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. What could I have done differently? That last set—I should’ve placed it better. I should’ve seen that block coming. My teammates are already heading off the court, but I can’t bring myself to follow.

I can’t face them right now. Not when I feel like I’ve let everyone down. Not when I feel like I’ve let myself down.

I walk off the court, my heart heavy, my head spinning. The locker room is just ahead, but I need a minute before I can go in there and face all the expectations. The pressure is suffocating, and the weight of the loss is making it hard to breathe.

I turn down the hallway, hoping for a little peace and quiet, but I don’t get it. I round the corner and nearly crash into someone.

“Whoa, sorry,” Paige Bueckers says, her voice sounding surprised.

For a second, I almost want to walk right past her. She’s the last person I want to see right now, especially with everything that’s been going on with us—the DMs, the tension, the constant undercurrent of competition. But I can’t move. I just stand there, frozen in place.

Her eyes flick to mine, and she pauses, like she’s trying to read me. I don’t want her to. I don’t want anyone to.

But Paige does it anyway.

For a moment, she just looks at me, her gaze lingering on my face a little to long. I know my eyes must be a little red, a little watery, but I don’t want to admit that. I don’t want to show weakness. Especially not to Paige, who doesn’t even like me.

“Yo, you good? I’m sorry about the loss.” she says, her voice softer than I expect, almost like she’s hesitating.

I can’t bring myself to say anything. Kind of surprised she’s even asking me. I just shake my head quickly, trying to clear the fog in my brain. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just need a minute.”

Paige’s gaze softens, just a little, and for a second, I almost think she might say something else. But she doesn’t. She just stands there, her eyes searching mine, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying.

It’s like she can see through the mask I’m trying to put on.

I shift uncomfortably, not wanting to be here with her, but also not wanting to be alone with my thoughts. “I just… I need some space,” I mutter, my voice quiet, like I’m saying it more to myself than to her.

Paige nods, but she doesn’t leave. She stays there, her posture a little less tense than before. I don’t know if it’s because she can sense how much I’m struggling, or if she’s just trying to figure out how to be around me without it being weird. Either way, I’m grateful for the space she’s giving me.

She shifts her weight, glancing at the locker room door like she’s debating whether to say something else. She must be meeting someone. “Alright,” she says, her voice still soft. “Take care of yourself, Layla.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I don’t want to let her in. I don’t want to show her how much this loss is eating at me, how much I feel like I’ve failed. But the way she looks at me—like she’s actually seeing me for a second—it messes with my head. I want to brush it off, but I can’t.

She turns to walk away, but before she does, she glances back at me, her eyes lingering for just a moment longer. “Hey,” she says, her voice a little quieter now. “You know, you’re not alone in this. We all mess up sometimes, or feel like we made the wrong play.”

Then why does it feel like I am alone in this.

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not used to hearing something like that from her. From anyone, really. Especially not Paige. But I don’t say anything. I just nod again, my throat tight.

She walks away, and I stand there, alone in the hallway, feeling the weight of everything press down on me even harder.

It’s not just the game. It’s the pressure to be perfect. The pressure to be good enough. The pressure to live up to everyone’s expectations—and the constant, nagging feeling that I’m falling short. I have no body to talk to about it either, because they’ll just say I should be grateful for the spot I’m in anyways. Pressure is privilege, I agree. But why does it have to hurt this much.

But for a second, only a second, when Paige said those words, I almost believed it. Almost believed that maybe I wasn’t completely alone in this.

But then I remember who I’m dealing with, Paige Bueckers. We don’t get along, we never have and never will.

I can’t afford to let my guard down. Not yet. Not with everything that’s on the line.

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers x oc

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purplestanleypinkblanket · 4 months ago

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Forgive Me, Moonlit Solace (2):

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: After getting captured by the witches, the boys find themselves helpless as they watch the reader be subjected to a ritual.

Rating: M (18+)

Warnings: Graphic violence mentions of blood, body horror (reader's body is transformed), emotional trauma, childhood trauma mentions (will be a different color to signify when it starts and ends), minor blood and gore, dark magic / occult themes (witches, ritual), reader is subjected to a ritual, strong language, loss of control / identity crisis, Dean comforts reader, kidnapping, unwanted touch (witch taunting reader), reader experiences minor memory loss.

Genre: Dark fantasy, supernatural horror, action / adventure, angst.

Word Count: 2,218

Master list: Coming Soon!

"Don't touch her!" Dean's voice roared, soon followed by the sound of shuffling as he grunted in pain.

"Shut up." A voice you didn't recognize demanded; it was soft, breathy.

"She's awake." The voice of the witch you had met called out. You could feel her hand's wiping the tears off your face, a soft tut from her lips. "Your little friend here sure is protective, isn't he? Knocked out about half my coven when he realized we had you." Her head tilted to the side, a ghost of a smile on her lips. You could hear Dean shouting, but his voice was muffled as if they had covered his mouth.

"Where is he?" You murmured, voice dangerous as you shook your head from her hand. "What did you do to him? To Sam?" Your eyes opened, struggling to gain sight as you looked at the brunette witch angrily. Her eyes brightened as you looked at her, smug smile widening, as if you finally looking at her made the situation so much more worth it.

"Relax," she murmured, her grip tightening on your chin as though testing your resolve. The chill of her fingers felt deadly. "I haven’t touched them. My friends, though..." Her tone was sickly sweet.

You fought to pull your head away, a growl of rage building in your throat. Her nails dug into your chin, pain shot through your jaw, but it was nothing compared to the helplessness gripping your chest. All you wanted to do was get out, to rush to Dean, to help him.

You could feel the tight ropes around your form cut into your flesh as you struggled. Jaw clenching in pain, you looked around, finally noticing the small coven of witches surrounding you. They had strapped you to a tree, ashes surrounding the area you were restrained in. It looked as if you were in a forest, the few torches held by some of the witches illuminated the area. The light revealed that they had removed any trees from beside you, the spot seemed naked compared to the dense forest surrounding you.

Somehow, they had positioned you to be hit by rays of moonlight, your eyes narrowing as you took in each witch. Two with brown hair, one blonde, one red head, and another with...you frowned, was that blue hair? You had heard stories about women with blue hair, so you made sure to constantly check her position. Just to be safe.

"Sweetheart." Dean spoke, voice muffled. You could barely understand him.

"You alright?" Sam called out to you. He sounded close, like he was behind you. Despite how you tossed and turned against the stinging rope around you, it gave no leeway. With a sigh, you surrendered that you wouldn't be able to see your friends.

"I'm fine. What about you two?"

"We're fine, took a little bit of a beating." Sam contributed, trying to provide some form of reassurance that they were alright.

"Yes, yes. They're alright." The brunette witch who stood beside you cooed out. She stepped in front of you, a predatory smile on her lips as she cupped your face. "You and I, my dear, are going to be great friends." You tried to rip your head from her grasp, but her hand held you tight, her nails digging into your flesh. Snapping her fingers, she held her other hand out, beckoning the red-haired witch who held a small stone bowl.

Rushing forward, the red-haired woman hesitantly stepped into the circle, extending the bowl of dark red liquid to the one who held your face. Releasing you with an aggressive shake of your chin, she dipped her hand into the red liquid. Her freehand reached down, ripping your sweater neck just enough to reveal your collarbones.

"Sorry about that, my dear." The woman half-heartedly apologized, clearly not caring that she ripped your favorite hoodie. The way she talked to you was too sweet, too predatory. It was like she imagined you two to be close friends. In reality, you were a stranger she had kidnapped. You tried to struggle, to get away, legs kicking against the tree. Despite your thrashing, the ropes held you in place as she slid her red painted thumb along the center of your collarbone and upper sternum bone. You looked down, watching as she painted a crescent moon into your skin. It burned, why in hell did it burn? It felt like the liquid was seeping into your skin, into your soul.

You could hear the rustling of Dean against his own ropes as the witch touched you, withdrawing her hand with a satisfied hum. The metallic smell of the liquid wafted to your nose, clearly having been exposed to air. You recognized the scent as blood.

"We've aged this one for as long as we could." The brunette witch chuckled as she withdrew her hand. "If we knew someone as.... miraculous... as you would be coming to town, we would've prepped better." She cooed to you, a pleased look in her eye as she looked over you. In this moment, you felt like a deer she was hunting.

"What are you talking about?" You scoffed, watching as she reached into her back pocket. You weren't anything, you were just…you.

"Oh, don't play dumb." The witch laughed, eye’s narrowing in disapproval. "I feel the anger buried deep down in you. You're such an angry soul, my dear. That's what we've been looking for-" She pulled out a dark stone blade, a stone you recognized as Obsidian. You had only ever seen an obsidian-based blade once. Dean had been telling you about his time in purgatory one evening and he had pulled it out, letting you hold it as he described what he experienced.

You tensed as she brought it to your skin, gently tracing your jaw with a grin. "All we need is for you to cry, my dear."

You snorted, remaining strong as you glared at her. "Oh, fuck off. Damn fuckin-" The sound of Dean grunting as someone slapped him interrupted you. Instantly, you thrashed around, your body responding. You had to get out, to help him. You didn't know what they were planning, you like hell you’d let Dean get hurt because of you.

With a sigh at the lack of tears in your eyes, the brunette-haired woman shook her head. "Have it your way." Her hands rose to the sky, the other witches followed her actions, stepping away to create distance between them and the ash circle that surrounded you.

"By blood betrayed and moon's cold light," the coven of witches chanted, gaze on the moon. "We call forth fury, endless night." The searing pain in your limbs you had forgotten about returned. This time, however, it wasn't just pain. Your limbs felt as if they were growing, the ropes digging into your skin failed to provide leeway for you. They tore into your skin, forcing your growing limbs to remain in place. Your head fell back against the tree in pain, teeth clenched as your mind fell blank. The only thing you could focus on was the growing and twisting of your limbs.

"Ash to flesh, beast to bone." Pained tears sprung to your eyes as you felt your nails fuse with your fingers, extending longer than they should've. The brunette witch reached up, wiping the tears of your pain away as she ran the blade into a spot above your collarbone, drawing a small amount of blood. Mixing her thumb stained with your tears into the cut, she stepped away, joining the other witches outside the ash circle.

"Let rage consume and claim her throne. Under the moon, her wrath ignites. Transform her soul to wraith of night." You felt the anger you fought so hard to repress and ignore bubble to the surface, sweat coating your face as your mouth fell open, releasing a deep, pained shout that echoed into a high-pitched scream. A scream humans shouldn’t be able to make.

......

Everything stilled around you, eyes slammed shut from pain. It no longer felt like you were in the stability of the forest. The floor beneath you was gone and your body felt as if it was floating in nothingness. When relief finally came to the pain you endured, you opened your eyes. You expected to see witches, to see forest. However, in front of your eyes was nothing but pure darkness. The feeling of being trapped resided deep within you despite how the darkness looked never ending. You were almost certain that if you started walking in one direction, you'd never reach the end.

"Hello?" You called out, taking a hesitant step. Surprise flooded you as you realized you were no longer restrained, the tree you had been held against was gone. "Dean?"

Soft sniffling filled the area, the sound of someone crying caught your attention. With an unsure stride, you moved forward until you found a young girl, most likely early teens, huddled in on herself as she cried. You watched her for the second, a slight sense of recognition filling even though you haven't seen her face. Something about her attire was just so familiar. With a hesitant inhale, you moved closer, dropping to your knee as you extended a hand towards her.

"Are you alright?" You asked her, voice sincere. Your hand landed on her back, gently directing her to look at you.

The girl didn't respond, her eyes meeting yours as tears streamed down her face. Soon, you found yourself crying as well. Your eyes widened in shock as you stumbled back. This...she...what the hell was going on? Your hand rose to your face, wiping away a stream of tears. Her eye color, her face, her hair, everything. She looked exactly like you.

"Was it my fault?" She asked, and, within the blink of an eye, you were the one huddled in on yourself, crying as you held your legs to your chest. The girl was gone and now it was only you.

......

"Sweetheart," Dean's voice called to you, drawing you back into the world. You could feel the hard ground of the forest under your legs as well as the sound of bird's chirping. You could feel the warmth of his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close as your eyes slowly refocused, tears streaming down your face as you looked at him. After a minute, you could finally make out the features of his face. Pain evident in his expression as well as relief. He lifted a hand to your face, cupping your cheek. "There you are." He murmured, green eyes focused on you. His face was coated in bruises and splotches of blood scrunched, when on earth had he gotten hurt that badly? His eyebrows were scrunched in concern as he looked over you. Your limbs still ached; your fingers felt as if they were jammed. The pastel dawn light of the morning caught your attention, how long had you been out? Your face hurt like hell, specifically your jaw. It felt as if you had overused it.

"What...?" You asked, voice hoarse as if you had been screaming the entire night. "What happened?" You croaked out, tears still streaming down your face. "Where's Sam?" You asked, growing concerned as you tried to look around.

Blood.

Blood coated the trees, the floor. The only sign the witches had ever been there were the clawed remains of them. Oh, God. What had happened? Before you could get a better look, before you could see what really happened, Dean pulled your face back, forcing you to look at him.

"Don't worry about what happened." Dean told you, keeping your gaze on him as you felt a pit in your stomach. Deep down, you knew what had happened. You were no longer tied to the tree and the witches…the women…were dead. "Sam's alright. He went to fetch baby."

You sucked in a shuddering breath, glancing down at your blood-soaked hands. What have you done? Tears sprung to your eyes. They spoke of anguish, pain, regret. Regret for something you had no recollection of committing but felt you had done. The lingering stinging from your limbs growing remained in your joints, even if they were back to their normal size. You had no recollection of that night and that terrified you. Your body was heavy, exhausted. It wanted to shut down on you, to rest.

"Dean..." You started, voice cracking as a sob wracked your body, "What did I do?"

"Nothing." He countered, "You didn't do anything." He pulled you close, letting you bury your face into his chest as you cried. It was a lie; Dean knew it was. The memory of your disfigured form ripping witch after witch apart ghosted his mind. Whatever those bitches had turned you into. That wasn't you. He refused to let you think this was your fault, that...he sighed softly, burying his chin against your head as he ran a hand soothingly along your back. Dean recalled the claws you had adorned, the boney elongated limbs that cracked and snapped with every movement you had made. The hollowness to your face.

His arms tightened around you in relief, he was glad to have you back. Even if it meant a claw wound to the abdomen.

"I've got you." He murmured, grip tightening. Dean frowned, unsure of what to say. Could he really have made the situation better just by saying something? Part of him said yes, that all you needed was a good joke. You loved jokes. However, he knew this was something that a joke wouldn't fix.

#angst #spn #supernatural #sam and dean #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #witches #ritual #x reader #comfort #cw: gore #transformation

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eddiesghxst · 1 year ago

Text

PRICE OF FAME (PART 1/12)

yes i have eighty different rockstar!eddie's now, pls don't look at me, i rewatched almost famous and had a moment, k bye, enjoy!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: you're a writer for rolling stone magazine and eddie hates the media so... he hates you

contains: enemies to lover trope, themes of sexism/misogyny, smoking, drug and alcohol use, sexual themes, and eddie being an asshole <3

word count: 4.5k

| next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

You love your job more than anything.

You love that it allows you to travel, that it’s centered around music, and that you get to meet people and make friends and do extravagant things you would’ve never imagined you’d be doing. You love your job.

“I love my job.” It’s starting to taste like a lie when it reaches your tongue.

You mutter it to yourself again, looking around the bright hallway and searching for any fucking door with the words ‘CORRODED COFFIN’ written on it.

You glance at the watch on your wrist, teeth digging into the soft skin of your cheek as you keep walking down the corridor.

You feel as if you’ve been walking down this hall for years, miles of white stone wall and shiny gray cement floors, equipment littered here and there with staff walking through doors and yelling commands.

You follow the echo of chatter and soft giggles, the sound getting closer and closer until a group of girls meets you. A red-headed girl lazily chews gum and stands against the wall, glaring at you from behind her blood-red shades. You take the chance to ask them your pressing question, “Do you know where I could find the dressing room for Corroded Coffin?” You ask.

The girls glare at you and giggle, eyeing you and, without a doubt judging your lack of fishnets and leather clothing. Brown leather boots, flared jeans, and a white long sleeve— you don’t belong here. “You a reporter or something?”

You look at the redheaded girl, pursing your lips and taking a steady breath, reaching up to grasp the strap of your crossbody bag. “I’m a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine,” you explain, ignoring the snickering girls on the side. You clench the leather band of your bag in your palm, “I’m doing a piece on the band.”

The girl silently studies you; a ghost of a smile passes her lips, “Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You shift on your feet, eyebrows furrowing, “Yeah um… they’re big on music and—“ “I know what Rolling Stone Magazine is.”

You love your job.

You steadily breathe, clenching your bag once again. Your feet ache in these boots, and your jeans are teetering on the cusp of too tight after you ate a quick dinner— you want to go home. “The boys won’t speak with Rolling Stone.”

It falls silent between the two of you, and you glance at the other three girls, huddled together and passing a joint. “They don’t like watered-down shitty tabloids like yours. They won’t want to see you.” The redhead explains, silently reaching over to accept her turn with the joint.

You watch as she brings the burning paper to her lips, taking a long drag and smirking at you. She expects you to take her word and leave, but you’ve dealt with enough people like her to know she’s bullshitting you.

“Could you please point me toward their dressing room?” You ask, reconstructing your previous question because you now understand that, without a doubt, these women know where the dressing room is.

She laughs and points across the hall, some feet from where you’re all standing. You can see the first few letters of the band's name from your angle, and you internally rejoice. You thank her and walk over to the door, mentally reviewing your introduction a few times before laying a few knocks on the heavy black door.

There’s no response for a moment, and you try not to let the snickering sound of the girls tick you off. You lift your hand to knock again, but the door swings open before you can do it. A tall, muscular man glares down at you, dressed in black with a scowl. He must be security.

“Hi, I’m a writer for—“ “Groupies aren’t coming in yet; wait out in the back.”

Your face twists in offense, glaring at the man as you, yet again, clench your fist in annoyance, “I’m not a fucking group—“ The door slams shut before you can finish your sentence.

“Fuckin’ asshole.” You mutter to yourself.

You love your job.

The girls snicker behind you, and you feel your face heat in embarrassment and annoyance. Why is nearly everybody in this industry just a bunch of assholes? You figure you’ll just have to wait for the band members to come out, leaning back to press your back against the wall and patiently wait.

From outside, you can hear the chaotic noise of yelling and loud banter from inside the room— the clatter of furniture breaking and thuds against the wall. You remember when behavior like this used to shock you, but artists seem to have reckless behavior nowadays.

The group of girls chatter amongst themselves, and you busy yourself with following the cracks in the floor. You stand there with aching feet and a mental ticking clock for what feels like hours, and you almost give up until the door flies open and three boys stumble out, reeking of alcohol and weed and musk.

You watch as they all brush past you, ignoring you for the group of girls standing across the hallway, cheering their names and draping their arms across their shoulders.

“And who might you be?”

You turn around at the gravelly voice, locking eyes with a glazed pool of brown. The last of the group, the fourth member— and, by what you can piece together given the notorious long dark brown locks dusting his shoulders, Eddie Munson. You clear your throat, stepping forward and telling him your name. You extend a hand for him to shake and ignore how his gaze rolls over every inch of your body.

“I’m a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine,” you explain, retracting your hand when he only glances at the kind gesture. He stands before you, an uninterested smirk dancing against his lips. He’s dressed in black jeans and black leather boots that look worn to hell despite his bottomless pit of a wallet. A black sheer button-down top, fully open to expose his sweat-glistened chest, shiny chains hanging from his neck and kissing his collarbones. His ringed fingers are wrapped around the neck of a half-empty bottle of whiskey, tiny sticky streams of spilled alcohol coating the bottle.

“I’m here to interview your band.” You add.

He laughs, spit-slick lips forming a mocking smile as he speaks, “My band?”

You blink, “Yes, you’re all a band, right?” You motion to the boys, still chatting with the girls across from where you stand, ignoring the sight of one of the members groping a girl as she giggles. “Heavy metal band, Corroded Coffin?”

Eddie snickers, “Yeah, toots, we’re a band,” he lifts the bottle to his lips, speaking over the rim, “But this isn’t my band.” He tips the drink back and gulps down the bitter drink.

You watch as he takes it down without a single twitch of displeasure. You take a deep breath, shifting on your feet as you ignore his smart response, “Okay, well, it won’t be long,” you try to reason, reaching for your bag to dig out your notepad.

“Just a few questions; I won’t take much of your time—” Eddie cuts you off with a wave of his hand, “Listen, princess,” he presses his hand against the wall beside you, using the hand wrapped around the whiskey to gesture as he speaks. “While I’d love to sit and chitchat like a couple of teenage girls, we’ve got two issues here, sweetheart.”

“One,” he raises his index finger, “We don’t do interviews before shows.” He explains as if it’s common knowledge. He lifts another finger, “And two,” he steps closer, a sickening grin spreading across his lips when you step back. “We want nothing to do with your shitty dick-sucking career-crushing poor excuse of a magazine.”

You stare at him, a million different responses churning in your head, and you so badly want to read him to filth, but you really fucking love your job.

“Mr. Munson, I promise you—” “Where are you from?”

What is it with these assholes and cutting you off mid-sentence?

You swallow your pride and answer, “Michigan.” Eddie hums, nodding his head, clicking his teeth as if tasting the state on his tongue. “I’ll tell you this, Michigan,” he bumps the bottle against your shoulder, and you grimace at the drop of liquor that seeps into your shirt. “We’re not doing your shitty piece of a story, but we’ll graciously give you a nice view of the show from the side stage.” He grins, patting your shoulder once and winking.

A staff member passes by you, alerting the band that they have less than a minute to be on stage. You open your mouth to object to his offer, but the boy is downing the rest of the bottle and shoving the bottle into your chest, “Enjoy the show, Michigan.”

You watch in disbelief as he walks off with his band members, the other members not even glancing your way as they holler and cheer down the corridor of the venue. For the 80th time tonight, you clutch the band of your bag and curse to yourself.

Fuckin’ dipshit rockstars.

Against your better judgment, you, again, swallow your pride and watch the show from the side of the stage. You decline any drinks offers, wanting to stay as sober as possible for the interview after the show (if you can weasel one out of them).

Corroded Coffin knows how to put on a show. Each band member works the crowd in ways you have rarely witnessed in this industry— it’s not difficult to see their appeal to the younger generation of music listeners.

None of the members outshine the other; they are all equally in the spotlight, playing their part to create a well-oiled machine of an act. Granted, most of the show is concerningly chaotic; Gareth kicked his foot into his drum set near the end, Jeff smashed the fret of his guitar over the side of an amp, Eddie made out with a fan and Gareth, and the other member you can’t seem to name for the life of you sprayed the front row with multiple bottles of liquor.

It’s chaotic, an endless list of violations without a doubt, but the fans eat it out of the palm of their hands.

You don’t even bother trying to get their attention when they run off the stage, quietly watching from afar as they’re cheered on by VIP fans, managers, and staff. Security rushes them to the green room, where a line of fans waits with various pieces of merchandise to be signed.

You follow, silently taking in the busy scene, saying nothing when you catch a few members stealthily swiping tiny bags of party favors from fans. It’s a movie of never-ending noise and movement, and you’re wondering how they put up with this every night.

You glance at your watch and grunt in annoyance, half past midnight, well past the time you’d hoped to be back in your hotel room.

You stand aside and watch the room as the squealing fans go to each boy, getting autographs and Polaroids to commemorate the moment. Gareth is a flirt, shakes every girl's hand and only lingers for the ones he fancies, gazes into their eyes like they’re the only girl in the room, and smirks when they giggle and lean into his touch. Tells them they’re pretty, compliments their dresses and tops, and gazes at their chest for too long until staff breaks the moment and tells the girls to ‘keep the line moving, ladies’.

Jeff is almost the same, except he’s less performative with it. He’s got a hint of a gentleman in him, thanks each fan for coming, and asks how they liked the show with a sneaky glint in his eyes and a sly smirk. Winks at one of the girls and leans in to whisper something in her ear, something you can’t read from his lips, but later on, you will see them step onto the tour bus together, snickering like sneaky teenagers.

The bass player, the one whose name always slips your mind, has gone off somewhere with a groupie; you watched them slip away from the madness the second he stepped off stage.

And Eddie— Eddie can’t stop glaring at you. Can’t stop looking at you and making you squirm because he wants you gone. He’s got an arm draped around a girl's shoulder, neck craned down to hear what she whispers, and through the chaos of the room and the pretty girl practically pawing at his chest and giggling in his ear, Eddie still manages to find the time to look at you. Curly bangs wet with sweat sticking to his forehead, cheeks rosy and flushed with adrenaline, wide eyes diminished beneath smudged black eyeliner. He looks like an animal, damp and matted, searing gaze dripping with malice.

You almost take the bait and cower.

A hand is placed on your shoulder, breaking your silent staring contest with Eddie as a man steps into your view. He is taller than you, older with lines of age sinking into his skin, glaring down at you over the end of his cigarette as he speaks, “Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You wonder how he was able to pick you out, but your itchy jeans and suffocating boots quickly remind you that you don’t exactly fit into the crowd. You nod, sticking a hand out and telling him your name. “You must be Richie, the manager?” You assume, kindly smiling when he takes your hand with a friendly grip in greeting.

“I’m here to interview your boys. We called this morning,” you remind him. He nods, puffs out a cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth as he speaks, “Yeah, uh… The thing with that is,” he tilts his head to scratch at the stubble on his chin, “I’m not so sure the boys’ll be up for that.”

You breathily laugh, glancing at the boys behind him, ignoring when Eddie glances your way, “Yeah, I gathered that already.”

The man hums, reaching up to pluck the burning paper from his lip, blowing the smoke away from your face before speaking, “Yeah, Eddie’s not too keen on big media. Bad run-in from the past.” He explains. You nod understandingly, “The Face?”

The man nods, taking another hit, “Tore ‘em to shreds.” You nod, crossing your arms over your chest with a breath, “I remember.” He offers you a hit, and you shake your head, kindly waving him off.

“Shitty, you came all this way, though. Where you from?”

You don’t look at him as you respond, too focused on the man across the room, his attention locked in on the fans now that he sees you’re being taken care of— like an unwanted intruder being exterminated. But you’re not an intruder. You’re a journalist, a writer, a listener— and you’re damn good at it.

Before you can thoroughly think about the repercussions, your mouth is running, gaze still locked on Eddie, “I can get them on the cover.”

Richie pauses his rambling at that, pauses the lift of his cigarette to his lips, and looks at you, waiting for you to say it was a joke or something— but it’s not. Your gaze flitters to him, your expression unwavering as you wait for him to respond. “The cover?”

You nod once, watching as he takes one long drag of his cigarette. “We can do one big interview with them all,” you begin, “I’ll tag along for a few shows to gather more on the experience, get a photoshoot booked and have them on the cover for the July issue.” You’re pulling strings, tugging at what sounds enticing and will get you where you need to be. You’re good at your job, you’ve done this before, and you know how to bend things to your will because the rockstars— the rockstars are always easy to break.

Richie glances over his shoulder and grunts, rubbing a hand over his face before turning back to you, “Okay, um,” he sighs and curses under his breath, “Let me see if I can talk them into it, yeah?” He sticks the cigarette between his lips and starts searching his pockets. “We’ve got a residency tour in New York next,” he announces, finally fishing out his wallet and sifting through cards until he finds what he needs. He offers the card to you, “Think you can meet us there?”

You take the card and glance over it before glancing at the boy once again. You nod, and he smiles, “Give me a call when you land; I’ll let you know if it’s a go.”

He leaves without another word, and you stay standing for a bit, rubbing the card between your fingers as you watch the boys meet the last of their fans tonight, Eddie no longer looks your way, and you hope he does for just a split second so he can know— so he can realize that he lost.

You give up when he seems too preoccupied with the girls, stuffing the card in your purse and making your way toward the exit. You’ll have to settle for rubbing it in when you see them in New York.

You spent the better part of your week convincing Anna, your manager, to give you the benefit of the doubt and allow you to pull through with a cover story. Anna wasn’t so excited when you told her you offered them a cover, but Anna is never excited by your ideas; she’s always worried until the final product comes out like a fine piece of gold. Treasure. You create treasure, and Anna knows this, so she finally relents and lets you go through with it— “You better get me the biggest story ever made. Bigger than Madonna.”

You can do bigger than Madonna— and seeing as your subject is four young men at the peak of worldwide fame, ‘bigger than Madonna’ will be a piece of cake.

You grab the hotel phone the second you get in, dialing the number on the creased business card you’d fished out from your bag. Your knee bounces in anticipation, teeth digging into your lip as you listen to each agonizing ring, almost thinking Richie gave you a fake card before finally, the phone picks up, “Hello?” It’s groggy, like he’d just woke up.

“Hi, it’s Rolling Stone Magazine,”

He groans on the other end, and you can hear the rustling of sheets, and you assume he’s sitting up in bed, “Rolling Stone Magazine… Oh— oh, uh… are you here?” He asks. You nod before answering with a short yes.

“Are we on for today?” You ask. He’s silent for a few moments, nothing but sleepy, distant grunts filtering through the speaker. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, we’re on just uh,” you pick at the seam of your jeans as you wait for him to finish his thought, “Come to the garden at around three; they’ve got rehearsals, and you can try to squeeze in after.”

You thank him and end the call, placing the phone back on the stand and sighing as you glance around the room. This will be your home for the next month; Anna advised you to stay for the entire residency tour despite your reassurance that you can complete the story in a week— “A big story, birdie. A massive one. A good one. That doesn’t happen in a week.”

So, one month. Twelve shows and thirty days. One month.

Eddie doesn’t like rehearsals.

He thinks they’re stupid and useless and take up too much time of the day when he could spend it doing something else. Could be writing, could be out having fun with the boys and getting high as a kite, could be fucking that redheaded groupie, Lany. He could be doing so many things, but instead, he’s up on stage in an empty arena listening for feedback in the mic and testing the amps for the guitars.

“Let’s do that last track one more time; I think I’m picking up a bit of feedback on you, Gareth.”

Eddie sits down on the edge of the drum riser, sticking a cigarette between his lips and lighting it up. He tilts his head back and blows up toward the beaming lights, squinting at the bright rays and imagining them enveloping him. He closes his eyes and imagines it’s the sun, thinking about Hawkins and the last summers he spent with the gang. Thinks about Dustin and Lucas and Max and Mike. Steve, Nance, and Robin. Thinks about how he hasn’t called or visited in a while, even though he got their card on his birthday.

He feels shitty for not calling home; he itches to make the call now and let them know that he misses them and wishes they could fly out more often to watch the band play. They’re all busy, though; the kids are about to start college— dusted the shit out of high school, which Eddie obviously flew in to watch them walk the stage— and the older half of them are all getting jobs, looking for their next big step in life, and Eddie misses them.

His reminiscent thoughts are cut through with the sharp and loud slamming of the arena door, grasping his attention in seconds. He blinks a few times to get the light out of his eyes, squinting at where the noise came from— and Eddie’s mind is fresh off a joint, so he’s not a hundred percent sure if he’s just envisioning that journalist from the other day or she’s actually here.

He stands up from the drum riser, stepping further into the stage as he watches you walk down the rows of seats; barely acknowledges the stage manager when he asks him to play the riff from track four until Jeff walks into his line of sight, “Come on, man, I wanna get this over with.”

Eddie situates his fingers over the frets of his guitar, watching as you find a seat in the third row and settle in, settling your bag in your lap and holding it to you as you silently watch the crew work the stage. He plays the riff a few times, until they can fix that god-awful ringing noise behind the higher notes, and when they finally wrap up rehearsals, Eddie makes a beeline to the front row where Richie is standing, quietly chatting with a staff member about where he wants the road cases to go. Eddie doesn’t care much for their conversation, steps in, and promptly interrupts, “Why the fuck is that journalist here?”

Richard turns to him and raises his eyebrows, “Sir?”

The staff member leaves as Eddie leans in and points over Richard's shoulder to where you sit, still quietly watching the stage, bright lights illuminating your face like you’re some god-sent fucking angel— and you’re not. Eddie knows you’re not. He sees straight through your friendly act. “The journalist, Richie. Why is she here?” He slowly repeats.

Richie glances at you and looks back at Eddie, “She’s doing a story on the band—” “No, she’s fucking not.”

Richie stares at Eddie, blinks for a silent moment before speaking, “Son,” —and sometimes Richie reminds Eddie of Wayne, and it scares him, “She’s gonna put you on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine.” Richie points your way. Eddie falters momentarily, mindlessly blinking and shaking his head, “Cover?”

Richie laughs and pats Eddie on the shoulder, “Yeah. The fucking cover,” he says, “so, whether you like it or not, you’re doing the interview. This is what the band needs.”

Eddie shakes his head, curly strands brushing the muscles of his shoulders, “We don’t need a goddamn cover, Richie. We’re not doing a fucking story—” “Yes, you are.” Richie doesn’t mean to make his voice boom through the arena, but it attracts attention either way, and he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose before clapping a hand onto the back of Eddie’s shoulder, turning both away from the stage.

“You’re putting out an album in a few months. You want it to sell, don’t you?”

Eddie clenches his jaw, teeth grinding against each other as he glances over his shoulder, annoyed when he catches you watching— almost smirks when you quickly look away as if you’d been caught red-handed. Despite Eddie’s strong will, he nods because fucking obviously he wants the album to sell— but at what cost?

Richie nods and squeezes Eddie’s shoulder, “Good. Then you’ll do the interview. She’ll be with us for all of New York, so play nice. We need a good piece.” and leaves Eddie with a pat on his shoulder.

Eddie stands there for a moment, gathering himself and trying to cope with the fact that some fucking narc will be on their back for the next month. He doesn’t see or hear you walk up to him until you say his name. The barricade separates you, your fingers gripping the black railing as you stand before him. Eddie’s hands are on his hips, not moving an inch as he looks at you.

“I know you don’t want me here, but I… I’m just doing my job, and if you can cooperate, this will be easier for the both of us.”

And Eddie— god, Eddie can’t fucking believe the audacity.

“Did you fuck Richie?”

He watches you pull back, blinking at him as you stare silently. Eddie tilts his head, eyebrows raising to push the answer from you, “No, I didn’t—” You shake your head and blink hard in confusion, “Why would I—” “Because you want a good story.” Eddie snaps, “Right?”

Because that’s all anybody ever wants from him. A good story. A tale to tell their friends about. Tell them the secrets they pulled from Eddie Munson, tell them about the famous rockstar that fucked them backstage, tell them they know what makes him crack. A good story.

You gape at him, lost and shocked by the sudden confrontation.

You straighten up and tilt your head, eyes growing harsh with anger as you respond, “No. I didn’t fuck Richie. I don’t fuck to get where I want, I pull strings, and I make it work,” you snap, “I treat people with the respect they deserve, and I get what I want. You could learn a few things from that.”

And with that, you’re gone. Leaving Eddie behind with a twisted face of annoyance. He watches you walk over to where Richie is and greet him, but he doesn’t stick around long enough to watch or tune in to the conversation, storming through the arena and grabbing his coat to get in the car and tell the driver to take him to his hotel.

One month. Twelve shows and thirty days. One month.

Eddie can play along, he thinks. How hard can it be?

————

part two

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