#clocks went back last night n it feels so disorienting that the sun has set at 5pm

[soulmvtes]

winter is basically here ❄️

[yesloverboy]

Neighborly (mgk!Tommy Lee x Reader) Part 2

SUMMARY:  After helping you move into your new apartment right above the Crüe boys, Tommy stumbles drunkenly to your doorstep that night with an injured hand. With a tipsy confession, Tommy undoubtedly brings more chaos into your life than you ever thought possible in such a short amount of time. The problem is, you find that you don’t exactly mind as much as you should. As Tommy seemingly finds every excuse under the sun just to see you, you wonder if maybe you two are starting to act a little more than neighborly...

word count: 3,917

[Warnings: swearing, mention of injury, vomit, body image, drug and alcohol mention.]

NOTE: It’s finally here! Thank you all for supporting Part 1 so fiercely that I just had to keep it going. I can’t tell if this chapter is as action-packed as the last, but it’s definitely setting up for Part 3, so I hope you enjoy! If you have any suggestions as to what direction to take this fic in don’t hesitate to let me know. I can definitely see some smut/angst in the future if y’all fancy that. 

tags: @kwyloz, @scarecrowmax, @lavendersoundbarrier

 “Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

 Tommy’s words ring in your ears as you stare at him blankly, your mind reeling. Just when you thought the past twenty-four hours couldn’t get any more bizarre, your cute and helpful neighbor was not only bleeding in front of you, but calling you beautiful all in the same breath.  “Tommy, that’s really sweet, but I don’t think you know what you’re saying right now,” you comment, trying to laugh the whole situation off. You turn to exit the cramped bathroom, mostly as a half-hearted attempt at getting Tommy to hopefully follow you to the door. About halfway through the door frame, a large hand gently grasps the top of you arm, effectively stopping you in your tracks. 

 Instinctively, you twist around to see Tommy, who is now standing in painfully close proximity to you. You want to speak, but your breath hitches in your throat. There is nothing but a long beat of silence standing in the inches between the two of you. Tommy’s eyes are wide and glistening, as if he were looking right through you.

 “Come on, Y/N, I’m not drunk! I’m right!” Tommy breaks the silence, dropping your arm. “Okay, well...maybe I’m a little both. But I mean it, I swear!”

 You roll your eyes. Whatever trance Tommy has you in instantly brakes when you remember who exactly it is that you’re talking to. Just as you are about to turn back around and retreat to the living room, Tommy’s tall figure lurches violently forward.

 “Tommy, are you–?” You don’t even have time to get the words out before Tommy is retching at your feet.

 Luckily, you had barely been standing outside of the splash zone, but it still doesn’t make the situation any less gross. You hold your breath, not wanting the risk of you gagging to make matters worse. 

 “Oh fuck. I can’t believe I just did that.” Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking disoriented.

 You pinch the space between your eyes and will yourself not to completely snap on the boy in front of you. In your experience, getting frustrated with drunk people never solved anything until the next day and, last you checked, there is still plenty of time left before the sun comes up.

 “Look, it’s fine. Just–please. Sit by the toilet until you’re absolutely sure you’re not going to be sick again.”

 To your relief, Tommy complies by taking a seat at the edge of the bathtub and lifting the toilet seat.

 “Look, Y/N, I–”.    “No,” you abruptly cut him off, “I’m going to go find a towel to sacrifice to the god of bad choices, and you’re going to stay put.” 

 Tommy chuckles softly at your comment, trying his very best to hide the amusement in his face with a bandaged hand. You have to turn your back to him to keep from smiling in return. Even though this whole situation was annoying, and–quite frankly–disgusting, Tommy somehow still makes you crack a smile. 

 What the fuck is wrong with me? You wonder as you go to fetch a spare towel from your bedroom closet. If this were any other guy, you would’ve kicked him out ages ago. So, why him?

 It ends up taking you a good thirty minutes to mop the vomit up off your bathroom floor. It probably should have taken less time, but both your comfort level and morale were low at this time of night. Tommy didn’t really say much for the duration of the cleaning process, apart from the occasional muttered apology followed by an immediate retch into the toilet bowl.   

 Finally finished, you toss the contaminated towel into black garbage bag to be dealt with in the morning. In the kitchen, you scrub your hands raw under the tap and end up getting Tommy a glass of water while you’re there. If you were being honest, he definitely deserves to be hungover in the morning after such a fucking mess. However, you didn’t have the heart to let him dehydrate after all the puking he just did in front of you. You consider the possibility that his humiliation could be enough retribution for his crimes against your sanity.

 You give the door frame a gentle knock before stepping into the small bathroom. The mustard yellow wallpaper gives the room a sickly feeling, and you aren’t sure you’ll ever be able to envision it as a place of cleanliness ever again. Tommy is still resting on the edge of the bathtub, head placed firmly in his hands.

 “Hey there, drummer boy. How ya feeling?” Tommy perks up at the sound of your voice, suddenly sitting up much straighter. His hair is sticking up in all the places where his hands were laced through it, and dark circles were starting to form under his eyes. Despite all odds, he still looks more than happy to see you.

 “There’s my favorite neighbor!” Tommy slowly wobbles to his feet and approaches you, seeming to a little more sober but a lot less energetic.

 “You’re only saying that because I’ve been cleaning up your bodily fluids all night,” rolling your eyes playfully, you hold the glass of water out to him.

 Tommy quickly obliges, downing the water like a castaway in the desert. You start to laugh, unsure if you’re punch-drunk from the lack of sleep or slowly losing your mind. Regardless, something in your mind has decided that the sight of Tommy’s adam’s apple bobbing up and down at a rapid speed is utterly hilarious.

 Setting the glass down on the counter, Tommy quirks an eyebrow at you. “What’s so funny, huh?”

 “Nothing,” you reply, still stifling giggles, “it’s just that today has to have been the weirdest fucking first day in L.A. that I could have ever imagined.”

 Tommy only grins back. “Would you believe me if I told you it could only get weirder from here?”

 “Actually, coming from you? Yeah I think I could believe it.”

 Absentmindedly, you glance back into the living room, the clock on the wall catching your eye. Your eyes widen at the realization that it’s already three in the morning. Time certainly flies by when you decide to assume the role of babysitter for your drunken neighbor.

 “Jesus, Tommy. It sure is getting late. Shouldn’t you be heading back?”

 As if on cue, you can hear the piercing sound of police sirens wailing just outside your apartment window. You and Tommy share a brief look before racing over to the bedroom window to see what in the hell is going on. Outside your apartment, the both of you can see two squad cars parked out front while four officers start racing up the steps. You were just about to ask Tommy if he had any idea what could be happening, went you felt a deep thud vibrate beneath your feet. Either the party downstairs had kicked up a notch, or something was wrong.

 “Aw shit,” Tommy immediately starts heading towards the front door at an extremely uncoordinated pace. With the amount of puking and bleeding he had done in one night, it was a wonder he even felt like walking at all. It’s obvious to you that maybe nights like this aren’t all the uncommon for Tommy. 

 “Wait, what the fuck is going on down there?” You gesture to Tommy’s apartment beneath your feet, waiting expectantly for him to elaborate. 

 “The party must’ve got busted again. I can’t leave my band alone down there with the cops, man.”

 “No offense, Tommy, but don’t be stupid,” you scoff, “they’re going to take one look at you and arrest you immediately. The least we can hope for is that your bandmates haven’t given them any reason to come inside.”

 Tommy steps away from the door and flops onto your scruffy old couch, looking conflicted. You never thought your couch was that small, but watching Tommy’s feet dangle over the opposite end makes you feel otherwise. “Well what should I do, then?”

 You could stay here, you think and mentally kick yourself. You stare up at the ceiling, hoping for some reason that you might be able to find the answer to your–no, Tommy’s–predicament there but...no such luck.

 “Well…” you sign, the weariness in your voice is evident despite your efforts to mask it with a smile. “I guess you could crash on my couch, if you really want to.”

 Tommy sits back up, swinging his long legs around to the floor. “Y/N, you’ve done more than enough. It’s cool, man. I’ll just wait outside until the cops get bored. They usually do when they realize the door is nailed shut.”  At Tommy’s mention of the door to his band’s apartment being nailed shut, you recall the smaller man with the scowling face crawling out of the window to clean up the balcony. You remember the image being jarring at the time, but now everything was beginning to make a weird amount of sense.

 “Nailed shut–wait, is that why that little guy was going through the broken window to get to the balcony? You know, the one with the...stare.”

 Tommy bursts out laughing, “Oh yeah! That’s Mick. He’s a weird little man, but he can shred on the guitar. It’s probably on the account that he’s an alien from outer space, or somethin’.” 

 Tommy stands again, this time more confident in his movements. “Everyone goes through the window on account of the cops always busting the door down. And it looks like I’ve got a while before I’m going to crawl through it again tonight.” He gestures to the blue lights flashing from the bedroom window. Although the commotion outside seems to have quieted down significantly, it appears that the police are still camping outside for good measure.

 “Tommy it’s totally fine if you wanna stay. It’s not like I’m getting that much sleep tonight anyways.” To your surprise, you really mean what you’re saying. Sure, you were absolutely knackered from a full day of moving and a night of playing both nurse and babysitter, but the damage had already been done.

 “Sorry again for all that,” he cringes sheepishly. Surprisingly, Tommy isn’t immediately refusing your offer this time. “Don’t be silly, Y/N, there’s no chance in hell I’m going to fit on that couch anyways.”

 “Since when is a cramped couch better than curling up on the bench in a holding cell?” You both know that the chance of Tommy getting bagged by the cops outweighs the possibility of him having a peaceful night waiting outside.

 Tommy runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Alright, you got me there.”

 “Sleep wherever you want, drummer boy, but the bed is still mine.” You turn away with a wry smile, exiting the living room to grab some pajamas from your closet. Deciding on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a cropped t-shirt, you head to the bathroom to change and wash the day’s events from your face and hands.

 As you brush your teeth, you continue to wonder what it is about Tommy that makes you so willing to put up with his antics. You try to consider what your friends, or even your family, back home would say about the whole situation. In your head, you can almost hear the voice of your best friend berating you for letting someone you just met stay in your apartment for the night–no matter the circumstances.

 But then you think back to Tommy approaching you with his bleeding hand, asking you to handle his injury because he couldn’t stomach the sight of it. Most guys you had known in your life weren’t like that; so willing to give help, yet also willing to admit when they need it most. There’s something about that quality in Tommy that makes you trust him a little more than you probably should. Shrugging, you spit foamy toothpaste into the sink and rub your face. Sure, you may have decided you trust Tommy’s motives thus far, but you definitely couldn’t trust his judgment after he decorated your evening with blood and puke.

 Stepping out of the bathroom, you look out into the living room to find the lights switched off and Tommy nowhere in sight. On a whim, you decide to tiptoe to your bedroom where the light was still on. Pushing open the door, you’re shocked to find Tommy lying on the floor next to your mattress, eyes fixed upward at a spot on the ceiling.

 You clear your throat poignantly, causing Tommy’s head to jerk upwards. “Um, what the fuck are you doing on my floor?”

 To your frustration, Tommy is all smiles as always. “Well, you said I could sleep anywhere as long as you kept your bed.”  

 You massage your temples, realizing that you did, in fact, say exactly that. “Okay, fair enough. But, I’ve gotta ask...why my bedroom floor exactly?”

 Tommy props himself up on his elbows, smirking like the two of you are sharing an inside joke. “Well, I figured the guys have noticed I’m not at the party anymore, so at least I can tell them I spent the night sleeping next to a girl.”

 You grab one of the pillows off of your bed and pelt it at Tommy, unable to hide your amusement at the mental gymnastics he went through to justify his behavior. “You are absolutely unbelievable.”  

 You switch off the light, deciding you are too tired to protest any longer. A weird mix of moonlight and flashing blue spills through the curtainless window, illuminating Tommy’s figure resting beneath it. You notice that he’s tightly clutching the pillow you’d tossed at him rather than placing it under his head, giving you the sneaking suspicion that he’s probably a cuddler in his sleep.

 Trying to relax, you turn to face the wall, curling tightly in your quilted duvet. You are unable to tell if you’re exhausted or if the place is growing on you, but you’re surprised to find your apartment is actually becoming rather cozy. You are just about to drift off to sleep when your restfulness is interrupted by Tommy’s voice.

 “Hey,” his voice is barely a gravely whisper in the darkness, it’s so low that you almost don’t hear him at first. “Psst, Y/N.” Tommy tries again, a little louder this time. 

 “What is it, Tommy?” You roll over to face your body in his direction. The police lights had disappeared since you had last closed your eyes, and you’re having a difficult time making him out with in the darkness with just the moonlight.

 There’s a long beat of silence before he answers again, almost making you believe he had fallen asleep. “I meant what I said earlier,” he finally says, his voice still soft. “You really are beautiful.”

 Amazed that he remembered what he had said when he was wasted earlier, you are unable to contain the smile on your lips. Luckily, it’s most likely too dark for Tommy to notice. 

 “Oh yeah?” you reply, “Well I meant what I said too.”

 “What was that?” Tommy asks.

 “That you’re unbelievable.”

 Tommy’s faint laughter is the last thing you hear before drifting off once more, your mind falling away into fuzziness.

 You wake up with the California sunshine in your eyes, the entire bedroom bathed with golden light. Considering how hard you had slept, you assume it must be late in the afternoon, but the digital clock on your dresser claims it’s only 10:37am. Feeling groggy and a little out of place, you glance over to the floor at your bedside. You’re a little disheartened to find that Tommy has already gone, but figure he was probably anxious to see what had happened to his bandmates last night.

 Rather than over analyzing the events from yesterday, you opt to put on a pot of coffee and jump in the shower instead. You turn on your old radio, the sound reminding you that it was really about time to thrift around for a new stereo. As The Doors crackle brokenly over the radio static, you let your shower rinse away the events of the past day (and early morning). Memories of saying goodbye to your family, packing, the overnight drive, unpacking–everything seems to fade away among the steam.

 Well, everything except meeting Tommy.

 Getting out of the shower, you’re feeling far too lazy to bother with drying and fixing your hair. It was pushed back out of your face for so long yesterday that you reckon you can get away with it being a little unruly. Grabbing a cup of coffee along the way, you end up rummaging through your dresser, sifting your way through garments of mesh, leather, lace, and the occasional polyester.

 While you are definitely no stranger to the sunshine, this Los Angeles heat seems like something else entirely. Everything you own feels like way too much fabric. With a nostalgic sigh, you pluck a shredded, leopard print tank top out of the back of your drawer. You laugh softly to yourself as you trace your fingers over all the safety pins you had stuck through the collar to pull together all the rips and tears. Despite the top being an artifact of your high school punk days, you determine you could find some way to make it modern.

 Taking a look in the bathroom mirror, you trace the purple circles under your eyes that reflect your sleepless night. With another sip of coffee, you conclude that a bit of makeup couldn’t hurt. You would never be willing to admit it, but putting on makeup was the best part of your morning routine. It’s not necessarily because you feel like you need it all of the time, but something about the ritual of it all seems special.

 When you did your makeup, you always felt inspired by your mom’s old photos from the 60s. There was something about the bright colors and geometric shapes that really made you feel closer to home whenever you were far away. Now, feeling further away than ever, you set to work on your face.

 As you’re using all of your concentration to paint on a small cat eye, a loud knock on the door causes you to leap in surprise. To your relief, your hand hadn’t jerked hard enough at your sudden movement to mess up any of your efforts. Tossing the pencil on your bathroom counter, you reluctantly go to see who it is.  

 Pulling the door open, you are amused to discover that Tommy has returned yet again, this time looking far more put together than when you last saw each other. Out of curiosity, you look for his bandaged hand to see that it’s clutching a flat, white box.

 “Hey neighbor! It looks like you finally got some beauty sleep after all,” he walks past you, entering your apartment as if he lives there. It would seem that causing harm to himself, showing up unannounced, and walking into places uninvited are just a few minor things on a long list of Tommy’s bad habits.

 “Yeah, and no thanks to you,” you tease, as you shut the door behind him.

 Taking a seat at the dining table, Tommy sets the box down in front of him. “You can be real mean, sometimes, you know that? Besides, I felt bad so I brought a gift.” He then opens the box to reveal a dozen assorted donuts, each of which glistening with some kind of glaze or frosting.

 “Aw, Tommy. You didn’t have to get me those.” Honestly, you hadn’t expected to come by and try to apologize again, let alone attempt to make up for it.

 Tommy kicks his feet up onto the table, leaning back in his chair like an unruly schoolboy. “Actually yeah I did, Mick said so and he’s usually right about most things–but I also really wanted to. I just didn’t know how, so I asked Mick.”

 God he is such a fucking mess, you think, unable to suppress how entertaining you find the idea of Tommy asking his grumpy guitar-player for help.

 “I’m starting to think Mick might be onto something, you should listen to him more often.” You moved to get your coffee cup from your bedroom, knowing that you were going to need a whole lot more if you were going to put up with Tommy today.

 “While you’re here, do you at least want some coffee?” you inquire as you make your way back towards the kitchen.

 Tommy scrunches his face up in disgust, “Thanks, dude, but I really can’t stand the stuff. Had it once and it didn’t really do much for me.”

 You’re utterly amazed that Tommy has the amount of energy he does without drinking caffeine. “Suit yourself then.”

 With a hot mug in hand, you seat yourself across from Tommy. As you start to reach for one of the glazed donuts, you realize that Tommy has stopped reclining backward in his chair. Looking up to see what the matter is, you find his brow furrowed in concentration, looking at you as if you were a riddle he couldn’t quite figure out. “Tommy, what are you–?”

 “Y/N, are you wearing makeup? Because it looks fucking rad, dude!”

 Perplexed by such an enthusiastic outburst, it takes you a moment to answer. “Well yeah, I am. Thanks for noticing.”

 “Wait, would you ever, like, maybe consider doing other people’s makeup? Like as a job?” Tommy’s now leaning in toward you, chin resting thoughtfully in his hands.

 You take a bite of your donut and consider his question. Sure, makeup is something you enjoyed but you’d never consider doing it seriously. You think back to a few Halloweens and theatre productions back home where your friends asked for your help, but that certainly didn’t qualify you to do makeup professionally.

 “Honestly, Tommy, not really. It’s mostly just for fun,” you shrug, setting the other half of your donut back in the box.  

 “My band Mötley Crüe has kind of made makeup part of their thing, but I’m still not really that great at it yet,” Tommy admits as he picks absentmindedly at the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Would you ever be willing to, like, teach me sometime?”

 “Trust me,” you say, pointing to your face, “this is not how you want to look if you’re in a rock band.”

 “Oh come on, Y/N, who wouldn’t want to look like that.” Tommy flashes you a cheeky smile, causing the a blush to creep up to the apples of your cheeks.

 You toy with the idea of teaching Tommy the little bit of cosmetic knowledge you have, finding that you don’t hate the concept as much as you originally thought. “Well, when’s your next gig?”

 “This coming Friday,” Tommy answers eagerly, “I was thinking that you could do my makeup for the Friday show, and then for Saturday’s I could try to recreate it or something.”

 Considering that it’s already Monday, you decide that the idea of having four Tommy-free days is rather appealing. Even though you find him to be a cute mess of a person, you know you could really use the alone time to adjust. Who knows? Maybe agreeing to see him on Friday could do exactly that.

 “Alright, fine,” you relent, “Friday it is, then.”

Part 3

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