#clip chaos au

[totaleclipse573]

New silly au idea : through some sort of dimensional travel thing, all au clippies (and also canon eclipse,) are sent to the universe of THIS Eclipse. And they have to find some way to get all of them back bc multiverse problems or something. Except where some would REALLY want to go back, others….would rather not. Others just don’t care lol. Calling it “Clip Chaos” or something.

[legolasghosty]

62

Ask and you shall receive! Holograms timeee!

Another video began, this one showing both of them, plus Carlos and a younger Reggie, eating ice cream out of a gallon carton. It was chocolate, the only flavor the four of them could ever agree on. And it was all over their faces.

Rose entered the scene, her face playfully stern. “What did I say about ice cream before dinner?”

“Mom, it’s Christmas,” Carlos protested. 

“Yeah, rules are made up anyways,” Reggie agreed, giggling.

Rose smirked. “Well in that case…” she began, opening a drawer, “today’s rule is no ice cream before dinner without me!”

[nonuggetshere]

Ok now I’m curious, where does Time Travel AU PK go?

-💚

FUCK I FORGOT ABOUT HIM

I think like perfectly in between of could be worse and good dad :)? Or maybe a bit lower

Personally, I'd like to imagine that not only would he take Inanis in, he would also try to be a good father for little Hollow after everything is said and done

[sleeps-au-bag]

prsk x smt au with honami as the protagonist

mochizuki honami is just a regular high school girl who's in a band with her childhood best friends. lately they've been acting very weird and have been cancelling practice more and more, leaving her with more time to work in her family's bakery. she's worried her friend group is going to break up again and it feels like there's nothing she can do to stop it. the only thing she can do is talk her feelings out with the mysterious yoisaki-sama and her butler tsu-san.

it's not until she discovers a strange new world filled with demons that she finds out why her friends have been acting so weirdly.

~~

that's all i have so far. i don't really know which character go into which alignments for smt but i do know that the rest of the leo/need girls fall in the law organization and will stay in the law organization.

for this au, i wanna do something called demon contracts and demon contractors. contractors are people who made contracts with demons. demon contracts are contracts that must be accepted by both human and demon in order to come into effect. there's a wide range of them: giving humans more power, near immortality, keeping you alive long enough to fulfill your last wish, etc. honami makes a contract with a demon called (it's either izanami or kaguya-hime) to both save her life and find out the truth of what's going on.

there might be a few more people who side with law but they either die or leave to join neutral or chaos. i know i want minori and kohane to be neutral, possibly have the rest of wondershow be chaos. mafuyu is definitely law who goes to chaos.

kanade and tsukasa are an interesting case, they're a neutral party who don't fit into any of the alignments. they point out each of the routes flaws and how despite how good they sound at first, there will never be a true happy ending. they know that there will always be another conception (or the equivalent of one) no matter which route is taken. they just enjoy life and help out honami no matter which route she chooses.

[legitimatesatanspawn]

Okay there's five ways I could write this, all of which are pre-canon by the way. I'm combining all five but here's two pieces of two different scenes.

Snippet 1: "I just don't get it. The new civilian-marketed legs are better than my hero-grade prosthetics," Ectoplasm rumbled as he showed off the artificial limb. "It needs attaching to the new harness but nothing 'plugs in' like wetware cybernetics in the old films."

The cowboy-themed hero leans in to take a closer look. "You know I'm all at sea with those sci-fi flicks. That said, it does look a whole sight better. Light as a feather?"

"And sturdier. Whoever the head technician at Fenton Works is a real miracle worker."

Snipe pauses. "Did you just say Fenton?" At Ectoplasm's nod, he continues. "You know the scuttlebutt that their head swiped some other company's research?"

"This is leagues ahead. I've tried Denterat's civilian prosthetics and while they are decent, they were not the best even before Fenton Works started selling."

Snippet 2: Ever since that brief meeting - truly happenstance as they were both attending their own meetings in Tokyo - Nedzu knew that something about the young human was… It is not a fear quirk or the lure of an animal control quirk. Nedzu has felt the brush of both (and more).

Unlike humans, Nedzu trusts his baser impulses. Fenton felt like a predator. And unlike many humans who felt similar, 'Fenton' is an ambush predator. Nedzu entertained the possibility that the man is a false identity for All For One. Yagi-kun's foe could have falsified his death. Thankfully (hopefully) All For One is dead.

But another reason why this is unlikely to be the same man: the 'ghosts'. The rumors of the dead began just before Fenton's false identity was established. This could be a coincidence, yet Nedzu has spoken with a few of the 'ghosts'. Friends, allies, strangers, and someone Nedzu has not seen since... His rescuer's death had brought another supposedly immoral facility to the public eye. It was quite difficult to explain how a hero died during a routine tour.

The dead don't speak on some matters to the living. Any attempt he made to ask after Fenton's origins was met with silence. That in itself is an answer. Such a fascinating puzzle. Why is someone dead yet alive creating support gear?

*evil grin of The Ponderings™*

You know who DEFINITELY would have Unfinished Business?

Heroes. Professional "If I could just MOVE, just fight a BIT LONGER, save ONE MORE PERSON" Heroes. It's the ultimate and unending Unfinished Business. To protect people. Not just their friends, their co-workers, but the innocent people around them.

That kid, stuck crying in the rubble.

That business man, screaming in pain, caught in the cross fire.

The People NEED them. They SWORE. Their very SOULS burn with the NEED to help. But... the flesh gave out. Injuries. Age. Quirk overuse. They knew... they KNEW, this was not a safe line of work... but... but! Please! Just one more person! Why can't they just make their breaking, dying, bodies MOVE!

Of course they refuse to move on.

They are needed HERE.

Yet? Their hands pass through. Their voices do not reach. A hell of their own, unknown, making. They can't let go, but they can't HELP either. There isn't enough Ectoplasm here. The walls of their reality overly patched up, since that unfortunate leak a few centuries back.

After all, the Zone had dumped near lethal quantities of unfiltered Ecto into the atmosphere. They're STILL dealing with the mutations and fall out, aren't they? At least, they are according to the Zone. (Wtf is a "Quirk"?) And, yeah, someone should PROBABLY do an assessment on the ecological recovery of the Reality. But like?

Do you have any idea how few people have an Obsession for stuff like that? Wait your turn! The list is long and you're not fuckin special, okay? The agents are BUSY.

Now, you might wonder? Wait. If they aren't moving on. Are DEFINITELY Ghosts. Starving as they are. Refusing to die as they may be. Wouldn't... Wouldn't that leave the whole ass area around their Reality an ecological dead zone? If it got over patched and no Ghosts LEFT, thus noticed, and started to try and work on it from the outside? Assuming the COULD?

Yeah. Yeah it would be!

It's called the "New Wastes"!

There used to be some cool Lairs around there. But there was a turf dispute. Someone DID something. Punched a HOLE. And everyone re-died. It was fixed but never quite re-healed. Portals... don't show up there? For some reason? Meh. Wanna brawl?

No. Danny's curious. He wants ANSWERS.

It's his fatal flaw.

Well... that and his inability to keep his mouth shut. But he likes to think he's funny. So... off he goes! And MAN! Does it feel funky out there! Weird textures. Mmmm, Don't Like THAT ™. It's probably a King thing? The Zone here... FEELS wrong.

Not... the way it's SUPPOSED to be shaped, if that makes sense?

And? It feels... if you sorta squint? Like... a LOT of people AREN'T where they should be. But aren't gonna leave until they're READY. Ooof. Great. Someone messed up again. Why does he KEEP FINDING bits and pockets that need straightening out? Unruffling? It's like he has to keep smooth out this giant peice of fabric with all these stains on it. Clean the messes on it.

He feels more like a maid then a King.

Maybe he is?

Pretty sure he's more of a nanny, since the Zone is more of a whiny yet excitable toddler then anything else. Alright, let him in. And fix... whatever THAT is.

So he steps into the Reality and? Huh. Japan. Neat. He always meant to go, never got around to it. Why is that man an otter?

.......oooohohooo, this place was HELLA fucked up by Ectoplasm, wasn't it? This is multi generational exposure. It's in the air. The water, ground, buildings. But stale to the point of stagnation. That can't be healthy. At least a few people he sees have developed ecto-resistance, thank the Ancients.

Danny discovers there are? "Superheroes"? Or just... heroes, apparently. They sell shampoo lines and athletic gear. Villians are petty criminals and psychopaths. All lumped together. He gets fuckin CHASED by the COPS and half the cities spandex patrol, called a "villian" (you know, like the purse snatchers and the DUDE WHO TRIED TO OPEN FIRE ON A CROWD) for flying around trying to assess the situation. Not speaking Japanese fast enough.

Soooorry! He TRIED to answer your confusing barked demands! This isn't his native language! He's translating through Ghost Speech! He knows it sounds unsettling to the living! It's the best he's GOT, man! (Asshole)

He escapes, obviously, because he's not 14 anymore. And honestly? He could top 200mph or so AT 14. He's only gotten faster. Intangible flight means no wind drag, motherfuckers~! OR need to dodge buildings! HA. Try to follow him through THE GROUND!

A few Blob sucked (to remove the ectoplasm) bits of treasure later? And he leaves a pawn shop with local currency. Thank YOU shady pawn shop! Ask him no questions, he'll tell you not lies. Enjoy Pariah's gold.

He does tourist things. Buy foods he's never tried, wanders around. Sees what's needed. Noticed a lot of people struggle with some aspect of the ecto-mutations brought on by the extreme Limnality. Need accessibility aids.

.....well, he IS a Fenton. His parents would disown him on the SPOT if he left with out at least TRYING to help. So he tracks down one the local ghosts. He'll need a guide or two.

He? VASTLY underestimates how desperate a sea of Obsession Starved Hero and Vigilante Ghosts will act, the INSTANT, they realize not only someone can see them... but it's? Their "Boss"? They aren't sure HOW they know that. But they DO. It's THE Boss. Here to help them! Asking for HELP ™ from THEM!

Yes

YES THEY CAN DO THAT

He gets swarmed. Hundreds of ghosts fighting over each other. Shouting. Turning on each other like rabid animals. All worn down and ragged by their Obssesion starvation. He's forced to shout over them.

And? Holy shit, these are only the ones from THIS CITY, too.

Thank Zone, again, he's no longer 14. That he has friends who are Rulers ™ that taught him HOW to Rule. To delegate. Pretend he TOTALLY knows what he's doing. That every action is on purpose.

It takes less then two hours, with all the experienced Unground Heros help, to make himself a Real Boy and buy a building. Put himself into the correct databases. He officially has licenses for things he's never studied. Is a tax paying citizen. Even belongs to several local clubs.

Over the next few days? He sets up his new... oi! Quickdraw! What're they called again? Right. "Lifestyle Support Company" which? Is a dumb name. But, Fenton Works is Fenton Works. Somehow he always kinda knew he'd be inherenting. It's in a cruddy part of town and the prices are cheap as he can safely get um.

He already had two customers, even though half the building isn't even fully set up. Which? I mean... he gets it. Poor guy. Knives for hands. Sharp ones too. The other guy's Obsession made him emotionally react to colors and like three different ones were ruining his life. So, hand Prosthetics controllable by knives and color filtering wrap around glasses.

Took him a lunch break or two.

Changed THEIR lives.

Suddenly his shop is packed. Schedule screaming for relief. And the ghosts? Getting more tangible by the day. See, his work shop? Ecto proofed. Let's him relax. But it ALSO let's him radiate fresh, clean, Ecto out into the air. And as King? With a direct line to The Zone? He puts out a lot.

There start to become Sightings.

People who SWEAR they saw long dead Heros out of the corner of their eyes. Dead vigilantes. That was who through that bottle. Who tripped that thug at just the right moment. Who unlocked the door. The SWEAR. They aren't crazy!

And... at first? Brushed off. Stress does a lot of crazy thing to a person, ma'am. But? How do you brush off, making eye contact with your dead best friend? Your old mentor on the other roof? That vigilante, who you WATCHED bleed out? Can you brush them off... when a vigilante from the dawn of quirks, punches some two bit villian on live television? Calls the Heros on the scene gloryhounds? Goverment dogs?

Runs from the cops and vanishes into thin air?

When this shit KEEPS HAPPENING?

Is spreading?

Are... are you supposed to arrest them for illegal vigilantism? How? They're THE proto-Heros! You don't want your name tied to that! The HPSC is furious. The goverment is uneasy. There are like... 6 dudes and a lady, openly stalking some kid in UA. Trying to mentor him. He looks moments away from a nervous breakdown.

Us too, kid. Us too.

All? While Danny? Is just sitting in his lil shop. Tinkering. Not HIS problem. Gotta let the ghosts here get it out of their system. Get their Obsession's full. Then it's all aboard the Zone Train. He's just here to make sure no one does anything "Too Crazy".

What's HIS definition of "too crazy"?

Wouldn't YOU like to know, weather boy~☆

@hdgnj @lolottes @nerdpoe @babbling-babull @mutable-manifestation @spidori @the-witchhunter @legitimatesatanspawn

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Simmer #6

CH6. Spilled Milk | The Menu [4.3K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

The diner was busy. 

Too busy. In fact, it was chaotic. An unusual brunch time rush on the hottest Saturday in August. The first in the month and the official marking of your two month birthday at Jim’s Grill. Not that it mattered, no one was able to celebrate it, not even yourself. 

A greyhound and a private coach had pulled into the parking lot within ten minutes of each other, tourists pouring out of them in big families, clusters of hikers, campers and back water town enthusiasts ready to order everything from the menu. Jim had lit up at the sight, the bell above the diner door jingling over and over and over again, before the man looked at Eddie through the hatch and his face fell into a panicked expression. 

“Shit.”

Steve was already smiling until his cheeks ached, his customer service voice ringing out through the din of the crowd as he tried his best to get everyone seated, him and Jonathan pushing tables together to cater for the family that arrived with seven kids in tow. 

Jim was on the phone in his office, barking out orders before they turned into pleas, the garish orange receiver clutched between two hands before he closed his eyes, mouthed a prayer and then pumped his fist in the air. Twenty minutes later, Dustin Henderson was storming through the diner with two other teens trailing behind him, looking far more begrudging about whatever they’d obviously been roped into. 

Hopper handed them aprons and promised, “cash in hand at the end of the night and an extra twenty if you get through this without breaking anything.”

A deal was made and soon, a red headed girl called Max Mayfield was flying between tables on bright green roller skates, bussing tables with a bored expression on her freckled face. Behind her, Jonathan’s little brother Will was delivering trays of drinks, narrowly avoiding Dustin as he brought Eddie’s famous stacked burgers out by the dozen. 

It was chaos. It was too warm, and god, it was so loud. But fuck, the tips were great. Your apron was stuffed with bills and order tickets, your fingertips red from the amount of times you’d caught them between the metal clips you hung them from above Eddie’s station. It was too busy to talk, to chat and flirt quietly in this new way you’d both grown brave enough to do. The boy was frazzled, side by side with Argyle by the grill as the flipped patties and fried eggs and bacon, a new batch of rolls dangerously close to burning in the oven. The timer was screaming, something else was buzzing, the workstations were the messiest you’d ever seen them and there was a puddle of spilled milk by the door. 

“Door! Behind!” You yelled out amongst the noise, eyes wide at the orders sitting by the hatch still to be delivered. Nancy and Robin were taking plates six at a time, hands and arms full, their balance nothing short of impressive. “Eddie, sorry, but table six wanted extra hash browns with their brunch combo not an egg—”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence before Eddie was taking the plate from you and sliding the perfectly fried egg into the trash. He barely looked at you, something you tried not to frown at because his mouth was set in a strained line and there were beads of sweat gathering at curls on his forehead. “Argyle, time on those hash browns?” Eddie barked, eyes still on the burgers he was placing cheddar slices on top of. 

Argyle was scraping crispy potato pieces around the griddle, salt and pepper and some other spices poured on top as he worked at breakneck speed. “Three minutes, chef,” Argyle called back and Eddie grunted in return. 

You felt stupid, standing there aimlessly with a customer's plate in your hand and before you could get out of the way, Eddie was moving you himself. Big, wide hands on the tops of your arms, guiding you out of the path of the door just before Steve burst through it. He narrowly missed the spilled milk. 

“Door!” He yelled a fraction later than he should’ve. Eddie glared at him. “Corner! Fuck, where’s the fucking syrups? Eddie? Ed! Where’s the syrup!”

You watched Eddie squeeze his eyes shut before he groaned, killing the heat on the grill just as Argyle appeared at your side to slide the freshly cooked hash browns onto the plate. You smiled, grateful. “Thank you.”  

“Open your fuckin’ eyes, man! They’re on the shelf!” Eddie was furiously wiping his hands on his stained chef whites, a dish towel tucked into the ties of his apron as he started assembling burger after burger. 

Bun. Sauce. Patty. Cheese. Bacon. More sauce. Lettuce. Pickles. Tomato. Fried egg. Perfect yolk. Crispy onions. More sauce. Bun. 

“What shelf?!” Steve yelled back, the pantry contents rattling as he pushed his way past huge bags of sugar and jars of homemade jam. “Eddie, it’s not fucking there!”

Robin barged in the door, not announcing her arrival to anyone and the edge of it slammed Argyle as he walked past carrying piles of grease filled frying pans. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry dude!” Eddie glared at her. “Door?” She said weakly. 

“Why is everyone in my fuckin’ kitchen!” Eddie yelled and diners closest to the hatch peered in at him, disapproving expressions on their faces as their kids with ketchup smeared chins laughed. “Buckley! What is it?”

“There’s like, seven tables asking for maple syrup. Where is it?”

Everyone groaned, eyes rolling and Eddie threw his hands to the ceiling. “It’s on the fuckin’ shelf, but Harrington is too blind to see them. Christ, Argyle, start getting these burgers out, Harrington fuckin’ move man—”

It all happened a bit too fast, that’s all. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. Just a classic case of spilled milk. No need to cry over it, right? That’s what they said. 

Argyle dumped the pans into the sink with a crash, slipping between you and Eddie’s workstation as he tried to get to the burgers before they went cold. Eddie was pushing past Robin to get to Steve who was still arguing and well, Robin might’ve stepped forward at the same time you stepped back to avoid Argyle. Plateful of hash browns held high, you tried to stop them from falling. You tried not to elbow Argyle in the face and god, you tried really hard not to completely crash into Robin despite the way her shoulder caught yours. 

You stepped back again, someone yelled ‘door!’ and the sound of Max’s roller blades ripped through onto the kitchen tiles, sending everyone into a loud panic. Your foot found the puddle of milk, sneakers slipping through the liquid and the inevitable happened. 

There was an awful crack when your head hit the worktop on the way down. Ass hitting the tiles, a horrible spine numbing pain licking up your back. The bones in your hips tingled with it before tears sprung to your eyes as a searing pain set in everywhere at once. You heard the kitchen go quiet for just a second, a blissful peace before the plate you’d been holding finally joined you on the floor and smashed into a hundred different pieces. Argyle’s perfectly crispy hash browns skittered under the workstation and you heard someone swear. 

Then everyone was clamouring at once, hands hesitated to touch you as you brought your own to the back of your head and held it there. There was a strange kind of heat to it that made you hope it wasn’t blood, but you were too scared to look. Milk seeped into your wrinkled sock, your legs splayed out in front of you like a forgotten doll, but you didn’t feel half as pretty as one. You gazed mournfully at the smashed plate and couldn’t help the way your bottom lip twisted and trembled. God, your head hurt. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry, shit— I’m sorry, I should’ve said I was coming in, right?”

“It’s fine Max, it’s not your fault—”

“How many fingers am I holding up? Can you stand? Hey, who’s the president—?”

“Lil’ Chicago slice got laid out.”

“Everyone move.”

Eddie’s voice rang out the loudest, clear and gruff with an authoritative tone that bordered on scary. Everyone listened, the kitchen and its team quietening down again when they all saw how you winced at the noise. Eddie pushed past Steve, and Robin, dropping down to hunker next to you. His brows were stitched together with concern and he tutted softly at the tear slipping down your cheek. You hadn’t even noticed, but his thumb brushed it away before anyone else could see. 

He murmured your name and it sounded like a question you were supposed to answer, so you hummed, face scrunched up as more sharp needles of pain prickled at the back of your skull. Your hand was still pressed to it, scared to let go as if your whole head would simply roll off of your neck. 

But Eddie’s hand curled around your wrist and he tugged gently, murmuring words of nonsense that were nothing more than soft placations. With a bit of coaxing, you let him take your hand away and you slammed your eyes shut before you could look. No one hissed or gasped, so it seemed safe enough. 

But still, you asked, “there’s no blood, right?”

The boy gave you a soft smile as everyone circled closer to peer at your hand. “Nah,” Eddie told you reassuringly. “No blood, you’ll live.” Then he was cupping your chin in his hand, thumb pressed to the corner of your mouth and his brow wrinkled with more concern. “Can I take a look though?”

You wanted to say no. All this fuss and attention was making you feel too hot, embarrassment from falling starting to roll in with the pain and it mixed in your stomach to create an awfully uncomfortable concoction. Steve and Robin were still gazing down at you, eyes wide with shock and Max looked stricken with guilt, as if she thought her coming into the kitchen unannounced caused this. Argyle was already moving between everyone, sweeping broken pieces of plate and squished food out of the way. 

But you nodded and let Eddie peer at the back of your head. His hands gentle as he turned you this way and that, parting your hair so he could look for any cuts. He whistled at the sight of a bump and ran his thumb over it softly. You winced and he murmured a sorry before squeezed your knee, a comforting thing that Robin raised her brows at. 

“Think you can stand?” Eddie asked. 

You didn’t get a chance to answer, because Hopper was bursting through the doors with a red face and seven ticket orders clutched in his hand. “Why is half my staff on the kitchen fucking floor?” He yelled. “It’s crazy out there! What’s going on?”

You brought your knees to your chest as Steve explained what had happened, gesturing to the puddle of milk, the broken pieces of plate in the trash. Eddie didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off you, even when you winced in embarrassment and tried to hide your face in your hands. 

You heard Jim sigh and then he was clapping his hands and demanding that Steve and Robin went back to the dining floor. “There’s four tables waitin’ for coffee, never mind food, c’mon! And Max— Jesus, Maxine, take those skates off before someone else ends up with a concussion.”

Argyle was sent back to the grill before Hop patted Eddie on the shoulder and told him to do the same. Eddie screwed up his face, confusion wrinkling his brow. “What? No, Hop, someone’s gotta take her home.”

“Ed—” you started to interrupt, mortified at the idea of causing an upset. 

Hop laughed, not meanly, just amused. “And what? You think you should be the one to take her, Casanova? You’re the only guy I got here that knows how to cook an omelette, you’re not going anywhere Munson.”

Eddie’s ears burned with the quip, cheeks flushed pink and he scowled at his boss, uncaring about the repercussions. But his attention was quickly stolen by you as you made an attempt to move, standing shakily as you protested that you were fine. The boy scoffed, holding your forearms so you could grip his, knuckles white as the shock of it all set in. 

You did feel a little dizzy. 

“She’s not going back out there to take orders,” Eddie told the older man as they both looked at your peaky expression, your glassy eyes. 

“Well, I ain’t got the bodies to get someone to take her home, kid,” Hop shrugged regretfully. “Wayne at the garage?”

“Fishing trip,” Eddie answered sourly. “Here, c’mon, sit down, yeah?” He guided you to the stool by his station and helped you onto it, eyes filled with concern as you clutched the edge of the worktop and closed your eyes. “Should we be callin’ a doctor?” Eddie asked Hop. 

“Don’t you dare,” you managed to bark at him, even though your voice sounded shaky. “I’m fine. I’ll just, I’ll just sit for a bit.”

You couldn’t hear what the two men were whispering about, but embarrassment told you it was most definitely about you. You only looked up when someone set a glass of water in front of you and you smiled in thanks at Argyle before he squeezed your shoulder and went back to flipping pancakes. 

“Drink that, please,” Eddie mumbled softly as he appeared by your side. Hopper had left, standing awkwardly in the middle of the diner instead of his office as he wrote down orders listed off by a frantic Nancy. “Okay, we’ve come to an agreement.”

You snorted into your glass. “We have?” You asked as you wiped at your lips. 

“Hop’s gonna take over and I’ll drive you home when this place finally calms down. Or we run out of eggs, whatever comes first.”

You rolled your eyes but the action was fond, just like the smile on your lips. You could barely bring yourself to look up at the boy for fear of giving too much away in your gaze, but when you did, you saw the same softness in Eddie’s own expression. “You don’t have to do that,” you told him. “I’ll just sit for a bit and then walk home.”

Eddie snorted and began chopping slices of tomatoes at a speed your eyes could barely keep up with. “No you fuckin’ won’t,” he told you. “Part of this agreement was that you park your cute ass where I can see you. No passing out in the walk-in, alright?”

You tried not to dwell on the compliment too much. Weeks had passed since the night you’d gotten high with the boy, too close on his bed, too close to doing something that was interrupted. You’d been back to the Munson trailer since, but you spent evenings on the sofa with both Eddie and Wayne, yelling at Alex Trebek and trying out new dishes that Eddie created for late nice dinners. No other attempt at a kiss - if that’s what had been about to happen. No other attempt at asking for a date - if that’s what the boy had been about to say. 

“Are there any other conditions to this agreement?” You asked, wincing when Argyle dropped a pot into the sink. “Or did you just sell my soul to Jim without me knowing?”

Eddie laughed as he threw some mushroom halves onto the grill, dropping in some butter until they sizzled. “Sweetheart, c’mon now, you did that yourself when you agreed to work in his hellhole.” Eddie moved away just for a few seconds, long enough to return with a new glass of ice water that he replaced your empty one with. “But he did say you’re not allowed to sue him.”

You smiled, laughing weakly because your head still throbbed and the diner was too loud but Eddie Munson was grinning at you with his dimples on show and a stray curl falling into his big, brown eyes. 

“Damn,” you tried to joke. “There goes my plan.”

—————

You’d been slumped on the stool for the best part of two hours before someone roused you from your semi sleeping state. Heels of your hands pressed to your closed eyes, the sounds of the diner sounding further and further away as you let yourself be lulled into haze by the sounds of Eddie and Argyle talking over the sizzle of the grill, the popping of bacon, the whir of a whisk. 

Then, a palm on your back, wide and warm. You startled only slightly, sitting up and reappearing from behind your hands to see a bowl of soup being slid in front of you. A deep red, flecked with cracked black pepper and smelling like tomato and basil. There was a swirl of some cream in the centre, artfully placed, and a spoon was dipped into the middle of it. 

“Eat up,” Eddie instructed softly. “Then I can try ‘n’ find you some Advil or somethin’, Nancy probably got some stashed somewhere.”

You eyed the soup with a sudden greed, mouth watering at the aroma, your fingers finding the spoon. “You didn’t even ask if I was hungry,” you gently scolded the boy. 

Eddie knew what it meant. ‘Thank you. You shouldn’t have.’

“Don’t start,” he grumbled back, already going back to cracking more eggs into a bowl. Only six this time, which meant service must’ve been slowing. “You’ve had a coffee and half a slice of toast all day, eat your fuckin’ soup.”

You knew what that meant too. ‘You’re welcome. Please eat, so I stop worrying.’

So you ate and Eddie made omelettes, folding each so meticulously that you couldn’t help but watch. Butter on top, chives diced, fresh tomato and Italian ham in the middle. He knew you were staring, he always did. But now he smiled instead of scowled, let his gaze flicker to you every time he put his knife down and he nodded appreciatively when your spoon scraped the last of the soup from the bowl.

“Good?” He asked like always, sliding the omelette dishes out of the hatch for Steve to deliver to the waiting tables.

Jim was back in the office and the younger kids were long gone, sent home with leftover doughnuts from the pastry cabinet and an extra twenty in each of their back pockets. Regular slowness has resumed. Only Mr Creel sat at the bar, under the television as always, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee he wouldn’t let Jonathan refill. There was a family at one table, an older couple at another, and three teens sharing a plate of fries in a booth at the back. 

You nodded, humming. “So good, Eddie. Best soup I’ve had.”

Eddie grinned and tried to hide it, bashful and pink in the face at your praise. There was a lull in the kitchen as Argyle disappeared into the walk-in and for the first time that day, there was nothing on the grills in danger of burning. So the boy cleared his station and leant his elbows on it, so close to you that you could let your hand touch his, if you’d felt brave enough. 

“How’s the head?” 

You made a face at the reminder, reaching back to gingerly feel at the small lump there, tender and embarrassing. “It’s fine,” you told him. “Just another injury for the collection.”

Eddie snorted, knowing about your bumps and bruises you’d gathered working in the diner. You were insistent someone was moving table eight a few inches to the right each day, just to fuck with you and your hip. “Gonna have to keep you in a bubble.”

You smiled, “can’t feed me in a bubble, Munson.”

Another grin from Eddie, shy and pretty and so incredibly genuine. The boy that had scowled at you from the minute you’d appeared now couldn’t hide how happy you seemed to make him. Pink cheeks and dimples, a shine to his eyes that made your knees a little weak and you wanted to tell him then, right there, kiss me please. 

Kiss me without smoke between us, kiss me without having an excuse to be close. Kiss me ‘cause you want to. 

“Yeah, yeah you’re right, that seems— that would be, uh, less than ideal,” Eddie coughed, suddenly nervous. He straightened up and took his hands away from the counter, away from any ideas you had about holding them in your own. “I could, uh, I could - y’know - ask you if you wanted to grab dinner later, instead.”

You sucked in a breath, eyes wide. You didn’t say anything, you just blinked and your silence urged Eddie to fill it, so he rambled on further, voice coming out rushed and a little rough. “Like, I mean, so I can make sure, you know… you eat. God. And you don’t hit your head again, ‘cause you could totally have a concussion and that would su—”

“Eddie?” You interrupted, heart beating too fast, your chest too tight. It felt like it was ready to crack in two, ready to bloom. Excitement was caught in your throat, maybe hope. “Are you asking me on a date?”

The boy faltered and then smiled, a dopey, lopsided thing that you were sure was the most endearing sight you’d ever come across. Those cheeks went pink again and suddenly he was the furthest thing from the grumpy line cook that grunted his greetings to everyone. But maybe, you guessed, he just didn’t do that to you. 

“I’m definitely trying to, yeah.” Eddie grinned then, only once he saw your smile too. 

Giddy, feeling like a schoolgirl with her first crush, you squinted at him, eyes crinkling in the corners with a new type of joy. You wanted to laugh at his attempt, his shyness for a change instead of your own but you couldn’t keep it together. You were bursting at the seams, chest splintering as the butterflies roared. You felt breathless, you felt warm, you felt like you could look at yourself in the mirrored edge of a frying pan and watch yourself glitter. 

“I’d love to,” you told him, soft, quiet, happy. 

The boy lazed back against the worktop, the stainless steel between you littered with spilled sugar and the lonely top of a carrot. He played with the edge of his dish towel that was tucked into the front of his apron, narrowed his eyes at you comically and tried to contain his own grin. He was beaming. 

“You’re not just saying that ‘cause you’re concussed, right?”

You laughed, a bright, sharp sound and you shook your head. “I’m not concussed.” You hummed, happy. “And even if I was, I’d still wanna go on a date with you.”

Eddie looked brighter than the sun. 

—————

That evening, Eddie picked you up outside your apartment with freshly washed curls and a shirt that didn’t have any rips in it. 

His boots were clean and his jeans weren’t creased and you’d have said something about it all if you weren’t as nervous as he looked. With what appeared to be a permanent flush on his cheeks, he hopped out the van as he saw you lock up, jogging round the front so he could open the door for you. 

“You look nice,” he murmured as he helped you in, his hand holding yours, his gaze unable to stop from wandering over all the bare thigh your dress showed off. 

A summery thing, cherry red with a hem that erred on the side of almost too short, with short sleeves and a pretty frilled neckline. It was lower than your uniform, showing off more skin and cleavage than he’d ever seen before. You’d changed seven times between getting out of the shower and watching the window for Eddie’s van, throwing your rejected outfits on your bedroom floor as you stood in your pyjama shirt, wondering if it was far too presumptuous to change into your best lace underwear. 

The butterflies inside your ribcage were rattling. 

“Thank you,” you answered politely and you let yourself look at him too, like you were allowed to now. He still had the rings he wore outside of the kitchen, a plain black T-shirt that smelled like he always did, like lemongrass and freshly spritzed cologne. “You look nice too.”

He went pink at your words and duked his chin to hide his smile. And when he got back into the driver's seat, you looked at him expectantly, nervously. 

“So, uh, there’s only really one place to go for food in this town,” Eddie cleared his throat awkwardly and he smiled, nose scrunched. “And rumour has it, the chef is out on a hot date…”

You laughed, tension broken for a second or two and you hummed, nodding. “Hot date, huh?”

Eddie nodded furiously, letting his eyes dip to look over your bare legs, the short hem of your dress, scarlet against your skin. He looked bravely, not trying to hide it the way he used to. “The hottest,” he confirmed. 

“Where are you taking me then?” you asked softly, leaning your cheek against the seat. It was dangerous looking at him like this, like you wanted him, like you were over trying to hide it. Your workplace crush had bloomed into something else, something more and it made your chest ache.

“Wayne’s not home,” Eddie replied just as soft, just as quiet. His gaze kept falling to your mouth, the way it turned up in the corners. “I have it on good authority that the food at Casa Munson is top tier.”

It made your stomach flip, the idea of being alone with the boy. It barely happened, a rarity, really. The butterflies in your stomach were pushing at your bones, gnawing to get out. You were dizzy with it. 

“Yeah?” you smiled at him, putting Eddie’s own nerves at ease. “Think you could get us a table?”

[pinkrelish]

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

[estellan0vella]

Older Brother Sukuna AU Masterlist

Main Masterlist HFBU

A Chance Encounter ❀ How you met Sukuna

Matchmaking (WIP) ❀ You and Sukuna play matchmaker (for your own sanity)

Dr Yuji ❀ You meet Yuji for the first time

Fun With Hair Clips

A Knight In Shining Armour

No Smoochie Kiss!

Five More Minutes

Scary Puppy Priveleges

Learning To Fight

Little Miss Jailbird ❀ Sukuna has to bail you out of jail

Wolves ❀ Sukuna loves everything about you except for your love of One Direction

Family Ties

Wrestling

Don't Bring The Kids To Work

Ninja Cats and Disco Aliens ❀ Yuji asks the hard questions

Goth Vampire Mafia ❀ Watching Twilight with Sukuna

Ask For Food, Don't Bite People (WIP) ❀ Yuji goes through a phase

Gonna Be Just Fine (WIP)

Clingy

We'll Handle It (WIP)

Swear Jar (WIP)

Night Terrors (WIP)

Mary Poppins

Shinies!

Butterfly Princess (WIP)

Face Paint (WIP)

Zoo Facts (WIP)

Robbery

Tiny Tim Returns

Sometimes A Girl Just Has To Throw A Punch

Don’t Look Her In The Eyes

Really Bad

Fists Of Fury

Office Cry Fest

Fraying Ties

Doodles

Carrie (WIP)

Arguments & Tears (WIP)

Fist Bump

Halloween (WIP)

Every Trick In The Book (WIP)

Tattoos and Cover Ups (WIP) ❀ You and Gojo make some drunken mistakes

You Did It (WIP) ❀ In which Sukuna wants you to tattoo him

Casino Night (WIP)

Cheating Meanie (WIP)

Discrete Mathematics (WIP)

Stand By Me (WIP)

Disney Dance Party (WIP)

Spider Season

Kitchen Chaos (WIP) ❀ Gojo and You attempt to cook

Guard Dog (WIP)

Cooking Lessons (WIP) ❀ Sukuna and Geto attempt to teach you and Gojo how to cook

Calling It Quits (WIP)

Theme Day (WIP)

Severed Ties (WIP)

taglist - @sad-darksoul @thejujvtsupost @kyo-kyo1 @kalulakunundrum @ryomku @lapinaenmicoche @cacaocacao

[smolthealmighty]

From the back of the house at Twilight Bar:

Kurogiri: Oh thank goodness. Finally Twice noticed the unhappy customer and is going to assist them.

Twice: *performs top tier customer service*

Shigaraki: Lmao nope he’s just gonna eat their fuckin sandwich!

Twice: *walking over to them* hey guys! did you see how I handled that situation back there? I did great! I’m a bad employee!

Kurogiri: *about to break into a rant on appropriate customer service* THAT-

Shigaraki: *interrupts* That was very thoughtful of you to test the sandwich yourself to make sure Dabi didn’t cause another food poisoning accident. Great job Twice, keep up the good work! Now go take a break so you can let your other side decompress.

Kurogiri: *glares at them with the wrath of a thousand demons*

Lost customer at Kurogiri’s bar: *flagging down waiter* Excuse me, I think something’s wrong with my sandwich. The meat doesn’t taste right.

Twice: oh really, lemme see.

Twice: *eats half the sandwich*

Twice: I think it’s fine.

Lost customer: …

Twice: yeah tastes good *pats their shoulder and walks off*

[snootlestheangel]

Hear Me Out

Guys, just, hear me out: YouTubers/Streamers AU for COD. There was a series of posts on @cod-dump 's blog about what games are banned for the boys and I've just been thinking about this but with Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and Alex where one of them is the actual streamer/gamer dude and the others just almost always play with him (maybe Roach if we went on the path that he's not actually mute, just kinda hates talking)

Retired or discharged for whatever reasons, the 141 are actually kinda happy to be living semi-normal lives. Maybe they're not all entirely civilian now, maybe Price has a position that doesn't require him to be on the field but he's still teaching/being a Captain.

But he's constantly telling the boys to find things to do to keep themselves happy. Especially Gaz and Soap, cause the military is kind of all they know, they've never had to be civilians really as adults.

Ghost is transitioning fine, and he's been a huge help for Soap, but Gaz is still kinda struggling. Eventually something happens and Alex is part of his life, but it's still not really what Gaz needs to feel "normal".

So Soap and Alex convince Gaz to start streaming/recording videos of their gaming sessions. It's a slow start, and Gaz is getting frustrated.

Until one time they play something silly but incredibly rage-inducing. It's a trending game because it's designed to pit you against your friends but is still silly nonetheless. There's one clip in particular that starts trending and becomes the reason Gaz's channel starts to take off.

The clip? Gaz yelling at Soap for something and Soap immediately just cursing him out in straight Scots only for Alex, an American, to scream into his mic as loud as humanly possible "WHAT THE FUCK IS A KILOMETER?!?!" after having been dead silent for the last 2 minutes. Why did he scream this? Not because of Soap's Scots, but because he had secretly just won the round after having lost the entire time they'd been playing.

People eat that shit up! Suddenly everyone's like "damn there's this hella attractive dude that records gameplay with his friends and they're all really funny." Everyone falls in love with Gaz's appearance first, but then they actually hear him and his friends interact and it's just trading insults and stupid jokes, acting like there's no one watching and they're suddenly kids again.

It eventually comes out that Gaz and his friends are all veterans, and despite the air around military not being the best, there's no denying that caring for veterans is a must. People slowly start to support Gaz's channel/streams, and before he knows it, he's actually got quite the following. His whole thing is about "wanting to do something to distract himself and others from the shitty aspects of life with a few laughs and some good games"

Eventually they convince Ghost to start gaming with them. It makes Gaz's popularity grow because now there's this really deep accent in the mix that's completely clueless as to what he's doing like 90% of the time (I just have this gut feeling that '22 Ghost is so fucking awful at video games) that they refer to simply as "Ghost". Suddenly, the chaos Gaz and his friends are known for increases tenfold. Ghost is flirting with all of them, Soap is arguing with him over literal couple things that come with living together, and there's a new element of really dark humor that wasn't there before (there was dark humor, just not this dark)

They're playing The Backrooms one time. They're not even in the game yet, just in the lobby. Gaz is laughing at Alex's tag for the game "MYLEG!" which is a reference to that one fish in Spongebob always yelling "my leg!" after an incident. Gaz is laughing too hard to actually explain to his viewers that, yes, Alex is an amputee. Soap starts making fun of him, as usual, and that's when it happens.

Alex: "I'll take my leg off and hit you with it, Soap, I swear to god." Soap: "I forgot you were already missing one for a second there and got real concerned." Alex: "No, Soap, I planned on removing my other leg. The one that's still attached, yeah. Just like a lil *pop noise*, ya know?" Gaz: *wheezing so hard he almost throws up*

Then they're playing this silly monster/cryptid hunter game called "A Day Out" and there's skeletons every now and then on the map. Gaz walks up to one and just starts freaking out, saying Ghost's name over and over.

Ghost, freaked out: What?? Gaz, pointing at the skeleton: Look, it's you! *cackling* Ghost, after a concerning long pause: *quietly* Nah, I'm not gonna say that Alex: SAY IT COWARD Ghost: No, that's my brother *Gaz making the most horrified face as he tries not to laugh* *Alex and Soap are losing their shit* Gaz: NAH THAT'S NOT OKAY

That clip posts and the internet looses it. I see this being the actual first video Ghost is in, so for this to be the first thing the viewers get of him, it's safe to say he's a hit. It's also never explained that Ghost does have a deceased brother, so there's just an acceptance of Ghost's skeleton brother.

There's several times where they've all gotten together and played silly games like Mario Kart when there's a bunch of them. There's the sober one and there's the drunk one, where there's so many different languages being hurled as curses at each other, Gaz gives up on captioning ANY of it.

OOOOooooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!! WHAT IF! Roach becomes his editor once he gets popular enough so he can spend more time playing games, solo ones when the others are working.

For a while, everyone's going crazy wanting to see what the others all look like, and sometimes (cause we're assuming the world they live in now during all this is a lot better), they're joined by Rudy or Alejandro, or both in one rare instance. Sometimes, for old times's sake, during the drunk gaming sessions, they'll call Laswell only for her to scold them. There are times they'll bully Roach who always, as the editor, changes their words from the insults to compliments. Or he definitely trolls Gaz a lot with some of the editing, and it's all around just a good time. Hence why everyone wants to know what they look like.

Then it's around the holidays after about 2 and a half years of Gaz's channel being as popular as it is. He posts a single picture on his socials with a group of people and the caption: "Love seeing the boys over the holidays."

It's such a nice photo; Alex with an arm wrapped around Gaz's shoulders, Soap and Ghost on his other side with Roach between Soap and Gaz.

And the internet has once again gone crazy. Why? Cause not only are these dudes fucking hilarious, but they're hot and taken.

Except, as they all end up teasing him about, Roach is very much still single XD

I have been watching too much YouTube lately, can y'all tell?? Haha anyways back to my hole I shall crawl

[totaleclipse573]

Clip chaos au I made eclipse be besties with eclipse but I also made eclipse hate eclipse and I grouped eclipses in an eclipse manner to make more eclipse’s in a single dimension that ever eclipse’d

[vivalafxxku]

Gotham Protects Her Own

Sentient Gotham City AU where She is protective of Her protectors.

Sure She is limited in how much She can manipulate without disturbing the balance of the universe but She does what She can. Fatal bullets veer off trajectory by a few, injuries heal quicker, potholes and terrain trip up fleeing criminals, and assailants never find them when they need a moment of reprieve due to exhaustion, injury, etc.

Sadly, She cannot do anything for Her protectors outside the borders of the city.

She fumes when the clown incapacitates Her Princess. She mourns when link to (at the time) youngest, Her Sunshine, is severed. She cries as Her Wings suffers outside her walls, threatening to be clipped, just out of reach. She cooes when a new bird insists on joining her Knight, followed by another Princess (or 2), a Little Prince and a Lightbearer. She whines at the straining connection to Her Knight that led to Her protectors scattering in the wind. She rejoices when they return to Her. She extends Her protection over the expanding family Her Knight collected.

Because She is Gotham and Gotham protects Her own.

Anyway I just think the idea is cool since the Batfam seems to suffer way more when they're not in Gotham (revised: this is really only true for Dick and Damian kinda, not really, idk let it be for the sake of the idea.)

Also I think Gotham would name Her protectors

Martha Wayne = Her Empress

Thomas Wayne = Her Emperor

Bruce Wayne = Her Prince -> Her Knight

Alfred Pennyworth = Her Loyalty

Jim Gordon = Her King

Dick Grayson = Her Wings

Barbara Gordon = Her Princess

Jason Todd = Her Sunshine -> Her Moonlight

Tim Drake = Her Determination

Stephanie Brown = Her Chaos

Damian Wayne = Her Little Prince

Cassandra Cain = Her Shadow

Duke Thomas = Her Lightbearer

Eventually, Gotham adopts the Sirens too

Harley Quin = Her Jester

Selina = Her Queen

Ivy = Her Garden

[jinnie-ret]

MY YOUTH | SKZ NINTH AU

stray kids x ninth member!reader (platonic)

<---------- back to my youth

<---------- back to main masterlist

chapter 5

genre: fluff, tiny angst content warnings: small mention of grief

word count: 1.2k

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March 25th 2019

Lou couldn't thank the gods above enough that she had been transported two years prior to the world she was living in her home universe. It certainly benefitted her that she was already familiar with the Miroh choreography, and the fact she needed help with fine-tuning particular moves played to her advantage considering this version of her struggled with dance too. Maybe they weren't that different after all.

"Lou, you ready?" Minho asked softly, putting his hands on her shoulders and trying to capture her attention.

"Yeah! Yeah..." Lou nodded but the expression on her face didn't change.

"Don't think too much about the choreo, hm? It's automatic by now," he reminded her before guiding her to the group huddle.

He was right. Even though they had cheered each other on and hyped everyone up before finding their starting poses on stage with a 'hwaiting', the nerves still lingered. That was until the first notes of Miroh played and it was like a switch went off in her head, adrenaline suddenly flowing within her as she felt her face morph into exciting expressions, her body move sharply and softly when needed, and of course her gorgeous singing voice during the bridge of the song. It was when Chan normally sang, she noted to herself.

Stays cheered ecstatically after their performance, excited to see the boys and Sunny before their very eyes. Yes, she was Sunny here, and just Louisa back in her home universe. She was sure she even saw faint glimpses of her other self practising the Miroh choreography in her bedroom at home.

Thankfully that adrenaline was still present in her mind like autopilot, and that's what got her through the awkward backstage interviews. It was either that or Chan doing most of the talking as their leader.

She still found it crazy that Chan was her leader too.

A staff member came up to them as they sat down to recooperate, turning to Jeongin and Lou first.

🔴📹

"It was so fun, so it wasn't really hard at all," Jeongin grinned as usual to the camera for SKZ Talker.

"Speak for yourself," Lou said with her eyes squinting at the other maknae, whilst she was leant back against the wall.

"You didn't enjoy it?" Chan questioned intrigued, ruffling her hair.

"I'm joking, Bang Chan," Lou used an informal tone, exaggerating her voice weirdly, which got a laugh out of Seungmin and Stays in the future when they'd watch the vlog.

•NEW CLIP• 🔴📹

"Talker wake up," Changbin cooed at the camera sweetly.

"Just shout at them, I'm sure they'll hear your voice," Lou earnestly nodded, not one ounce of a mean tone present. She meant it as a compliment of course, it was truly impressive what the dwaekki could do with his voice. Yet the boys still thought she dissing Changbin and let out an 'ohhhhh' and clapped their hands laughing.

"Yahhh, why are you doing that I meant Changbin has a loud voice and knows how to use it!" Lou huffed, rolling her eyes, making Han pat her head and poke her cheek to get a smile out of her. He was quickly successful in his efforts, the aegi sun never not smiling for too long.

"Aish I knew Sunny wouldn't be mean to me," Changbin let out a cheer and did a little happy dance in front of her, wiggling his hips.

•NEW CLIP• 🔴📹

On the way back to the dorms, Lou was sat at the back of the car between her 'parents' Han and Minho, whilst Hyunjin and Felix were sat in the row in front of them. Chan, Changbin, Seungmin and Jeongin had taken another car back.

"Next time we ask you to provide the harmony stay," Minho pointed righteously towards the camera Hyunjin was holding to record the chaos of the car.

All it took was Han starting a note and then a nudge in the shoulder to Lou to gesture her to keep going. It made her jump but she nodded enthusiastically before a beautiful harmony filled the car. Amazingly, they both purposefully went out of tune at the same time making everyone burst into giggles.

"I got to host today with Seungminnie..." Felix began talking to the camera next to Hyunjin, but Lou was much more preoccupied with taking Han's snacks for herself and passing them to Minho at the same time.

❎📹

Finally the cars arrived at the dorm, dropping the kids off, and with the reunion outside the cars came a race between the youngest two to the front door, Chan facepalming as he led the others more calmly.

When they all got there however, Lou and Jeongin were stood confused at the parcel with some orange flowers attached to it.

"Woah what's this?" Hyunjin picked it up curiously, Seungmin stood at his side as they scanned it for a label.

"Oh it's for Sunny," Seungmin voiced what he spotted.

That gave perfect opportunity for Hyunjin to use his height against the young girl and hold the parcel way above his own head so that there was no chance that she would be able to reach it herself.

"Hyunjin! Heyyy! I will vandalise your room again," Lou threatened him yet laughing as she did so.

"Okayyyy, okay," Hyunjin laughed, still taking the threat seriously as he gave her the parcel and they all entered the dorm, sitting around on the sofas and watching eagerly as Lou untied the flowers from the parcel.

"Wah, the flowers, so pretty. I wonder what they are," Felix tilted his head in wonder.

"Marigolds," Lou blinked and said, without even having time to process the thought that seemed to come out of her so quickly it couldn't of possibly been really her. How did she know that?

"How did you know that?" Jeongin seemed impressed.

"I actually don't know," Lou shrugged, feeling impressed herself as she placed the parcel onto her lap and began unwrapping it excitedly. Maybe it was a gift from family or a friend that would give her more information on who she actually had support from other than the boys and some staff in this universe.

Her excitement and curiosity soon dulled down when she realised what was inside the parcel. She felt her heart break, and her eyes welled up without her cognition, struggling to keep her cool as she had nowhere to hide.

"Hey, hey, what's the matter?" Chan sat up from his sunken spot on the sofa when he saw the tears in her eyes and Hyunjin and Seungmin looking shocked and appalled at the same time.

"Garfield..." Lou sadly trailed off shoving the open parcel on the table and rushing off to her room to try and make sense of her emotions.

"I'll go after her," Minho frowned at the contents of what once was the sentimental cat plushie gifted by Lou's dead mother.

The boys knew how much this would hit their sun. The toy that was the only thing she had left from her mother, and it had been cruelly ripped apart, stuffing hanging out and over the few seams that were still intact. Such effort and care to go into a meticulously wrapped parcel when there was a chaotic wreck inside.

<-- previous chapter next chapter -->

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tagged: @akitfffr @aeinzzzketchup @linoalwaysknows @royal-shinigami @jolly04 @turtledove824 @yangbbokari @thisrandomgoofy15 @lieslab @hannamoon143

a/n so sorry it's been a long time since I've updated this series, but I feel like I've got a good direction for it now and I'm excited to share it with you all :)

[nowimjustastranger]

Hello and welcome! I recently got back into the Gravity Falls fandom and so I created a blog to unleash the sheer amount of feelings that I have about this show!

My Inbox Is Open For Fic Requests! Please read the rules before requesting!

I'll be posting a plethora of things on here, from fanart by other artists to my own AU fics. There won't be a masterlist, but click on the tag you're interested in to scroll through the corresponding posts on my blog.

Here are the AU's that I currently have in the works:

The Nexus

A connection or link between things, persons, or events. Or, a series where I connect my AU's with both canon and each other.

The Abyss Stares Back Series

Stan was hesitant to actually step across that threshold where light met dark, so he couched right on the cusp and reached in instead. He expected his hand to hit ground any moment now, then he could fumble for the stupid money clip and get the hell out of here. But his hand simply… didn't. Stan realized with a cold flash of fear and no small amount of confusion that he’d somehow overbalanced himself, his boots desperately scraping against the asphalt as he careened forward. He yelped as his other hand instinctively moved to catch himself, but there’s nothing to catch himself on. There was no ground for either of his palms to touch, just darkness, and it swallowed him whole. Or, Teenage Stan & Old Man Ford portal adventures.

Somebody to Call My Own Series

While exploring the multiverse, Ford 419"3 had come to the distressing realization that Stan suffers in every dimension. So 419"3 Ford made it his mission in life to travel through dimensions and help as many variations of Stan get the happy ending that he deserves by stepping in to correct the course of the timeline to produce the best outcome. The reason why Ford is so determined to alter Stan’s grim fate in so many dimensions is because Ford had lost his own Stan to suicide while he was still in college, which is what drove him to completely bury himself in his studies and invent dimension travel with Fiddleford. Or, Dimension Traveler Old Man Ford nabs Mullet Stan from his dimension and proceeds to aggressively take care of him.

We'll Be Better Tomorrow Mini-Series

Ford 419"3 from the STCMO series pays Stan Pines from Dimension 90V'1 a visit with two very familiar toddlers who need a home.

Or, the Dad Stan AU.

We Never Meant to Become Strangers Series

An AU in which Ford is changed after accidentally going through the portal, not quite as human coming out as he was going in. Or, Ford is a cosmic horror.

Infinity Falls Series

An AU where Stan tells Ford that he accidentally broke his machine and Ford is able to fix it, changing the course of history. Or, a story featuring a darker Pines family and co.

Break the Mold Series

In this universe, Bill Cipher goes by William. He’s still a dream demon who accidentally destroyed his dimension but, instead of embracing chaos and basically turning into a sadistic psycho, he simply wandered the universe in a grief-stricken daze until he came across Stanford. Stanford, who was also an anomaly among his peers just like William had been. William felt a kinship with the human child, appearing in Stanford’s dream that night. And, in true child-like fashion, Stanford quickly befriended the dream demon who complimented his birth defect. Or, the good Bill AU that no one asked for.

[caystar13star]

This little piece is an ode to @snapghoul ’s Seresin twins au. I added Fritz (and his fandom-assigned storm chasing history as well). He and Tyler met at college in Arkansas, where the Wranglers got started. Then Fritz and Jake met and it was chaos.

“Shit, that’s Fritz!”

It took everything Jake had not to react when Payback called out to the newly arrived aviator. He and Fritz had been stationed together exactly once, and between the constant goading and their “insane” flying when they were paired in the air together, the brass tended to keep them separated for the good of the Navy.

That sobered him for a moment. What kind of mission was this?

Jake was surprised that Billy kept his distance during training, but he figured the other man must be waiting for just the right moment. They were all pretty focused on training.

It was a rather unremarkable Saturday after the mission that Fritz made his move.

The Dagger squad had been permanently assigned to North Island, under the command of the newly-appointed Admiral Mitchell (his husband refused to let him change his name, saying two Admiral Kazanskys would just be too confusing). They had been invited to the admirals’ home several times, and met even more admirals, and retired captains, and even a Texas Ranger! The TOPGUN class of ‘86 was certainly an interesting group.

Fanboy had cornered Fritz, asking him for more details about his storm chasing days, when Jake overheard them. “Hold up, let me show you. My old partner has a YouTube channel. It’s badass.”

Jake groaned, leaning his head against Bradley’s shoulder. “Kill me now, please.”

Rooster looked at the other aviators, confused as to what Jake’s problem was. Fritz was giggling quietly in that half-crazy way of his as he swiped and scrolled on Mickey’s iPad. “Here you go, check this out.”

Bradley caught on but held back his laughter when he heard Tyler’s voice through the speakers. “Alright, what’s up, chat?!?? Welcome back. Thank you for joining us. It’s a perfect weather day!”

Reuben and Mickey were staring wide-eyed at the screen, glancing between the scruffy cowboy Tyler on YouTube, and the perfectly put together mirror image Jake sitting curled up on Admiral Kazansky’s sofa.

“Is that…Hangman??” Fanboy’s confused voice brought the rest of the squad over to see what they were watching. Mav looked and cocked his head to the side, then narrowed his eyes at Jake.

“I didn’t know you had a twin!”

Jake looked surprised that Mav came to that conclusion from only seeing a short clip of Tyler. Most people who knew them all their lives still got them mixed up, despite their different styles and Jake’s efforts to minimize his accent (except when Bradley royally pissed him off).

Bradley squeezed his hand as if knowing the direction of his thoughts. “Dad has a twin, too,” he offered. “But I’m not sure if the Daggers are ready to meet Uncle Ethan yet…”

[doukeshi-kun]

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙛𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙧!𝙖𝙮𝙖𝙩𝙨𝙪𝙟𝙞 + 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙛𝙞𝙩

notes ✥ new AU that i would looove to expand mueheheh. this is based on my convo with evie @bodacioustomato!!

contents ✥ slightly mean yukito, fem!reader

You are about to burst out crying if this goes on for any longer.

It has only been 30 minutes into the lecture and you are already being picked on by your professor to answer questions that you need three hours of meditation to properly form in your head.

“So, can you briefly describe what is chaos theory? I expect everyone has done their readings for today.” Ayatsuji—your professor—says. With each of your hands on your sides, you clench your skirt in slight frustration, trying to remember the sentences you have highlighted during your reading last night.

“Missy? Hello?” Ayatsuji is now in front of you, his eyes leering down your figure and you feel incredibly intimidated. You made the biggest mistake sitting in the front row today. Maybe that is why you are being picked on so much.

Nervously, you fiddle with your pastel pink sweater. “It’s… It’s, uh, unpredictable courses of events. And… uh, chaos is the irregular time evolution of many nonlinear and complex linear systems.” You say. Ayatsuji’s lips crook just slightly for a smirk.

“According to who?”

“Jørgensen… 2008…”

A proud smile appears on his face with an approval nod. “Good job. You can sit.”

You immediately plop down and although you know the students are not paying attention to you that much, you can still feel some eyes on you. To swallow the awkwardness, you fix your appearance, making sure your sweater isn't crumpled, your skirt is properly covering your thighs and the ribbon clip is still on your hair.

You are barely listening to what Ayatsuji is babbling about as you are trying to soothe yourself. Two times being picked on in a span of 30 minutes. You are really not ready for the day. Hells, you do not even expect Professor Ayatsuji Yukito to know your name. You thought you had been fairly invisible in his eyes. But then, you are the first person he called to answer his questions.

“And... what are the examples of social system?”

You flinch when Ayatsuji once again stands in front of you, tapping your table, and demanding an answer. You blink confusedly. “M-Me, again?”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, prof! Uh… examples of a social system are—”

“Stand up when you are answering questions in my class.” He says and you bite your lips. Stand up, again? You just sat down! With a slight frown and a tiny pout, you stand, staring straight into his eyes that are covered with those tinted sunglasses. You grip the hem of your sweater as you eye him directly.

“Some examples are nations, civilisations and families.”

Ayatsuji chuckles, once again, he gazes you up and down with an amused look overcasting his face. “Good. You really did your reading.” He says before gesturing for you to sit back down with his fingers. He once again continues his lecture by roaming to other spots. As he is going further away from you, the boy beside you nudges your elbow. You turn.

“He’s very annoying, sometimes, isn't he?” The boy says with a playful grin. His voice is low, almost like a whisper. You chuckle slowly.

“Yeah. But what can we do, right? He's the teacher.” You whisper back. The boy sneers before shaking his head. He turns to his laptop, skimming through the slideshows. Then he looks at you briefly.

“Nice sweater. It's very cute. The ribbon too.”

You smile. You like it when someone does pay attention to your outfit, when someone does see and observe the effort you put into adorning yourself. “Thanks!” You say to him before turning to Ayatsuji, wanting to finally and properly pay attention in class.

As soon as you turn to him, his eyes are already on you.

©doukeshi-kun 2024 — do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, more @/cherikolya

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