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luveline · 2 years ago

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie.

There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative.

You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little.

He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you.

"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?"

"I said you have good taste."

He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers.

You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of.

"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious.

He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years."

"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?"

He blinks at you. "You know the scene."

"It's my scene," you say.

You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life.

"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away."

"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.

"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you."

Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music.

"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case.

Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour.

"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–"

"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart."

—

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"

You panic slightly. "I need a minute."

"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying."

Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya.

Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.

"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses.

"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed.

You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year.

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks.

She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks.

She's multi-faceted.

"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to.

"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them."

And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice.

You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.

"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up.

"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now."

"That's dramatic."

Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow.

You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice.

"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick."

She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem.

"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says.

Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke.

"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late."

You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events.

"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion."

You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed.

"Do we know those guys?" you ask.

Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters."

Ananya turns off the TV.

You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone.

Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.

"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"

You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part.

Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance.

She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.

"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?"

"I don't need practice," Morgan says.

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–"

Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks.

Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.

The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold.

—

Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away.

"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches.

Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.

"Shithead."

Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth.

"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks.

"You'll sneak out."

Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly.

But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist.

"You know this is stupid."

Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson."

"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now.

Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say.

"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded."

Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light.

"What are you losers doing?"

"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole."

"You're disgusting," Eddie says.

"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy."

Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image.

He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar.

Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles.

"I can't shower, I'm watching him."

"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot.

Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters

"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space.

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats.

There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside.

"Jame," he protests.

"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?"

"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move."

"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly.

Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?"

"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?"

Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears.

—

So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this.

“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs.

She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.

Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.

“Whose house are we in?” you ask.

“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else.

She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back.

You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her.

I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody.

The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card.

I need to get paid.

The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate.

“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn.

She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose.

You blow it away from her.

“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers.

“The floor’s fine.”

You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession.

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her.

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.

You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly.

You find you aren’t asking Morgan.

In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty.

"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart."

Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun.

He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from.

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?"

"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?"

His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.

"You look familiar," he says.

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?"

He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you.

Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame.

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly.

You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot.

You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain?

You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here.

He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.

You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe.

The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in.

He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone.

You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection.

Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks

The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance.

Joan, you could hit him.

"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"

Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at.

"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…"

"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that."

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?"

"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?"

"No, that one passed me by."

"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand.

You take it. You tell him your name.

—

Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets.

"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks.

The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so.

You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation.

If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it.

"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.

You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here."

"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics.

It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever.

But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it.

Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room.

"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up.

Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home."

"Why's she so upset?" you ask.

Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing.

"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably.

You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing.

You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it.

If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough.

They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go.

They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me.

The subtext isn't important.

You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions.

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone.

"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing.

You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target.

"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks.

Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you.

"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?"

You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day.

"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me."

You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night.

"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things.

She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short.

"This tastes awful."

You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie.

You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable.

Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue.

"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin."

You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?"

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist."

"The loud one."

"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him."

"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible."

"Can you get me something from the minibar?"

You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems.

"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse."

"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine.

She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing.

An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones.

"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles.

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got."

The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes.

There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight.

After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume.

A familiar scent pricks your attention.

You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown.

He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way.

He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters.

It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time.

"Have we met before?" you ask.

He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle.

Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick.

Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?"

"You look exactly the same," you say.

It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.

This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you.

You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment.

The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front.

"You'll catch flies."

You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend.

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek.

"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror.

His lightness fades. "Nice."

"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it."

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually.

You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow.

"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh.

Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily.

He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments.

Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise.

Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet.

After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go.

He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch.

"Can I help you?" he whispers.

You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you.

"Fucking move," she says.

His expression flickers.

"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy.

You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.

—

Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle.

You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day.

Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh.

"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs.

Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good.

"She's hot," he furthers.

"Jesus, Gareth."

"What? She's fucking hot."

He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time.

The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything.

The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin.

He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot.

"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?"

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser."

"I was just asking."

You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about.

He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline.

You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.

"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?"

"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange.

Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given."

"I did."

"And only that."

Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds.

"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that."

Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise.

You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.

Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say.

Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green.

He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you.

Fuck it, he thinks.

What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder.

Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.

You appear and blitz past him.

"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"

You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory.

Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure.

"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired.

He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers.

He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks."

"Yeah."

He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice.

"She's a piece of work."

You shift uneasily.

"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.

"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart."

He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?"

You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that.

It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks.

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?"

He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog."

"Fuck you, I do not."

He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue.

"What would you know?" you ask.

"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit."

Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve.

"I must like it," you quote, strained.

"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?"

He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too.

"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options."

That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk.

"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out.

"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start."

He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it.

"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift."

"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.

"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."

"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.

The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe.

He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you.

"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen."

Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast.

"You don't know anything," you murmur.

"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."

Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else.

He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.

"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel.

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all."

"They're hardly desperate."

"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares."

Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now.

"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile.

"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads.

He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless.

"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?"

Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?"

"It doesn't."

He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him.

"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone."

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up.

"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath.

"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon."

Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column.

"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."

There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.

He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows:

Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see?

Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror.

Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off?

Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad.

"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him.

"And Cindy."

"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously."

"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs."

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks.

"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave."

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks.

He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up.

He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet.

"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks.

"Because she was jealous of my success."

Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out."

"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands.

"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy.

What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious.

He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue.

He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right?

Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and—

Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely.

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself.

Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room.

Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it.

You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch.

You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly.

He can feel your gaze on the side of his face.

He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted.

He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end.

It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes.

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly.

"Sorry."

"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?"

The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID."

You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips.

"You're American?" the cashier asks.

"I'm visiting for the festival," you say.

Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card.

"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie.

Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together."

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now."

There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that.

"I thought you didn't know who I was?"

"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said."

He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till.

"What were you really gonna say?"

The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.

"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean."

His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown.

He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.

You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway.

"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm so serious," he says.

He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it.

"You're hot when you're mad."

You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same."

"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?"

"I thought that too," you say.

He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice."

You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter.

"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival."

You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor.

You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention.

"Seriously, come on."

"No."

"No?" he asks.

"No. I don't have to listen to you."

"You're being stupid."

"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care."

"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."

"What do you get out of this?"

He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?"

"Tormenting me."

"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other."

"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–"

"You started it."

You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his.

"Don't touch me," you say quietly.

He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea."

"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car."

You're infuriating.

Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…"

You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd."

His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that."

—

You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people.

The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt.

Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his.

Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl.

You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him.

And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats.

You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has.

You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second.

You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson.

You don't do that.

You wave.

You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat.

For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do.

You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face.

Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.

There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left.

A wooden board creaks.

You look up.

"Hey, you–"

Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat.

Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view.

"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest.

"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You want to mess with me, is that it?"

His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart.

"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson."

"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation.

He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft.

You lift your chin.

I dare you.

His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in.

"Are you going to–"

"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours.

It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you.

You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away.

You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much.

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth.

"Don't play games," he says.

He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist.

"You like games," you argue.

He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once.

His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt.

"Stay still."

You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own.

"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?"

Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it.

"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now."

A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan.

"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks.

His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding.

He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice."

"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again.

"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart."

Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance.

You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.

You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game.

You'll have to be better.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol

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undercoveravenger · 1 year ago

Text

Intoxication

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Male!Reader

Requested: Yes

Request: “love potion mix-up with Billy Hargrove??”

A/N: Happy Spooky Month everyone! Here's the first post for the 2023 Spooky Month event - the next post will be dropping on Tuesday, October 10th. Hope you enjoy!

-----

Things had been strange ever since the arrival of Billy Hargrove and his little sister, Max.

Well, things in Hawkins had been weird for a lot longer than that, especially since you and your best friend Steve had befriended the group of misfit kids that called themselves “the Party”. They’d introduced the two of you to a secret side of Hawkins, where magic and curses and strange creatures ran amok. One of the kids, a girl named Eleven, was able to control objects with her mind and see beyond what was there. Another, Will, was psychic and could connect to other planes of existence. Dustin had a way of knowing how things fit together before anyone else could even guess. Steve’s coworker from Scoops Ahoy, Robin, was a witch. And now, Max and her brother. Werewolves, if what Lucas had told you was to be believed.

But you really couldn’t bring yourself to care much about Billy Hargrove. Not when so much of his life seemed to be spent antagonizing your best friend and trying to disrupt your comfortable station within the school’s hierarchy, seemingly dead set on turning your life upside down. Even at stupid parties like this one, you could hear people chanting Billy’s name while he faced off against Steve in a match of beer pong somewhere deeper in the house while you try to coax the sticker-covered flask away from Robin in the kitchen.

“Robs, babe,” you murmur, sidling up beside her and leaning back against the kitchen island, “I think Vickie likes you already. I know it’s scary to risk rejection, but a love potion isn’t the solution here.”

Robin nods slowly to herself, but her fingers don’t loosen around the metal. “But what if I can’t do it?”

You cock your head, smiling as she meets your eyes. “But isn’t asking her and knowing better than using that and not knowing how she really feels?”

It takes a moment of consideration, but your friend nods, setting the flask on the chipped marble countertop.

“It’s more of an enhancer than-” Robin starts and it’s clear that you’re about to get one of Robin’s infamous lectures on the science of magic when she is cut off by someone snatching the flask from its place in front of the two of you.

“Aww, so sweet of you to have my next drink ready for me,” Billy Hargrove leers at you, unscrewing the cap of the flask even as his usual infuriating smirk slips over his lips, pretty blue eyes fixed on yours in with that intense, holier-than-thou look he always had. Just because he was tall and handsome and had pretty eyes and hair that you kind of want to curl your fingers into and use to pull him closer to shut him up with a kiss, doesn’t mean he could do anything but irritate you by looking at you like he knew something he wasn’t willing to share.

Your heart lurches in your chest as he raises the flask, you know you have to at least try to stop him, especially since Robin seems so stunned you’re not entirely sure she could say anything at all.

“Probably don’t wanna drink that, Hargrove,” you say, reaching out just in time to catch his wrist. “Might end up with something worse than a hangover.”

Billy leans forward against the counter, using his other forearm to prop himself up, raising an eyebrow pointedly as he looks at your hand, holding tight around his wrist, before his eyes shift up to meet yours. “You threatenin’ me?”

A derisive snort escapes you, and you gesture subtly for Robin to make her escape. The last thing you’d want is for Billy to figure out she had anything to do with whatever happens if he’s stubborn enough to drink the potion and start targeting her once it wears off. She catches your hint and mumbles an excuse about finding Steve, disappearing quickly into the crowd.

“Of course not,” you say, releasing him and holding your hands up placatingly. Sure, you didn’t really want to spend longer than necessary around Billy Hargrove, but you wanted to spend time with a pissed off Billy Hargrove even less. “Just think it probably wouldn’t be something you would like, so I was just hoping to get it back,” you reached for it as you spoke, leaning across the island yourself to try to make a grab for the flask.

Billy snatches it away, taking a long gulp from the mouth of the flask, grinning at you all the while. He pulls a face, but doesn’t wince the way one might at the burn of alcohol, but you can see the moment the look in his eyes starts to shift and the realization hits you with all the weight of a semi-truck.

Billy Hargrove had just taken a love potion while looking right at you. Billy Hargrove was about to be convinced that you were the love of his life.

“Well,” you say, eyes flickering around to look anywhere but at Billy, “I should really be going.” You push back upright, swiftly turning to make your way out the back door of the house and starting off down the sidewalk in the direction of your own home before Billy could speak. You don’t make it far before you realize you’re being followed, the scuff of Billy’s worn leather boots giving him away as he trails behind you.

“You’re not as stealthy as you think you are,” you call back over your shoulder, pace remaining steady even as Billy speeds up to walk beside you.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to be,” he drawls, lips quirking up into something softer than his usual sneer. “Just walkin’.”

You study him for a long moment. “Didn’t you drive to the party? Surprised you’d leave your precious Camaro behind.”

“I’ve been drinking,” he shrugs, clearly trying to appear nonchalant. “Drunk driving’s dangerous, y’know.” He’s quiet for a minute and you find yourself almost wondering what he’s thinking.

“You don’t have to walk me home if that’s what this is,” you say, shoving your hands in your pockets and focusing your eyes on the way the lights on the stoplight a few blocks down flicker. “Steve already made me promise to call him when I get home.”

Billy huffs and he almost seems to be pouting when you glance over at him. “Don’t see why you’re with that loser in the first place. ‘s not good enough for you anyway.”

His words shock you enough that your steps falter and you have to turn to face him to see if he’s joking or not. Billy looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him, steely blue eyes fixed firmly on you.

You have to fumble for words for a minute, the first thing you’re able to force out being a weak protest. “Steve’s not a loser!” Then the rest of his words catch up to you, “And he’s just my best friend, anyways.”

Billy seems to brighten at that, a more genuine smile crossing his lips than you’d ever seen before. “So,” he says, moving toward you slowly. The dull orange glow of the streetlights makes his hair shine almost copper and his eyes flash that distinct werewolf silver as he stalks toward you, gently herding you backward until your back is pressed to the brick wall of some long-closed business and Billy’s in front of you, arms caging you in on either side. On any other day, you might’ve felt claustrophobic- trapped and threatened by someone determined to fuck up your life. But today- with that love drunk look in Billy's eyes and that fond grin on his face, you were hesitantly pleased with your position. "If you're not with Harrington," Billy starts, leaning just a bit closer, until you can almost feel the breath of his words against your lips, "Does that mean you're available to go out with me on Friday?"

Part of you is tempted to say yes- to give in to this sweet, intoxicating side of Billy and let this go as far as he wants to take it- but the rest of you knows that what's happening is wrong.

You press a hand to Billy’s chest, pushing him back enough to give yourself some breathing room.

"I would, but this isn't real, Billy." You force yourself to say, "You drank a love potion tonight- this- you don't mean any of this."

Billy laughs then, full and unrestrained and the most genuine you've ever heard him be. "That shit doesn't work on werewolves. Metabolism’s too fast for it to really do much of anything," he says, grin unable to be helped even as his laughter subsides. "And even if it did, the stuff that your buddy whipped up just makes feelings that's already there easier to act on."

You blink, the pressure you'd been using to keep Billy at bay slacking as you think through what he'd said. If he hadn't been affected by Robin’s potion then-

Billy nudges closer, slipping his arms around your middle and tucking his face against the side of your neck. "The reason I was always so shitty to Harrington is that I was jealous," he murmurs softly, and you can feel the way he grins just a little wider as you start to relax against him, "I wanted to have people look at me like they look at him. I wanted to have you look at me like I was him."

You can’t help the way your hands come up to curl around him too, the way your fingers curl into his shirt, or the way you press just a bit closer to him. You can’t help the answering grin from carving its way across your cheeks at the thought of how pleased Billy seems to be at being the center of your attention, but you also can’t stop those few little questions from itching away inside your mind.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” The thought escapes you almost unbidden, before you can second-guess yourself, and you can’t help but keep talking. “Why didn’t you ask me out? Or- or just say hi? Something other than-” you gesture vaguely back in the direction of the party.

The tired sigh that escapes him makes it clear he knows you’re talking about his grudge against Steve and all the drama he’s stirred up for the two of you.

“It’s-” he has to pause and think over his words for a moment before he can continue. “My experience with love is… complicated. My mom died when I was little and my dad- he changed after that. Got mean. Angry.” He swallows hard, pulling away far enough to look at you, to really look at you. “He made it clear that he expected pretty specific behavior from me and anything that didn’t meet that wasn’t… good for me. Liking a guy- well, that was pretty far from what he’d expect.” His hands drop from your sides and he steps back a bit, arms crossing over his chest like he’s trying to distance himself from his thoughts. “So I was rude and sarcastic and I was mean to Harrington because at least that kept me in your peripheral.” He meets your eyes again, bright and open and honest in the orange glow of the streetlights, “But I don’t want to just be in your peripheral anymore.”

With all of what he'd said playing through your mind, finding the right words is proving difficult. "If we’re gonna try this, you've gotta leave Steve alone," you start finally, heart squeezing with more fondness than you're ready to admit as you watch the realization of what you mean starts to sink in and a million-watt smile pulls at Billy’s lips. "And Robin and the kids, too.”

A giddy laugh escapes Billy and he takes your hand in his, tugging you back down the street in the direction the two of you had been walking. “That’s a deal I’d make a thousand times over,” he says, grinning brightly as he walked with you, fingers intertwined with yours, hands swinging easily between the two of you.

Conversation flows easily as the two of you walk and you’re more at peace with Billy now than you could ever remember being with any of your exes, he insists on walking you home no matter how many times you tell him he doesn’t need to.

“Go out with me on Friday?” He says as the two of you stop at the foot of your driveway. “We could go for a picnic or to the drive-in if you want?”

When he’s looking at you like that, you can’t help but agree, quickly finding yourself more and more excited about your pending date.

Billy kisses your hand before he lets go, stepping back as you turn away from him and head for your house.

Billy smiles to himself as he watches you make your way up the driveway, keeping watch until you're safely inside, before turning and heading off in the direction of his own home. No, he knew he'd never have needed that love potion- not when it came to you. Billy Hargrove had been intoxicated by you since the first time he met you and he knows that isn't going to change any time soon.

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asumofwords · 1 year ago

Text

The Sublet - Roommate!AU

Warnings: She/her pronouns, slow burn, angst. Tags will be added as the fic goes along. Smut, dirty talk, spanking, finger fucking, no protection (wrap it before you tap it babies), smut, creampie, Aemond being a douchebag.

Pairings: Modern!Aemond x Reader, Modern!Cregan x Reader

Summary: Living with Helaena Targaryen was one of the best decisions you had ever made. Meeting at university, the two of you became thick as thieves and quickly best friends, moving into a flat together. But what will happen when Helaena has to leave, and her quiet, brooding, brother moves in?

Notes: Bit of a longer chapter than usual here, hehe. You should know me by now, I hate cutting them up, so I hope this feeds you well. Cregan Stark my beloved, take me now ;)

Chapter 4: Bunny

By the time you had gotten through four episodes of Dance Moms, you heard keys in the front door. Sitting up, you turned your head towards the entrance, listening as Aemond dropped his keys into the bowl beside yours and made his way down the hall.

His towering frame entered the lounge room, silver hair pulled away from his face in a low bun. Turning to the sound of the television, Aemond lifted his eye towards you, giving you a short and curt nod in greeting.

“Hey.” You greeted back, watching him disappear into his room. You listened as the door shut behind him with a click.

What was his deal?

Was he always this rude? Or just cripplingly shy?

But to you, he didn’t seem shy, and now that you thought of it, Helaena had only described him as such when he moved in. Never once before.

Helaena had a great read on people, and he was her brother, they grew up together and were relatively close. Helaena had described her middle brother as many things. Loyal, headstrong, stubborn, but shy just did not seem to fit the ticket, even if she had told you as such.

It made you think that maybe it would be better to have Aegon as a roommate after all.

At least he would talk to you.

The more you thought about it, the more it intrigued you.

What did he do during the day? Did he work? Did he live off of his parents money? He said he had been studying, but he wasn’t anymore. Aemond truly was a mystery to you, and the less you knew about him, the more you wanted to know.

Putting your dishes in the sink, you decided to go and talk to the man you would be living with for the next month. And he very well could indulge you. He was under your roof, in your space. It was the least he could do.

Reaching Helaena’s door, you looked at the small stickers on the wood, rethinking your actions for one moment before you charged forward, knocking. It wasn’t an urgent knock, or aggressive. It was lazy, and casual, and you had hoped that it conveyed the reason why you were there.

Rustling came from behind the door as you shifted on your feet, waiting as the seconds ticked by, until finally the handle twisted, and Aemond appeared.

You blinked.

He was shirtless.

Aemond looked down at you silently, waiting for you to reveal the reason for your intrusion. And yet as you stood there, looking at the man in front of you, his toned chest and arms on display, small scars littering some of his skin, you felt all the words in your throat shrivel and dry up.

Aemond dipped his head, eyebrows twitching as he looked at you in something you could only describe as slight annoyance, and perhaps amusement. Taking a steeling breath, and trying to keep your eyes above his chest.

“Hey, have you eaten?” It was the first thing that popped into your head.

Aemond’s eye flicked up and then down your body, and if you hadn’t been concentrating so hard on keeping your gaze on his face, you wouldn’t have noticed it.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks.

“Mm.” He nodded.

His gaze held yours, and tension bloomed around you, “Um, do you want to watch a movie or something?”

Aemond’s lips pursed forward slightly, before he straightened himself, one arm still holding onto the side of the door, “What are you watching?”

“Dance Moms, but we can watch something else if you want?”

Why did you feel so small all of a sudden?

Silence curled around you as you waited for Aemond’s response.

Then came the rejection.

“I think I’m going to just go to bed.”

Your stomach twisted.

Stepping back away from he door, you gave him a crooked smile and bobbed your head, “No problem. Night.” Spinning on your heel, you walked back down the hall, cheeks hot from embarrassment and a pinprick of spite.

You didn’t turn back to hear him say goodnight, but you could feel his gaze on you as you moved back to the lounge room.

The next few days went by with Aemond barely speaking to you. And although he was somewhat polite, his allusiveness to even try and get to know you was wearing down on your patience.

Whats more, was despite his obvious refusal to want to spend time with you, and engage in more than the occasional bout of small talk, you could not escape awkwardly bumping into each other in the house, and a weird energy stretching around the you both. It felt like you were walking on thin ice, one misstep and you were going to fall into the depths below. And it made you angry.

Why were you the one to feel awkward in your own home?

And on top of all this, Larys had been on your ass more than usual. Constantly hovering over your desk, sending passive aggressive emails, nitpicking your grammar or style in work, to which you would send emails of a similar type back. If you had to write another ‘per my last email’ one more time, you think you would scream.

The thing that annoyed you the most however?

Was how alluring Aemond was.

There was no denying that he was attractive, his sharp features adding to his mysterious, and allusive energy. And you thought that was what attracted you the most. The man was entirely a mystery to you, and he knew it.

It was clear he was aware he was getting under your skin in some type of way, because he had begun to smirk and hum to your prodding more often than not.

It was driving you insane.

You were doing your best, or the best that you could, to make Helaena’s brother feel welcome. To make him feel comfortable in your home, but the man had not a shred of decency to do the same.

So after a long week of tiptoeing around the enigma that had moved into the room opposite you, and the slog of work and leering eyes of Larys Strong, you sat on the train on a Friday evening and sent off a text to Cregan.

Aemond had been in the house long enough, and you needed to let off some steam.

You smiled at your phone as you got off the train, walking home from work.

Cregan really was a stress reliever for you, and a bloody good one too. Reliable and always on time, you knew that he would be at your door as the clock struck 6, which meant you had about an hour to shower and get yourself ready.

When you arrived home, you didn’t bother to call out in greeting as you were so used to doing with Helaena, instead silently toeing your shoes off at the door and dumping your keys in the bowl beside the other pair.

Aemond was home.

You walked down the hall, and as you turned you saw Aemond stretched out on the couch, phone in hand, with only a shirt and a pair of black nike shorts on. The Targaryen lifted his head and looked at you, almost as though he was waiting for you to speak, but all you gave him was a curt smile as you moved down the hall, hanging your bag on a hook behind your door, before heading straight for the shower.

You washed and exfoliated yourself, letting the hot water beat against your sore shoulders and back before getting out to apply some light make up. After you had moisturised and gotten yourself ready, you wrapped your towel around your body, checking your phone.

5:30.

Plenty of time.

Aemond’s head lifted to your body in the towel as you moved to your room, and you felt his heated gaze on the back of your neck, prickling like static. You got inside and shut the door, fishing out a matching pair of lingerie and some cute clothes to throw on. You quickly tidied your room, and before you knew it, you were ready with twenty minutes to spare.

You walked to the kitchen, hoping to fix up a little plate of snacks for the two of you, Aemond still where he was on the couch. You felt his eye on your the entire time as you fished out a plate and began to put some cheeses and meats on it, giggling to yourself as you remembered Helaena calling it ‘Girl Dinner’.

“I’ve already eaten.” Came Aemond’s voice from behind.

You frowned, turning slowly to look at him.

Smug.

Asshole.

“It’s not for you.” You responded, almost shocked at the audacity that this man had. He was really beginning to get under your skin. You turned back around, silently scoffing to yourself as you moved to grab a glass of water.

You had gotten half way through the glass when a knock at the door alerted you to Cregan’s arrival. A smile wound on your lips as you grabbed the plate, quickly dumping it on the dining room table before you went to the front door.

Cregan grinned at you, bottle of wine in his hand.

Your heart fluttered in your chest and you rose on your tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips, “Hey.”

“Hi.” He breathed back, voice deep.

Cregan stepped into the apartment, slightly ducking under the frame as you led him down the hallway he had been through plenty of times before.

As he walked behind you, you could smell him. He smelt safe, he smelt warm. A musky scent that had subtle hints of citrus.

When you entered the lounge room, Aemond was no longer lounging on the couch, instead he was sitting stiffly atop the pillows, head turned towards you. As Cregan finally emerged from the halls, the two men exchanged what you could declare, the most uncomfortable of greetings.

Cregan, being the warm man that he was, smiled at Aemond and offered his name, moving across the room the shake the violet eye’d mans hand. But Aemond made no move to grasp his, and instead looked at it for a beat as he stood, before finally grasping it and offering his name quietly.

“You’re Helaena’s brother, yeah?” Cregan attempted to diffuse the tension, and Ameond only gave a noncommittal hum back.

Sensing the awkwardness, you grabbed Cregan’s hand and dragged him to the kitchen, “Lets get some glasses, yea? What did you bring this time?” You could feel Aemond’s eye on your back.

Cregan gave small amused scoff, holding back his true thoughts, “Spiced wine from Dorne.” His deep grey eyes looked down at you, small smirk winding on his cheeks.

“My favourite!” You chirped, pulling down two glasses for the both of you, before you took him back to the dining table behind the couch, trying to keep your eyes ahead of you instead of meeting the icy one of Aemond’s.

It was ironic really.

Cregan was from the North, but had one of the warmest personalities you had ever met.

Aemond came from a background of legends of fire and dragons, and yet he was icier than snow.

Cregan and you sat at the table for some time, nibbling on your snack plate and drinking the wine as you caught up on the weeks that had gone past without seeing each other. It was friendly and kind, and you felt the weeks tension slowly bleed out of you as you were able to have a normal, actual conversation with someone.

Before long, you were feeling warm from the wine, or perhaps it was the way that Cregan kept devouring you with his eyes. Aemond still sat stiff backed at the couch, not having moved once, a stark difference to him usually hiding in his room.

Cregan’s eyes roamed down your body as he pushed his tongue into his cheek. You rested your chin in your palm and lowered your voice, “I could have sworn there was some sort of lingering threat between the two of us.”

The Starks teeth were revealed as his smirk pulled higher on his face. Your breath caught in your throat.

Gods he was handsome.

“I think there was.” His voice was low and deep, rumbling from his chest.

Aemond would have to strain his ears above the telly to be able to hear the two of you, and so you felt safe having the conversation behind him, “I told you what would happen, bunny.”

Your thighs rubbed together beneath the table.

Grinning at the brunette in front of you wolfishly, you leant forward, giving him an ample view of your breasts from the top of your shirt, “Hm, I could just make you sit here with me all night.” You purred.

Cregan’s gaze darkened, head tilting as he looked at your through his lashes, “You think I won’t throw you over my knee right here?”

Your mouth dropped open, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

The way Cregan was looking at you in that moment meant one thing.

He was deathly serious.

Standing abruptly, you grabbed the bottle of wine and your glass, balancing your phone between two fingers and motioned for him to follow you to your room. Your skin prickled as you all but sprinted into your bedroom, placing the wine down on your side table as you waited for the hulking figure to follow you in.

As soon as he entered, he placed his wine beside yours, towering over you.

Your heart raced as you looked up at him, a knowing grin spreading across your face. Every inch of your body was set alight as he continued to look down at you, piercing eyes boring a hole into your head.

“Get on the bed, bunny.” He commanded, voice lowering to almost a whisper.

Anticipation worked its way through your bones as you could not help the excitement that continued to burst through your veins, and yet still, you could not help but be bratty, knowing that you were playing with fire.

“Why?” You looked up at him, cocking your head, biting your lips to stop you from smiling.

Cregan sighed, “Get on the bed, or I’ll do it for you.”

Your tongue peeked out of your lips as you wet them, “What are you going to do to me?”

Your world tilted as Cregan hoisted you up in his arms, loud giggle flying from your lips as he stalked towards the bed, before throwing you unceremoniously onto it, your body bouncing atop the mattress.

Cregan smirked, looking down at you as he grabbed your ankles and ripped you to the end of the bed, air squeaking from your lungs, “Such a tease.” He grunted as he parted your legs, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you looked down at him.

Cregan knelt at the foot of the bed, hands grazing up your thighs and under your skirt until they reached the edges of your panties. His fingers skimmed over the black lace, eyes peering up at you hungrily.

“Naughty girl. Who’s this for?”

You squirmed at his touch, “No-one.”

“Really?” His large, callused fingers dragged the lace down your legs, swooping them over your knees before tossing them somewhere else in the room, long forgotten as his hands skimmed back up your inner thighs, pausing right before where you needed him most.

Heat pooled in your gut as you wriggled, trying to get him to touch you.

“Please.” You whispered, pouting down at him.

“Please what, bunny?”

“Please touch me.”

Cregan pressed a short kiss to your knee, causing you to jerk at the warmth, "But you don’t deserve that do you?”

You whined loudly, thrusting your hips up into his hands, “Please Cregan, I’ll be good.”

The man laughed sincerely, “When are you ever been good for me?”

You smirked at him, trying to grab his hands and pull them up, but he didn’t budge. You huffed and flopped back down onto the mattress as the Northerner stood, looking down at you smugly.

“Strip.”

With quick hands, you ripped off your top and skirt, leaving you in only the small, black, lacy bra. Your hands moved to take that off to, but Cregan stopped you, “Uh uh. Keep that on.” He turned around, grabbing his phone and turning on your speaker, still fully dressed, shoes on, and you bare to him on your bed.

You shifted in anticipation.

He turned the music up, you thought a common curtesy for the man who may still be seated on the lounge not too far away, as he stalked towards you, looking down at the way your thighs rubbed together, trying to ease the ache between them.

“Look at you, bunny. So desperate.”

You nodded your head, hand skimming down your body to touch yourself.

“No.” His voice purred, all playfulness gone, “Come here.” A large finger pointed down to where he stood at the end of the bed.

You wriggled down slowly, keeping your eyes on his as you moved to stand, head craned up to look at him. His finger traced under your chin softly as he looked at you, “You going to be good for me?”

You nodded, leaning your face into his hand, as you reached out to touch him. He let your hands graze over his chest and up to his shoulders, rising on your tip toes to place a kiss at the crux of his jaw. Cregan hummed, large palm spreading across your lower back to press you against him. He shifted his head, bringing his lips to your ear.

“Don’t think you can get out of being a brat.”

With swift hands, Cregan spun you around and pushed you over the bed, your chest and stomach plush to the mattress whilst your legs dangled off the edge.

A small cry slipped past your lips as you landed face first, air pushing out of your lungs. His hand smoothed over your lower back, and you turned your head to look at him.

Cregan was looking between your thighs, no doubt finding your slick centre.

“Look at you, so wet already?”

You whined in response, arching your back, the music drowning out the sounds in the room. His other hand began to rub soothing circles against the swell of your ass, and you clenched in anticipation of what was to come next.

The hand lifted, snapping down onto your flesh with a crack.

You squeaked, heat blooming in your cheek as Cregan cooed you from behind, “Good girl,” He purred, “You’re going to give me ten of these, okay?”

You nodded your head, burying your face into your arms as he lifted his palm again, swatting down on the stinging flesh. The slap rippled through you, and your cry was muffled by the mattress.

You thighs rubbed together as Cregan brought down his hand, again and again.

By the time he got to seven, your flesh was burning, and you flinched as he brought his hand up to strike you again. You could feel the wetness between your thighs as he tutted, “Come on bun, only three more. Do you think you can be good and take three more?”

You nodded, eyes feeling teary as you squirmed beneath him, hand soothing against the hot flesh of your bum before removing it to strike down again. The hit caused your core to flutter round nothing and you moaned loudly, rolling your back.

“Good girl, only two more. You’re doing so good for me.”

You keened at the praise and sucked in a breath, feeling his hand come down again.

“Such a good bunny for me. One more, baby.”

Cregan's hand came down a final time with a crack. It filled room, your cry climbing in the space as the song had ended and another had softly begun.

Your face was flushed as he cooed you, praising you for how well you had done, your thighs feeling slick as you rutted against the bed in an attempt to soothe the throbbing.

Lips met your shoulder blade and spine, small moans falling from your lips as Cregan moved down your body, “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.”

“Mm, Yes.” You whined pitifully, spreading your thighs as his hand trailed over your soft, hot skin before diving between your folds.

“Fuck,” Cregan growled, “You’re soaked. You’re not supposed to enjoy your punishment, bunny.” He chastised you, fingers parting your folds as he moved over your clit, your body jerking beneath him.

“Ah, I d-“ Your words caught in your throat, a rasping breath falling form your lips as you felt two of his large fingers push their way inside of you.

The stretch was delicious, and your back arched as the pressed against your walls.

“Shh.” He dragged his hand back out, before pushing them back in, giving you time to adjust, each stroke of his fingers curling down to rub over the soft spongey patch inside of you.

You groaned, head turned to the side as you wriggled beneath him, his hand starting a slow pace as he stretched you open.

“Look how wet you are for me, soaking my hand like such a good girl.”

You hummed in agreement, feeling his thumb begin to swirl around your clit as he continued to drag his fingers in and out of you, increasing his pace.

Cregan began to fuck his fingers in and out of you, the sound of your slick barely drowned out by the music as you whined beneath him.

“S’good. Fuck.” You moaned, hearing him chuckle, the speed increasing.

You could feel the coil inside of you begin to wind tightly, his hands slowly tipping you over the edge.

Your breath held in your chest as he fucked you with his fingers, your orgasm rapidly approaching.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna-“

Cregan pulled his hands from within and you whined, your release immediately halting. You heard his deep chuckle behind you as you arched your back, chasing his fingers, “Hnng- No. Please Cregan.” You whined.

His fingers moved mack, slowly pushing inside as he began to rub around your clit, and soon the pleasure that had been building began to climb again, your breathing ragged as you chased your climax.

But as soon as you almost got to the top, core clenched around his digits, Cregan would pull his hand from you. Ripping your orgasm away.

You sobbed against the sheets, one hand winding down beneath you to reach your clit.

A sharp pain bloomed through your core as Cregan slapped at your cunt. You hissed.

“No touching. This is your punishment for being a brat. You wanna be bratty with me, I'm going to treat you like a brat. And brats don’t get rewards.”

Tears welled in your eyes, all too desperate to get your release, “Please, Cregan, Please. I'll be good. Please, I just-“

“Shhh. Be good and take it then.”

His digits found their way back to your core, sliding in again, this time adding a third finger, the stretch causing you to whine loudly, wriggling backwards against his hand as he stretched you apart.

“Good girl. See? You can be good, can’t you?”

You nodded your head dumbly, feeling like you were beginning to float away.

“You be good for me, and I'll let you cum, okay?”

“I'll be good. I'll be good.” You babbled, nodding your head, pushing back down onto his fingers, feeling full with them inside.

Cregan began to drag them in and out again, his thumb rubbing wet and sloppy circles around your clit as he fucked faster into you, your wetness coating your inner thighs and his hands, no doubt soaking the bed beneath you.

The coil inside of you was ready to break, pleasure mounting and mounting, breath caught in your throat.

“I can feel you squeezing me, are you going to cum?”

You nodded your head, not trusting your voice as he sped up his hand, fingers drilling inside of you, the sloppy sound of your cunt making Cregan groan loudly behind you, watching the way his fingers disappeared inside of your folds.

“Come on then, cum for me.”

His fingers pressed down on the spongey spot inside, as his thumb pressed on your clit.

The coil snapped as you came hard on his fingers.

Eyes scrunched shut, you cried out loudly, writhing on the bed. Your limbs tingled with pleasure as you rode out your orgasm on his hand, the man behind you cooing you through it, and praising you.

“Doing so good, good girl. There you are, so beautiful. You’re so beautiful when you cum. Such a pretty pussy.”

“Fu-ck.” You croaked, his hand finally stilling inside of you.

Your core clenched around him as you came down from your high. You felt weightless, but heavy all at once, limbs like stone as you kept your eyes shut, basking in the glow of your orgasm.

Rustling came from behind you and the sound of a belt buckle being pulled open.

“Let me take care of you.” A kiss pressed against your shoulder and you sighed, turning your head to kiss him. His lips moved against yours gently as you felt the buckle of his pants press against the hot skin of your cheeks. It was soothing in a way and you pushed back against him.

“Gonna fuck you, okay?”

You hummed in approval, lifting your hips as you felt Cregan line himself up with your folds.

With one smooth thrust, he entered you, your slick guiding him in as he pressed up into your walls.

“Fuck.” He grit out, feeling you clench down on him.

You whined, the stretch of him causing your already sensitive pussy to throb. But your limbs were too heavy, and so you laid beneath him, eyes closed as you panted.

Cregan began to fuck into you slowly at first, giving you time to adjust to him, but before long, he was thrusting into your wet heat with vigour, your bed and body jolting with each snap of his hips. Airless gasps were pushed from your lips as his length bullied your sweet spot inside.

The coil that had been battered before, began to wind again, and you reached a hand back to grab the arm that he had planted beside you.

“You gonna cum again?” He breathed, the slapping of flesh filling the room.

You nodded sluggishly, “Uh huh. Please.”

“Good girl.” Cregan dipped his head to press a kiss at the crown of your head, in a soothing and sweet manner, a complete contradiction to he way he was rutting into you.

He sped up his movements, his tip jabbing into the end of your cervix meanly as you cried out, soothed by his shushing and praise.

“Doing so good for me, almost there.”

Two large hands grabbed your hips and pulled you further down the bed, using them to guide you up and down his shaft, fucking into you sloppily as he began to lose himself to pleasure and chase his own peak.

The change in angle deepened his thrusts, and your body seized, cry breaking free as you came again around his cock.

“Good girl, such a good girl for me. Fuck.”

Cregan’s thrusts became erratic, the pace faltering.

He came with a cry, collapsing on top of you, careful to not put all his weight on your lungs as his cum coated your walls. You breathed heavily, eyelids heavy as he slowly pushed into you through his climax, small moans whispered into your hair.

“Fuck.”

You giggled sluggishly, pushing your hips back against him. Cregan hissed, pulling back and out of you, watching as his cum spilled from your folds and down your thighs.

“Stay there.” He kissed your shoulder.

You had no plans to move anywhere anyway, your body feeling like jelly and the sweet hum of your orgasm moving through your limbs. The door opened and closed, and a short while later, Cregan was back in the room with a warm, wet cloth.

He cleaned between your thighs gently, before scooping you up the bed to your pillows, tucking you beneath the blankets as he stripped himself down and curled in behind you, wrapping his large arms around you.

“You okay?” He whispered into your hair.

You hummed happily, snuggling into his side.

“You’ll need to get up and go to the bathroom soon.” He reminded you, and you whined.

He chuckled, holding you to him tightly.

Cregan stayed the night, and you had brushed your teeth together in the bathroom sluggishly, him with the black toothbrush he had left in your apartment once months ago.

The next morning when you woke up, you found that Cregan was already out of bed. Both Aemond and the Stark seeming to be early risers like yourself.

You stretched your limbs before crawling out of bed, bare feet sliding across the floor boards to the kitchen.

Cregan stood in the small kitchen, hulking everything around him. It always made you laugh how big he was, how imposing he could be, but really? He was a big softy.

The Stark was bent over the kettle as he waited for the water to boil. You came up from behind him, pinching his bum cheekily. Cregan jerked with a cry, spinning around with an appalled look upon his face. You both stared at each other for a beat of silence, just the sounds of the kettle coming to boil in the background, before you both fell into a fit of giggles.

Despite the two of you sleeping together for months, Cregan still didn’t quite know how you liked your tea, and so you moved him out of the way to prepare your own, whilst he made himself a mug of instant coffee, stirring the sand like grains in the hot water until they dissolved.

You spoke sleepily to one another for a while, leant against the kitchen counters as the sun shone into the kitchen with a soft glow.

The sound of a door opening and closing swiftly made you turn your head, and soon Aemond was walking down the hall, earphones in, and eye ahead on the front door.

“Morning.” You chirped.

Silence.

Aemond did not turn his head to acknowledge you. Nor did he hum, or grumble a good morning. Nor did he even spare you a goddamn glance. He simply kept on, grabbing his keys from the bowl, the front door opening, and then shutting firmly behind him.

“What a dick.” Cregan grumbled.

You sighed loudly, head dropping backwards as you looked at the ceiling.

“You know,” Cregan began, looking at you with something akin to pity, “You can always come stay with me and the boys if you want.”

Giving the Northerner a small smile, you touched his arm gently, “Thanks, but we would kill each other.”

Cregan Stark chuckled warmly, “I suppose we would.”

“Besides,” You started, “I’m not about to let a man chase me out of my own house.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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bettyfrommars · 2 years ago

Text

I'm on Fire

Chapter 1: Black No. 1

biker!Eddie Munson x fem!artist!Reader

Part 1

Series Masterlist

🚨18+ Only, older!Eddie, tow truck driver Eddie, biker!Eddie, alcohol consumption, sex with someone other than reader, cheating (not on reader), slightly fuckboy!eddie, adult themes. Y/N is used several times in the first few chapters, as well as plenty of typos and I apologize for that. This was my very first reader insert series ever, and it's insane how much the characters and story have grown. I really appreciate those who have been on this journey with me, and those who continue to want to read it!

Word count: 3.3k

There is an instant spark of chemistry between you and the guy who rescues you from the side of the freeway in his tow truck, courtesy of Munson's Garage. While you've never met him before, your roommate has, and you learn a few things about Eddie Munson while he indulges in one of his late-night extracurricular activities, which is just one facet of the dark secrets in his life.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to have a crush on your tow truck driver.

One second, you’re cruising along the freeway, blasting Linger by The Cranberries, looking forward to the future, and the next---your tire blows and you’re on the side of the road questioning when you will ever catch a break. You were trying to remember how far back the last payphone was as traffic sped by, blowing your hair into your face, when a big, mean looking, black tow truck with Munson’s Garage written on the door slowed down and pulled in front of you.

The guy behind the wheel waited for a few cars to buzz by before he dropped down from the cab, boots hitting the pavement, and made his way over to you. He’s wearing his long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, black jeans with a wallet chain hanging at his thigh, and a button down blue work shirt that says Eddie on it. He’s muscular in a manual labor way, and you spot a few tattoos at first glance, just as he closes the distance between you.

“Come here often?” He asked, the side of his mouth lifting up as he squinted against the sun.

You hesitated, because you weren’t prepared for jokes, and then you shrug. “Yeah, I live here. It’s cozy, shame it’s so close to the freeway.”

He takes a pair of gloves out of his back pocket and you notice his warm, brown sugar eyes take a quick sweep up and down your body. “In that case, I might have to visit more often.”

You also weren’t ready for the teasing, sexual banter, but you could give as well as you got. “Careful. I bite.”

Of course, you don’t have a spare tire, and so the next option is for him to tow you back to his garage. He tells you to get comfortable in the cab of the truck while he hooks your car on.

Inside, you notice that it’s an older cab, but it’s clean and well taken care off. There’s an Iron Maiden sticker on the glove compartment, and a vanilla tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the CB radio. You scoot over, curious as a kitten, to see what other little pieces of his life you can pick up from the area, when you see photo of a little kid, maybe 2 years old, taped to the top of his dash. The toddler had thick dark hair and big, dark eyes, and you realize he must be a dad—the kid looked just like him. You remembered looking at his strong hands before he put his gloves on, and you didn’t see any rings, but most people in his profession chose not to wear them when they worked, as a safety precaution.

He climbed up into the cab behind the steering wheel and took his gloves off, stuffing them in the console between you, apologizing for how long it took. In your mind, he’d only been out there five minutes, but—time flies when you’re being a snoop.

The radio blared loud the second he turned the engine on (Would? by Alice in Chains) and you jumped in your seat, a yelp escaping your throat.

He cringed and turned the volume down. “My bad,” he laughed a little, giving you a wink when you look over at him, your palm flat on your chest, adrenaline coursing through you.

His shop was almost a half hour away, and the conversation stayed light. He asked you what you did for work, and when you told him that you were on staff at a gallery, but you wished you could be a full time artist—he was one of the few people in your whole life who didn’t make fun of you for it.

“You have no idea how much I relate to that,” he said, almost under his breath, shifting the truck into another gear.

You asked him how long he’d been in the area and he replied, “too long.”

He got quiet for a few minutes, and you shifted your eyes covertly to catch his jaw muscles flexing, like he was deep in thought about something he didn’t want to be thinking about.

You adjusted yourself on the vinyl seat with a creak of the upholstery. “So, did you grow up here?”

He opened his mouth for a beat, and then closed it again, as if he didn’t like the answer he was about to give. “I grew up all over the place. But I went to high school here, and then I left, and then I came back.”

You pulled your bottom lip over your top lip, looking out the window at a sea of fat cows grazing in a big, grassy field.

“I’m sure there are worse places to be,” you said aloud, although you meant for it to be a silent thought.

He scoffed. “You must be new here. Give it time.”

He had his hand high on the wheel, and he looked sideways over his arm at you. You could tell he wanted to ask you more, and you wanted to ask the name of the cute kid in the photo on his dash—but it suddenly felt like it was all getting too personal.

There was sudden static on the CB radio and the voice of an older man came through the speaker. “Munson, what’s your 20?”

Eddie reached over to take the handheld receiver off the hook under the glove compartment, the back of his hand brushing your knee as he did so.

He pushed the button on the side as he held it to his mouth. “On I-90, just passed Little River, on my way back.”

He let go of the button so that the other man could speak.

“Charlene dropped the Jaguar off again. Not a damn thing wrong with it, but she asked for you, specifically.”

Eddie swallowed, his eyes shifting to you, as if he was embarrassed or self-conscious about the conversation.

“...I told her I’d bring it by on my way home after work.”

The other end was silent for a bit and then, the older man gave a heavy sigh. “Son, I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re--”

“Talk to you when I get there, Wayne. I’ve got a customer in the cab with me,” and then Eddie hung up the receiver and switched the radio off with a click.

Back at Munson’s Garage you called your best friend, Katie, who you were supposed to meet for lunch, to talk her down from the ledge she was on, panicking over where you were.

“At first, I wanted to murder you, and then--” As Katie is talking, you see Eddie give you a thumbs up from across the garage to let you know the tire was on and your car was ready, and you mirrored the gesture. “...and then I was like, wait, maybe she’s in a ditch somewhere….and you were!”

Like any self-respecting, horny friend would, she asked if the tow truck driver that picked you up was hot while on the phone with you.

You’re watching Eddie pick up two tires and fling them onto a pile like they weighed nothing, muscles flexing in his forearms and hands; he catches you staring and smiles almost accidentally at you over his shoulder, before turning away. “Not really, I mean, if you like that sort of thing, I guess.”

There was a teenage boy at the front desk who looked like he was in training, and with shaking hands, he tallied you up for the price of the tow and the tire.

“Just the tire,” Eddie came up behind him, wiping his fingers on a rag. “The tow is on the house,” he lifts his eyes to you, and then looks down to make sure the kid got it right.

You thanked him, and as you were leaving, you saw the long, sleek, white Jaguar convertible with leather seats parked at the far end of the garage. You wondered who Charlene was, and why she chose that particular garage over all of the other high end, specialty repair shops in the area.

---------

That night, you were snuggled in front of a Golden Girls episode, dissociating in your bathrobe on the couch with your orange, long haired tabby cat named Charlie, when Katie, who was also your roommate, got home after a meeting at the high school where she taught English and creative writing.

“I didn’t get into an accident,” you assured her, turning the sound down on the TV. “I just blew a tire. I’ll still be able to make it to work tomorrow, unfortunately.”

The next night was a huge artist opening at the gallery, and all of the mucky mucks usually attended to buy high priced art and drink free champagne.

“Hey,” you went to the kitchen to squirt some of your cheap, refrigerated box wine into some glasses and brought one over to Katie. “You’ve lived here longer than I have. Do you know a woman named Charlene who drives a super fancy white, Jaguar convertible?”

“Charlene Gregson? The ex-supermodel, the wife of millionaire CEO John Gregson, the ones who just happen to have a summer home near here on the lake?”

You put your wine glass to your lips. “Sure, I mean, I guess. Does she drive a white Jaguar?”

Katie curled up at the other end of the couch and wrapped a blanket over her. “They have a ten car garage at their mansion, so I’m sure she has one in every color.”

“Wait, how do you know this?” You put your elbow on the top of the couch to rest your hand on your fist, squinting at your roommate.

Katie took a big gulp of her wine. “My sister, the one who runs her own carpet cleaning business, she’s been out there. They have these antique rugs that need to be cleaned a certain way.”

“So, she’s married?” You asked, feeling like you’re asking the same question over and over without actually asking it.

Katie shrugs. “As far as I know they still are. I mean, what happened? Did you run into her or something?”

You didn’t feel like retelling the entire debacle, so you trimmed it down a bunch. “I saw that car at the garage when I got my tire fixed, and someone mentioned that it belonged to her.”

Katie gave you a curious look.

You turned and noticed the way she was staring at you. “What?” You laughed as you asked it, turning your gaze back to the TV.

“So,” Katie said, her eyebrow raised. “Forget about Charlene. Tell me more about this tow truck guy. Is he single? Is he tall? Does he have sexy hands?”

You rolled your head to rest it on the back of the sofa. “Do you know a guy named Eddie?”

Katie ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking.

“He drives a tow truck? Works at Munson’s Garage?”

An invisible light bulb seemed to blink on above Katie’s head. “Eddie...Eddie Munson?”

The way she asked it gave you pause; your eyes shifted, and then you shrugged, “I didn’t ask for his last name, but I guess so.”

Katie tilted her head back, eyes wide. “Holy shit, I haven’t seen him around in a minute. He used to sell weed back in the day. I bought some from him a few times when I first moved here after college. But he left town for a year or two, I didn’t know he was back.”

You squished air around in your mouth, puffing your cheeks out as you listened to her. “Well, he’s back. He put a new tire on my car and he didn’t even break a sweat.”

“I remember him being...really hot, in like, a metalhead way,” Katie sipped her wine again. “Does he still have the long hair?”

You nodded, staring at the TV vacantly, picturing him in your mind as clearly as if he were right in front of you. You asked Katie if Eddie had a kid, and she had no idea. “The last time we smoked at his trailer, he was single with no kids, but that was—oh shit---a good 6 years ago.”

The next revelation made Katie jump as she remembered it: “Oh! He was in a band, too. The name had something to do with rust or decay, I never saw him play though, Dan and the rest of his D&D nerd friends worshiped him.” Dan was Katie’s younger brother by two years, and he asked you on a date a while back, but you turned him down, respectfully, being that you didn’t want it to mess with your friendship with Katie.

“That’s his garage, he runs it with his uncle.” Katie corrected your earlier statement. “There’s a rumor that it’s also a clubhouse for the Coffin Kings motorcycle gang, but who knows. In a town like this, there are a lot of rumors.”

You thought about his visible tattoos, including the cluster of bats near his elbow, some kind of monsterous puppet thing on his inner forearm, and there was something spelled out across his fingers, but you couldn’t read what it said.

There is an interlude in your conversation with nothing but canned laughter from the sitcom on TV, and then Katie changes the subject, recalling a dramatic story having to do with one of her colleagues that happened earlier that day.

-------

Eddie waited until everyone was gone before he closed up the garage, noticing that the new kid forgot to sweep the lobby, so he did it himself, mumbling about how it was hard to find good help these days. He had the Jaguar already loaded on the truck, but he needed to wait until after 8 to drop it off at her place.

Charlene was pulling his shirt up and undoing his belt, her mouth on his throat, as soon as she locked the front door behind him. He grabbed onto her wrists and held her in place, forcing her to back up as he walked forward.

There were several Magnum wrappers on the floor by the time he left her there after their final fuck in the shower. He picked up the evidence of their affair and took the wrappers with him, thinking that he couldn’t remember the last time he was with someone he cared about and trusted enough to not use some kind of protection. That same dark voice in his head told him that he’d never get that close to anyone ever again. “Get used to it, buddy. You’ll be alone forever,” the voice snickered.

------

Mrs. John Waterberry, who lived in the house across from Charlene Gregson, grabbed her 78 yr old husband by the arm just as they were getting ready for bed. She could see the tow truck pull up into Charlene’s driveway from their bedroom window.

“That’s five times in two months, John,” Mrs. Waterberry scampered for the binoculars in the desk drawer, putting them to her eyes and pointing them at the house. “Who on earth needs to have their brand new car towed that often?”

John Waterberry fussed to put his glasses back on and watched the big, black truck lower the delicate, expensive Jaguar to the ground with care. “I don’t give a damn, Louisa, let’s go to bed.”

Behind her, John got into bed and turned the lamp by the bed off, but Mrs. Waterberry hid behind the curtain and watched as the strange tattooed boy with the long hair went over and knocked at the front door. When Charlene answered, she was in her a skimpy bathrobe!

“John!” Mrs. Waterberry called to her husband. “She invited him inside again! I told you! Her husband away on a golfing trip and now this.”

“It’s none of our business, Louisa,” John mumbled, turning over on his side, facing away from her.

Mrs. Waterford ended up falling asleep, but her eyes snapped open when she heard the low grumble of the tow truck starting up again. She looked at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand: it was almost 1:00 in the morning.

------

Eddie popped a cigarette into his mouth and rolled the window down, turning his music up in the cab of the tow truck as soon as he was out of the gated lake community. (Black No. 1 – Type O Negative)

"I went looking for trouble, and boy, I found her,

she's in love with herself

she likes the dark

and on her milk white neck

the Devil's mark..."

He should’ve been feeling good, but the frown on his face was giving him a headache, his body telling his mind there was something wrong. He happened to catch a flicker out of the corner of his eye and turned to see a shiny sliver of something on the floorboard of his truck. He made sure there were no cars around and bent down to stretch his hand out and swoop it up. It was an earring; a little silver hoop, and he realized, with sigh, that it must’ve belonged to the woman he had in his truck earlier that day. The one who worked at an art gallery and didn’t have a spare tire in her car. The one with cute, quirky mannerisms and the beautiful eyes.

He sped up and shifted into the next gear, cigarette between his lips, and slipped the earring into his front pocket.

Finally back at the garage, Eddie parked the truck and opened the side door to get his bike. After a wide straddle and a few kicks of his foot, the Harley started up with a growl, loud pipes spitting, his hand with the metal rings twisting on the high handlebar. He had a gig with his band the next evening, but not until after he escorted Charlene to her function and pretended to be her body guard. The whole town had to know they were fucking; he had a hard time believing they were all so morbidly clueless.

While he shot down the highway on his chopper with the wind in his face, he reached over to feel for the outline of your earring in his pocket, and realized with a tiny flutter in his gut, that he had a valid excuse to look you up and see you again.

Part 2

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #stranger things smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson series #fem reader

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seren1tyhaze · 1 year ago

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Sit Down!

PAIRING: idol!jaemin x afab reader (ft other neos)

WORD COUNT: 2.3K

SUMMARY: you think you're going to the Unity tour to see your favorite ilichils but get more than what you bargin for when you are seated in front of the dreamies with your lightstick covered in Jaemin stickers and Jaeminbun in your pocket

AUTHOR NOTE: It's been a long couple weeks in ncity and I started writing this before last night's collective breakdown during the live stream. This was based on some tweets going around of reactions from fans sitting in the same section as the dreamies. I hope this crack-ish fic brings some smiles to my fellow neos and know I'm hugging you all through the screen. Mark broke me and maybe one day I'll be okay but for now this is all I can offer <3 Love you all!

WARNINGS: explicit smut, idolverse, pet names, public sex

PLAYLIST: Sit Down! by NCT 127, Quiet Down by NCT Dream, 2 Baddies by NCT 127

(Don't tell me where to be) sit down! (I'll show you how to be) sit down!

The crowd is getting excited as the pre-show music starts blaring. It’s the third night of six shows and you can’t wait to see some of your favorite artists on the planet again. You had missed the night before because tickets were hard to get for the Saturday show but your friend had luckily managed to get pretty good seats in a section near the extended stage that looped around the dome stadium. She nudges you with her arm and wiggles her eyebrows at you as you nervously fidget with the charm hanging off your lightstick. Suddenly you hear an increase in the noise level behind you and you see your friend’s eyes widen as she glances behind you but quickly whips back around.

Pulling your brows together in a furrow, you turn fully, knocking the seat with your lightstick covered in a large Doyoung decal that you had haphazardly applied on the subway on the way over. Jaemin stickers are covering the handle with a large beaded chain with “NANA” looped around your wrist keeping it securely in your hand. What you’re met with when you turn is the face of a stern looking man, moving quickly past the seats in the row behind you followed by a broad man, equally tall but covered in a black hoodie and mask, only showing crescents of eyes. An even taller man is beside him followed by a shorter one in glasses and a plaid cap. You can barely register what is happening as the eyes of the fourth man narrow at you, black mask covering most of his features, as he slides out of his jacket and the woman next to him folds it neatly in her lap.

You almost fall over as you realize, Na Jaemin, your ult bias and object of every desire is standing behind you at the NCT 127 Unity Tour. Your mouth drops open behind your own mask, eyes blinking rapidly as he narrows his eyes at you, giving you a look up and down. He’s tall and his strong biceps are peeking out under the simple white t-shirt you’ve seen him wear hundreds of times through your phone screen.

You suddenly want the floor to open up and swallow you whole but all you can do is stare at him blinking, moving your hand up your arm to try to control your shiver. Your concert outfit was cute but still casual, definitely not what you had worn if you had known you would have been seated in front of four of the most beautiful men on the planet.

Your friend is tugging on your arm and all you can do is continue to stare until Jaemin lifts a finger to his masked lips and then gestures for you to face forward. You flush deeply, whipping back around so fast that your lightstick clacks against the seat again and you swear you hear Renjun snicker behind you. Your friend meets your gaze with wide eyes, shaking her head lightly as you both lift your phones to record the opening to the show.

Your phone won’t unlock and you’re stuck trying multiple times before yanking down your mask and entering your passcode in defeat, only to receive a sharp jab in your side from your friend who is now alerting you to your lock screen. Jaemin’s all too recognisable face is covering the entire screen, accented with hearts, stars, and small bunny emojis. Swiping it open isn’t any better as there’s more widgets with his face there. You pull your camera app open as fast as you can, ignoring what you think is a laugh from him behind you. You convince yourself he was just laughing at a face Haechan just made on the big screen on stage.

When you move to sit for one of the next songs, you feel you make eye contact with Jaemin once more just as your Jaeminbun doll slips from your pocket and before you can reach down to grab it, he’s thrusting it forward toward you. Lips are near your ear and you feel breath fan out across the skin as the lights dim and the lightsticks flash in red in unison.

“I told you to stay facing forward. Bad girl,” he all but grunts at you, pushing the plushie into your hoodie pocket before backing away, still keeping eye contact with you.

You gulp and blink, nodding lightly at him as if confirming his statement. He looks annoyed but there’s also an unreadable expression on his face. You’re surprised no one around you is paying attention to the interaction but if they are, they probably assume you’re someone’s family member or a part of the staff based on how much he’s speaking to you.

“When the staff comes to get you later, follow them. Let’s see if you know how to listen to directions. Now sit down,” he continues with an eye roll, fingering the Jaehyun photocard dangling near your arm, letting the tips of his fingers brush against your bare wrist before dropping his hands back in front of his crotch.

A clearing of Jisung’s throat from next to him draws both of your attention and you take the opportunity to turn back around, visibly shaken and hands trembling. Your throat is impossibly dry and you can barely even sing along to your favorite song as it fills the air around you.

As the venue staff starts clearing the sections one by one at the end of the concert, a shorter woman comes to you, quietly bowing and gesturing for you and your friend to follow her. She leads you through winding hallways and through countless doors before gesturing for you to follow a large, burly man and getting your friend settled in a small seating area with water and snacks. She offers a small smile, eyes wide in disbelief as she settles into the couch with her phone, undoubtedly texting her boyfriend about the turn of events.

The security guard opens a final door and there Jaemin sits, knees pulled up on a plush couch, distracted by something on his phone. You can faintly hear Haechan’s loud laugh down the hall and you freeze, realising you might have to face your fears of seeing the rest of NCT in person during whatever the hell this was that was currently happening. It had to be the longest dream - or nightmare - of your life, there was no other explanation.

“Oh, so you can listen,” he teases, standing and letting his phone drop to the cushion, pushing his feet back into his sneakers and crossing to close the distance between you. He takes your bag from you and in one swift motion has your cheek in one hand and the other in your long hair, flowing around your shoulders and lightly curled.

“What other things are you good at, my little Nana worshipper?” he chides, tongue darting out over his lower lip as he looks down at your face, gazing at you tenderly.

You can’t find your words, instead pressing up into his hold and pushing your lips across his, snaking a hand up to his neck to angle his face to meet yours in a comfortable position. You can feel him smile into the kiss and you would rather never listen to music again than fumble the bag at this moment.

His hand in your hair tightens and you melt into his hold, sliding your hand up the hem of his t-shirt to feel the hard muscles of his back. A small moan falls from your trembling lips in the brief moment he breaks the kiss, long eyelashes daintily fluttering open to gaze upon you again before diving back in hungrily. His lips float down your neck, teeth grazing over your now exposed collarbone as you back him towards the couch, pushing him to sit.

He lets out a small, surprised yelp but spreads his legs eagerly, playing with the waistband of his sweatpants as you sink to your knees in front of him.

“Give me another instruction and you can see how well I take direction,” you purr out, hands sliding up his clothed calves, pushing him open even further.

Fire is in Jaemin’s eyes as he brings a strong hand up to your throat, cocking your head up and to the side as if he’s sizing you up. You can’t quite read the expression on his face and try to ignore the sounds that occasionally float from down the hallway. You had heard things about people being brought backstage after shows but nothing could have prepared you for this particular situation.

“Make me feel good, baby,” he replies quietly but firmly and it’s the only thing you need to hear before you’re yanking at his waistband and peppering kisses along his hip bone.

He’s hard and flushed at tip, matching the surprising amount of blush covering the tops of his cheeks. You smile slightly at this, wondering if he’s embarrassed, shy, or just horny.

The grip on your throat tightens lightly and you sense his impatience, lowering yourself down to lick a long stripe up the vein under his cock. He groans, loudly, and you kiss sweetly at the head before hollowing your cheeks around his length, taking in over half of him all at once. His hand slides back to your neck, not pushing, but asserting his dominance there as he massages his fingertips on your scalp.

You sigh at the touch, bracing yourself on his thighs, wanting so desperately to slide your hands under his ass but not wanting to push the limits. He’s not making much noise, which surprises you, and you can’t help but wonder if that’s how he always is in bed or if it’s due to the dangerous situation of possibly being walked in on.

Without warning he’s spilling down your throat and lost in your thoughts you don’t have much time to prepare, gagging around him with warmth leaking from your lips. He shudders at the overstimulation, yanking you up by your hair and to his waiting mouth, licking across your lips and into your mouth, filthily swallowing his own cum.

You groan into his mouth as he pushes his fingers between your legs and into you quickly, finding your thin underwear soaked through. You’re hovering over his lap, knees digging into the couch as he licks into your mouth.

“Sit down, baby,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss with a smirk. Like being pulled by a magnet, you sink into his lap and further onto his fingers. You can’t help but grind down onto his hand, feeling his softening cock under you in his lap and making you flush. It doesn’t take long before pleasure is washing over you, digging your face into his neck as he strokes you through your orgasm. His other hand is in your hair still, gentle and soft while he is whispering in your ear words you never thought you would hear him say.

You pull back, trying to adjust your clothes quickly, knowing there’s no time for tender embraces in your last few moments. You search his eyes for any sense of urgency and are surprised when you see a blissful, mischievous look across his gorgeous features.

“Thank you…” is all you can manage, your voice squeaking out and throat still sore from his length. You know it sounds silly, thanking him for sex but nothing else seems right to say at this point.

He lets out a loud laugh, clutching his chest as he does so, sliding you off him and comfortably next to him on the couch, pulling his pants up.

“You won’t be thanking me in a few minutes…” he says, holding out his hand as he stands, gesturing for you to stand.

You accept his offered hand, rising to shaky legs and cocking a brow as you follow him down the hall where a dull hum of noise and music is still coming from.

“Doyoung hyung and Jaehyun hyung are very much looking forward to meeting this fan who came to their concert with Jaemin merch all over her lightstick,” he chuckles, lacing his fingers with yours as you walk.

Your eyes widen at his words and can’t find anything else to say as you round the corner, many pairs of familiar eyes boring into you as you bow your head, ashamed at your very presence.

“Well well well, so this is who made our Jaeminnie so distracted during our show,” Haechan smiles, popping a grape into his mouth. Mark smacks his arm and tugs him away from the group with an apologetic smile to you. There’s a couple laughs from other members nearby and all you can do is blush further.

A hooded figure from a nearby couch laughs low and you look over and realize it’s Jaehyun, a sleepy Doyoung’s head tilted to his shoulder. He shrugs off the dark haired man and stands, walking over to you as Jaemin hands your lightstick to him.

“Hmm not my favorite photocard,” Jaehyun sneers, pulling it out of the case and crumpling it in his hand.

Your mouth drops open in shock as he leans forward, brushing lips against your cheek and tasting the drying liquid missed in your hurried attempts to wipe your face. You see a demonic grin materalize on his face as he leans back, licking his lips menacingly. You swear you see him mouth the word “tasty” but can barely meet his gaze, Jaemin’s grip on your hand tightening.

“Down boy,” Jaemin mutters as Doyoung stirs on the couch, blinking heavily at the three of you before smirking.

“Let’s get out of here,” Doyoung sings out, suddenly sounding energetic and rising from the couch, reaching out for your hand.

“I’ve been told I’m really good at following instructions,” you manage to say with a shadow of confidence, Jaemin biting the inside of his cheek as you speak. Jaehyun just smiles, slinging an arm around Doyoung’s shoulder, nuzzling into his neck sweetly.

You were in for a long night. --

#nct smut #nct x reader #nct fanfic #jaemin smut #jaemin #jaemin x reader #jaemin x you

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minhyeong · 1 year ago

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WAYV + SIMPLE ACTS OF LOVE !

[ kun ]

reassuringly squeezes your hand when he notices you look stressed or overwhelmed

drops absolutely everything to pick you up if you call him

brings a blanket and tucks you in properly when you accidentally fall asleep on the couch

wakes up early to pack your lunch for you just so you can sleep for an extra ten minutes

reminds you to be careful for everything no matter how simple the task is

cradles the back of your neck and gives you forehead kisses as greetings instead of saying hi or bye

lets you plant your freezing cold hands and feet on his body so you can steal some of his warmth even though he's internally screaming

[ ten ]

shares all his secrets and intrusive thoughts with you, even if it means being vulnerable

won't hang up until you say "i love you" back to him after every phone call (gives you a glare if it's a video call)

gets cute aggression and giggles and pinches your cheeks when he finds you cute

keeps a polaroid of you in his wallet and even decorated it with stickers

his gaze sometimes falls onto your lips when you're speaking

playfully bites your shoulder when he gives you back hugs

closes the physical gap between you no matter where he is and inches closer to you whether he's seated or standing

[ winwin ]

agrees to use rock-paper-scissors to make decisions with you but strategically waits a few extra milliseconds before he shows his move just so you can have your way

opens all the doors for you

lets you steal his drink after you're done with yours

subconsciously smiles when someone mentions you and he doesn't even realize it until people are calling him whipped

remembers that one time you said he looked really good in a certain jacket and now reaches for that jacket more often

always adjusts his pace to match yours when walking together

tells you about his future plans and includes you in all of them

[ xiaojun ]

genuinely enjoys doing mundane chores with you like washing the dishes in comfortable silence

hums and tenderly pats your back when you can't fall asleep

intensely returns your stare in staring contests and boldly steps forward until you're backed up against a wall with no escape

always takes the middle seat next to a stranger so you won't have to

protectively pulls you to the inside of the sidewalk away from the street and moving traffic

has tunnel vision when you walk into the room and forgets about everyone else

creates an entire folder dedicated to just photos of you on his phone

[ hendery ]

leans into your palm when you touch his cheeks and then jokingly tries to bite your hand

pokes your waist incessantly to get your attention

sends you every funny video he comes across and just blows up your notifications while you're away from your phone

tells you to call him when you get back if he can't accompany you and frantically calls you first if he doesn't hear from you after a bit

laughs at all your jokes even if they're bad

stays up on special occasions folding origami flowers for you so you can keep them forever

freaks out when he sees even the smallest cut on you and threatens to fight that paper that cut your finger

[ yangyang ]

playfully teases you but gets super defensive if anyone else tries to do it

remembers something you eyed while window shopping together and surprises you with it at some point

encourages and helps you get out of your comfort zone but knows when he shouldn't push you

stops others from interrupting you when you're speaking

says he can read your palms and points at some random line saying that it indicates you'll have to marry him in the future with a cheeky grin

pinky promises you everything and actually keeps them

places kisses on your scars when you feel insecure

#nct scenarios #nct fluff #nct imagines #wayv scenarios #wayv imagines #wayv fluff #kun scenarios #ten scenarios #winwin scenarios #xiaojun scenarios #hendery scenarios #yangyang scenarios #*mark voice* anon this one's for you

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vilevenom · 8 months ago

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Hey there, Anon! So, I think that, for the most part, Floyd, Clay & Bruce wouldn't really have much of a reaction to Hickory, outside of being happy for JD. Primarily because none of them have any context for who Hickory is. Branch, though? Hoo, boy! They never really did reconcile him with Hickory before the end of the second movie, did they? This fic has nothing to do with my current Hickdory series. It is its own, stand alone fic! I hope you enjoy❤️

Branch had, quite honestly, not been expecting to ever see Hickory again. Or, if he did, he was only expecting to see him in passing while the ex-bounty hunter was visiting Pop Village, or when he traveled with Poppy on a royal delegation trip to Lonesome Flats (as that was, according to Poppy, where Hickory had decided to settle). He was very much not expecting to find him chatting pleasantly with John Dory while the two had lunch in the market, their fingers intertwined over the table they were sitting at.

"What the…?" Branch muttered to himself, frozen next to the market stall he'd just been perusing, only to jerk into motion as John spotted him and waved him over with a shout. He quickly moved across the market, shooting awkward little smiles at any troll who greeted him as he went.

"Branch!" John Dory said cheerfully as his youngest brother made it to the table, "What's up, bro? There's someone I'd like you to meet!"

"Oh. We've met," Branch grumbled, arching an eyebrow at Hickory, who had the decency to look embarrassed as Branch stared him down.

"Really? Huh. Small world," John said with a light laugh, the tension between Hickory and Branch flying right over his head. "Well then, I'll skip the introductions."

"Mmm," Branch hummed, scowling at Hickory, who tipped his hat a bit so he was no longer making eye contact with the blue troll. "Yeah, we go a fair ways back. Where'd you two meet?"

John let out a quiet laugh, pulling his hand away from Hickory's to tap his fingers idly across the table. "That is a bit of a story, honestly," he admitted, only to startle slightly as Branch pulled over a chair and sat himself between his brother and Hickory.

"I'm not busy," Branch stated bluntly, sitting back and folding his arms over his chest. Hickory shot him an odd look, but Branch ignored him. "Do tell."

With another quiet chuckle, John rocked backwards in his chair, before letting the legs drop back to the ground with an audible thud. "Well, truth be told, I haven't always been, uh, in every trolls good graces."

"You don't say," Branch snorted, leaning his elbow on the table so he could rest his chin in the palm of his hand.

"John, maybe ya don't need to tell this story," Hickory murmured, leaning forward a bit in his seat, only to startle backwards as Branch shot him a glare.

"Let him tell his story," Branch grit out, satisfied when Hickory held his hands up in a placating gesture, settling back.

John glanced between the two, his brow slightly furrowed at the interaction. "Uhm…well, so, like I was saying, not in every trolls good books, as it were. So, obviously, a bounty was put out on me."

"Obviously," Branch snorted, shooting Hickory another look, only for the yodeler turned country troll to glare right back. This surprised Branch into sitting up, turning a questioning look to his brother.

"Hickory and his brother, Dickory, they took the bounty and came after me. Caught me off guard when I was on my way back to Rhonda after scavenging some berries out on the Neverglade Trail," John said with a laugh, grinning at Hickory who returned the smile with a small one of his own. "They eventually got me hogtied, and tossed me into the back of a wagon. But, they neglected to take Rhonda into account."

"To be fair, she'd been pretty far from where we'd caught ya. No one expects an armadillo bus," Hickory noted, his expression lightening as John told his story.

"No one expects an armadillo bus. Ha!" John laughed, smacking the table lightly, "I'm gonna get that on a bumper sticker. But anyway, Rhonda is trained, while we're traveling, to come find me if I'm away from her too long. So she comes barreling out of a bush at the wagon, while these two numpties are screaming about being eaten."

"Ya did tell us yer pet was gonna eat us. We just didn't take ya seriously."

"And that sucked for you, but it worked out well for me. She knocked over the wagon, nearly sending me face first into a river, while Hick and his brother were trying to fend Rhonda off. She was mostly just confused and excited, and thought they were trying to play with her, I think. I managed to get my emergency knife out of my hair and got free before anybody got hurt, thankfully. Rhonda and I took off," John said with a cheeky grin, while Hickory chuckled quietly.

"One of the few marks that got away," Hickory noted, leaning his elbows on the table with what Branch could only describe as hearts in his eyes.

John Dory flushed, while Branch gagged slightly at the looks the two were giving each other. He cleared his throat after a moment, causing them both to turn their attention to him. "Okay. So, you got away. That doesn't explain this," Branch noted, gesturing vaguely between the two.

"Oh, well, the bounty got called off after a while. After that, we sort of kept accidentally running into each other," John explained, "I ruined a couple of their hunts, if I'm being honest."

"Kept gettin' in the way, or springin' our traps before they were meant to be sprung," Hickory chuckled with a slight nod, "A right troublesome troll, this one."

"Pretty sure Dickory still wants to clean my clock for the debacle near Vibe City," John added, the two sharing a smile that told Branch there was a story there that he probably didn't want to hear.

"Anyway," John cleared his throat, "Eventually I ran into Hickory in Lonesome Flats, after the whole rockapocalypse ordeal. He was trying to make a life for himself there, and we got to talking. Eventually I mentioned you guys," John gestured at Branch, "And Hickory was the one who let me know you were alive."

"How long was that before you came looking for us?" Branch asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Oh, uh…a coupe of weeks," John admitted, looking guilty. "I mean, you know I didn't come looking for you until I got Velvet's fake letter. I didn't figure any of you wanted to see me again, until then. Plus, I only knew where you were. I couldn't really figure out a good way to suddenly pop into my baby brother's life again without it being weird."

"Hey now," Hickory reached across the table, taking John's hand in his own and giving it a little squeeze, "You were doin' yer best."

Branch snorted quietly, frowning at their joined hands on the table, before scowling at John. "So, you're perfectly aware of his bounty hunting past. Great. Did he tell you that he's part of the reason the rockapocalypse was even a thing in the first place? He lied to Poppy and me to get to the pop string. He's the reason Poppy got captured!"

John blinked, taken aback by Branch's outburst. Branch simply glared at him, noting but uncaring of the trolls milling around their table, quite obviously eavesdropping for gossip. Hickory, in the meantime, eased his hand away from John's, looking contrite as he ducked his head slightly.

"That's what I thought," Branch grumbled, standing from his seat. "You," he jabbed a finger towards Hickory, who jerked back slightly in surprise, "Stay away from my brother. I don't care if Poppy forgave you for what you did, because I don't. I don't trust you, and the last thing that I want is for you and your brother to rip my family apart when I finally just got it back again."

"Branch," John Dory murmured, standing from his seat, only to flinch back a bit as Branch turned his ire on his brother.

"No, John Dory. If you care about me at all you will not see him again," Branch seethed, before storming away without a backwards glance.

"John, please…"

"You heard him, Hickory. I can't. I can't do that to him. Not again."

Poppy jumped off the elevator to the bunker before it could even finish its descent, looking absolutely distraught as she moved through the bunker to where Branch was sitting at his kitchen table.

"Poppy?" Branch stood from his seat upon seeing the look on his girlfriends face, worry immediately surging through him, "What's wrong?"

"Oh, Branch," Poppy sniffed, "It's awful!"

"What is it?"

"Hickory is leaving town."

Branch stopped, his worry evaporating as a look of disinterest settled on his face. "That's all?"

"What do you mean 'That's all'?!" Poppy scoffed, hands on her hips, "After all the trouble I went through to even get him to visit?! I found out from Delta that she saw Hickory hanging out with John Dory before he went to search for you and your brothers. She said they were getting, oh, what'd she say…'real sweet on each other'. I thought it'd be nice to get him to visit and get them back together, since they've both been having trouble settling in. Now Hickory is leaving, and I don't think they've even had a chance to reconnect!"

"Oh, they reconnected, all right," Branch groused, going back to the puzzle he'd left on the kitchen table.

Poppy frowned, following Branch. "What do you mean?"

"I saw them having lunch together in the market," Branch said with a shrug.

"And?" Poppy prompted, tilting her head as she stood across from Branch.

"And I told John about what Hickory did," Branch said with a shrug, picking up a puzzle piece idly, "During Barb's 'World Tour'."

Poppy stared at Branch as he fiddled with the piece, her frown deepening at how dodgy he was being. "What did you do, Branchifer?"

"Just what I said," Branch said, not meeting Poppy's eye as he placed the piece into his puzzle.

"You're not telling me everything," Poppy groused, placing a hand over the puzzle, "You're avoiding eye contact and being all," she wiggled her fingers in the air.

"What does," Branch mimicked her finger wiggling, "even mean?"

"It means you're being all weird and avoiding telling me something! Branch! I thought we were talking to each other now," Poppy huffed, stepping back to place her hands on her hips.

Branch huffed and fidgeted under Poppy's glare for a moment before letting out a breath and throwing his arms into the air. "Okay, fine! I told John not to see Hickory again. I'm still mad at him for getting you captured!"

"Branch!" Poppy gasped, "You know I forgave Hickory for that. He even tried to stop Barb from capturing me!"

"I know! I know…" Branch groaned as he raked his fingers through his hair, tilting his head back to rest it against the back of his chair. "They were holding hands, and I just…got mad."

"You got mad because they were holding hands?" Poppy parroted, arching an eyebrow.

"It sounds so bad, I know!" Branch sat up. "But when I saw them, all I could think of was…what if Hickory is planning something? I have no idea what John Dory did for twenty years, but by his own confession he's had a bounty put on his head in the past. I know Hickory told you he was turning over a new leaf, but I don't trust him."

"Oh, Branch," Poppy sighed, walking over to place a hand on her boyfriends shoulder, giving it a little squeeze, "You're afraid Hickory is going to take JD away, aren't you?"

"I mean, obviously," Branch snorted, waving a hand through the air, "Glitter only knows if he's got another bounty out on him or not."

"No, no. I mean…away from you," Poppy sighed, reaching out to tip Branch's face towards her. "JD's been living in Pop Village for a few months now, since we got back with Floyd. But Clay went back to the putt putt trolls, Bruce is on Vacay Island, and Floyd told you that once he's better he needs to go back to Mount Rageous to tie up some loose ends he left behind, and he's not sure how long it will take. JD is the only one who hasn't said he's going anywhere, and you were the most angry with him before everything happened. It only makes sense that you'd get upset with him when something comes along that might take him away, too."

"John's told me that he was thinking about moving to Pop Village," Branch said with a slight shake of his head, frowning up at Poppy.

"But if he and Hickory get together, he might choose to move to Lonesome Flats, instead. We both know that's where he was before everything happened."

Branch swallowed thickly, pulling his face away from Poppy's hold and turning to fiddle with his puzzle again. Poppy sighed, letting her hands fall to her sides. She watched Branch for a moment, before turning to head back to the elevator platform. "You know," she hummed once she was stood on the platform, "Hickory can't leave until morning, because that's when the balloon is scheduled to head to Lonesome Flats. Biggie told me he saw JD heading to Rhonda with his goggles over his eyes and what looked like tear tracks on his cheeks." She tugged on the elevator lever to get it moving, and watched as Branch had an internal battle with himself, before he stood abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor.

"Wait!"

Branch scowled as he stalked towards the balloon platform, where Hickory was sat between his scant luggage with his hat tipped over his face, obviously taking a nap. He paused once he reached the country troll, folding his arms over his chest as he kicked at Hickory's foot. "Wake up."

Hickory startled into wakefulness with a shout, sitting up quickly, a small knife appearing in his hand from glitter only knew where. Branch arched an eyebrow as Hickory fixed his hat enough that he could see it was Branch who had woken him up. "Oh," he murmured after a moment, relaxing and tucking the knife under his hat, "It's you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Hickory sighed, leaning back against the platform to stare up at Branch. He looked tired. "Exactly what I said. It's you. Look, I can't leave town until mornin'. Yer gonna have to deal with that."

"No, that's not why I-" Branch cut himself off with a groan, letting his arms drop to his sides, "I'm not here to pick a fight with you, Hickory. Or to tell you to get out of town faster. I came here to apologize."

"S'at so?" Hickory said with a quiet laugh. "Well, go on then."

Branch bit the inside of his cheek and counted to ten before he puffed out a breath and let his posture relax. It wouldn't do him any good to keep being angry at Hickory, especially since he truly had no reason to be. Poppy had been saved, the troll kingdoms were at peace, and Hickory was just trying to live his life. "I wanted to apologize for getting so angry at you earlier today. So, I'm sorry."

Hickory watched Branch for a moment with a contemplative look, before giving a small nod and leaning back against the platform, tipping his hat back over his face. "Apology accepted."

Branch gaped for a minute, staring down at the country troll in disbelief. "That's it?!" he asked, throwing his arms out wide.

"Did ya expect somethin' more?" Hickory asked, frowning slightly as he peeked up at Branch from beneath the brim of his hat.

"I expected you to get up and go find my brother!" Branch snapped, waving his arms around, "You two were giving each other starry eyes almost the whole time I was at the table with you earlier! So, what? I got upset and suddenly you don't care about him anymore?"

"S'not that," Hickory grumbled, sighing as he shoved himself onto his feet and quickly dusting his pants off. "I care about John Dory a whole lot. An' we've got a whole lotta history. But he made it plain as day that unless you tell 'im it's okay for us to see each other, I'm not welcome 'round these parts. An', quite frankly, I'm not sure I fancy bein' with somebody who'd be so quick to tell me to go kick rocks."

"He cried!" Branch blurted, his cheeks flushing as Hickory gave him an odd look for his outburst. "I…Biggie saw him crying. Because you were leaving. John Dory doesn't cry. So, you must mean a lot to him, too."

"But, not as much as you," Hickory said with a shrug,

"That's because John is stupid," Branch said with a wry grin, "He'll put everyone and everything before himself every damn day. I've seen him do it, over and over again these last couple of months, and I just," he sighed, rubbing at his face, "I made a mistake, okay? I knew he'd make you leave if I gave him that ultimatum. And I feel awful for it. John deserves to be happy, too."

"He does," Hickory easily agreed, tucking his thumbs into the belt loops on his pants. "Does that mean you'll come with me to apologize to 'im, too?"

Branch sighed tiredly, but nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Hold your horses," John groused at the incessant knocking on Rhonda's door. He pulled it open to find a grumpy looking Branch and an amused Hickory standing outside. "Uhh," he blinked, stepping back from the doorway, "Come in?"

"Thanks," Branch grumbled as he stepped inside, followed shortly by Hickory with a quiet, "Much obliged."

John cocked his head slightly and frowned, watching as Branch began to fiddle with his vest, only to be jabbed in the side by Hickory's elbow. "I feel like I missed something…?"

"Right, sorry, yeah," Branch cleared his throat, shooting Hickory a glare, "I came here to apologize for my outburst today at lunch. It was brash and uncalled for."

"…And?" Hickory prompted when Branch didn't seem to be forthcoming with anything more.

"And I was wrong. About Hickory," Branch added, gesturing vaguely at the troll stood next to him. "He's not so bad. I guess."

"I'll take it," Hickory chuckled, tipping his hat slightly at Branch, who simply continued to glare.

"I'm still confused?" John admitted, scratching at his cheek.

Branch sighed heavily, rubbing his hands over his face. "You can date Hickory, if you want," he finally spat out, his stance deflating, "Biggie told Poppy he'd seen you crying, after we split up at the market."

John sputtered at Branch, looking between him and Hickory, his cheeks darkening. "Wh-what? I did not cry! I don't cry-" he began, only to stop short as Hickory stepped forward. He jerked back on instinct, only to practically melt into Hickory's hand as the ex-bounty hunter cupped his cheek.

"Hey now, sugar cube," Hickory cooed, ignoring Branch's quiet gagging behind him, "There's no need to get all defensive. I think it's mighty sweet that you'd get so upset over me."

John lifted his hand to hold Hickory's against his face, sighing quietly. "You and Rhonda have been the only constants in my life for the last decade. How could I not be upset at the thought of losing you?" he murmured, only to jerk in surprise when Branch cleared his throat loudly. John cheeks grew impossibly darker, coughing quietly as he pulled Hickory's hand from his face, but kept it tightly clasped in his own. "You heard nothing," he hissed at Branch, who scrunched his nose up at John.

"I wish," Branch scoffed, "I'm gonna leave before this gets any more sappy."

"Like you're one to talk," John called as Branch headed to the door, "I've seen the dumbstruck look on your face when you catch a glimpse of Poppy!"

"Good bye, John Dory," Branch waved over his shoulder, opening the door. He paused for a moment, turning to shoot one last glare at Hickory. "If you hurt my brother, I will hunt you down." And with that he hoped out of Rhonda, the door swinging shut behind him.

"Are all yer brothers that dramatic?"

"Mmm, yeah. Pretty much."

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #trolls john dory #trolls branch #trolls hickory #trolls poppy #hickdory #trolls fanfic #prompt fill #things that i wrote

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andiftheycare · 1 month ago

Text

AU where Suguru’s an overworked salaryman and Satoru keeps stealing his umbrellas as a bad attempt at flirting.

Or the you swan he frog meme but make it a fic

☂️ Part one here, and also on twt

☂️ Part two point one here, and on twt. Part two point two here.

Notes: I resisted posting this bit because I wanted one scene TM to be part of this update. However, this is now 2k so it's too long for a tumblr post so the scene I wanted will be in the next update (I'll try to update every Sunday moving forward!). More romancing and more umbrellas to come. If you like this and you'd like to be friends do interact!! let's be friends!! also as usual it's highly unedited etc will be edited once it's on AO3.

Tags to be aware of: AU, squint and it’s a reincarnation au (more on this soon), office AU, pals I think this will be tagged "Mature" for part 5 :D

☂️☂️☂️☂️☂️

“Are you looking for a date?”

Mimiko sits in front of him, hands clasped on the table, while Nanako nods next to her, posture more lax but expression less open. Suguru is hit by the memory of his parents sitting him down and trying to convince him to attend a couple of omiai.

The picture’s so close it makes him smile.

“We know, like, you’re not old old.” Nanako says, heavily implying Suguru’s next to pension age. “And we talked about it.”

“You… talked about it?”

They exchange a glance. Brief. Quick. Suguru knows what it means when they team up like that. They’re up to mischief.

“We made a list of people you could date.” Nanako continued, opening her notes app but not showing her screen. “Because you can do better than that—“

“Put that on your umbrella,” Mimiko concludes, palms now open, legs uncrossed. “It’s very…”

Where Mimiko aims, Nanako shoots “Lame.”

Drop dead silence follows, while Suguru struggles, briefly, to connect the dots, until his most recent sticker comes to mind, and he thinks that idiot. Printing shit like that and having his way with Suguru’s possessions.

“I’m not interested in dating,” Suguru explains, well knowing he’s losing so many points in the eyes of his once doting daughters “It’s to deter criminals from —“

“You know, most of my friends think you’re hot.” Nanako grits that through her teeth, disgust seething from her words. She moves a hand around her face, then “They’d steal your umbrella just to find in you the love of their life.”

“That’s… concerning.”

Mimiko nods. “We don’t want to pressure you, but we thought…”

“If you’re not, like, finding someone because…”

Another glare is exchanged. This time they slightly bow their heads, and Suguru straightens up on his chair, offers them a smile but doesn’t reach to caress their heads. They don’t like that anymore.

“It’s not because of you.”

The twins’ shoulders reflexively drop.

“Now, have you finished packing?”

☂️☂️☂️☂️☂️

The flat is eerily quiet for the rest of the weekend. Mostly, Suguru spends it catching up on some sleep, trying to ignore how tense he feels, how tired he still is after he wakes up in the afternoon to an empty stomach.

Despite the spasming requests of his body, though, he can’t seem to keep anything in, the nausea coaxing him into fasting after a few bites of anything that isn’t plain.

Suguru doesn’t mind it.

That’s part of his summer routine, getting asphyxiated by the city heat so much to the point his body rejects nourishment. He’ll get over it soon.

What’s new it’s the lingering taste of rotten food he awakens to in the morning. It’s worse when he dreams, which is happening with unexpected frequency, and which leaves him in a bizarre state of nostalgia, despite Geto not remembering much of it.

So he sits on the floor of his living room on Saturday night, an untouched open beer in front of him - admittedly, a bad idea - and a couple of texts from Mimiko and Nanako, going through the basic yeah we arrived safely, grandad’s fine but grandma says he needs to get his eyes checked, connection’s terrible as usual.

Have fun, Geto types back, and saves for himself the promises he can’t keep, like, I’ll come with you next year, or I’ll make it to the summer festival next weekend.

Mimiko and Nanako spend most of their summer holidays with their grandparents in the house where Suguru grew up. It’s near where the twins were born, too, so they can visit their parents’ grave and enjoy those seasonal friendships that last less than a month, but seem to revamp with the same strength every time they are reunited. Mostly, they can have someone around rather than rot in their city flat, and enjoy some breeze and fresh watermelon and nights full of stars.

Suguru hasn’t been back in years. Not properly, anyway. The summer’s also one of his busiest times at work.

His phone lights up —

stuck at the airport

It’s so boring

Send help

— and he watches the succession of texts populating his screen.

After unlocking it, Suguru’s also met with a selfie of Gojo resting his chin on his hand, disgust written all over his face, shades resting on the top of his nose.

They canceled my flight

I can’t do anything about it

Can you, like, come and pick me up?

Gojo sends his location. He’s pinned somewhere far south.

On what, a giant flying dragon?

Do you have one?

Don’t be ridiculous

Suguru takes a sip while Gojo types. The electric fan on the tatami barely moves hot air around him. There’s a memory that isn’t his in his mind, of a younger Gojo lying in front of a fan, moaning, asking Suguru to make it stop, use your weather curse or something, please, Suguru, please and Geto frowns at his fan, at the phone and the open can and then the memory is gone. The absence in the room takes roots in him.

(“Take off your clothes. That’ll make you feel better.”

“Take them off me yourself, you coward.”)

So short fun story which isn’t neither short nor fun is I’m here for a work gig and there’s a storm

Can’t book a hotel because they’re all full

Can’t go home because now home is terminal 5

Not thinking, Suguru calls him. If he they have to keep texting, he might as well —

“Satoru.”

“Suguru?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

A breath. Another one. How close is his phone to his mouth? “Well, if this isn’t a fun development.”

“It’s just a phone call.”

“Suguru.”

“Uhm?”

“So are we on a first name basis now?”

Suguru hangs up. Gojo sends him a voice note that’s just him laughing, then video calls him. Suguru should probably take that as a cue to go to sleep at a normal hour, instead of entertaining the maniac on the other side of the country.

“What?” Gojo prods closer to the camera as if that could get him closer to Geto. “Are those earrings?”

☂️☂️☂️☂️☂️

Nothing gets stolen on Monday. There are now two evil curses protecting his umbrella, on top of the Omamori.

Maybe that’s the answer. The blessing doesn’t have to counterbalance evil energy; it has to be outnumbered by it. Maybe his grandma would’ve had an opinion on that power imbalance, too.

Yuki, for sure, has one “Oh, are you looking for a special someone?”

She catches him as they enter the building and he’s closing the umbrella, “Or are you craving crab?”

Politely, Suguru smiles at her as they walk to the elevator “You never told me what’s your type.”

“Because that’s unprofessional to ask.”

They press the floor button on the elevator. Yuki leans on the mirror, folding her arms “Well, you know how it is. They keep denying that promotion because you don’t have a family.”

Geto likes Yuki. In the measure where you can like your manager and work well with them and respect the trajectory of their careers. And he knows she’s right, that having two children helped him immensely in progressing, that getting a partner would grant him access to better insurance, a better job, because if you have to provide for a family, then, you need more money. They’re a traditional company after all.

And Geto isn’t old. But when he’ll be in his thirties, he’ll get pushed into marriage by the higher-ups. Those are the rules. Yuki is, once again, doing the company’s bids.

And she’s right. Geto hates her for it.

“You aren’t married either.”

“I’m a woman,” Yuki says, the elevator going up and up “I wouldn’t be here if I was.”

Geto shakes his head. “How’s that fair?”

A grin. “Get a wife already.”

The doors open. “You sound like my dad.”

“I’ll set you up.”

“Now you sound like my mum.”

“Smart woman.”

Suguru lets the conversation go as he mostly does when Yuki’s chatter derails, before she gets back into work mode and disappears into a string of endless meetings.

And so the week begins again. Not that Geto remembers the week before, or the one before that. It’s interesting what stress does to your brain, how the repetition of an endless circle of moments stretched to be all the same can deeply mess you up. Yet Suguru’s pass the phase of worrying about the blurred lines of his job - he just does it. He knows that his actions in that building have no meaning in the real world if not enriching the rich, or pleasing some of his bosses, or fattening his bonuses. The latest he can’t complain about, really.

But he doesn’t even sleep at his house, most days, and weekends are for recovering and spending time with his daughters and skimming through the upstanding admin, so it’s hard, sometimes, to remember he’s a person.

Because that requires energy the same way that excitement and joy and anger do, and he’s saving all the bits of it he has to be a decent person when he can.

So he doesn’t date — doesn’t have the time to — and whenever he wants to fuck he can find someone. He can always find someone. Again, another thing that requires a fully functioning brain, another thing he doesn’t miss, that he doesn’t think about much.

Unexpectedly, he looks at his umbrella, tucked next to his drawers. How silly it is, the whole thievery thing, how it annoys him in a way that’s out of proportion, because that’s what happens to your feelings when you don’t feel them — once they’re out, they’re out in a big way. How, though, there’s something tucked in his anger. There’s

A message pops up.

You don’t need to return the suit

I take you’re back.

Did you miss me?

Suguru turns his phone so the screen’s facing down, a smile cracking on his face. Nanami stares suspiciously at him for the rest of the day.

☂️☂️☂️☂️☂️

“You’re weird.”

Suguru puffed out a cloud of white smoke. Nanami shakes his head, “I didn’t know you could smile.”

“That’s rude.”

Nanami shrugs “Didn’t know you could smile and mean it.”

“Didn’t know you cared.”

“No one should be that miserable for their job.” He says, with an unflinching expression.

“You don’t smile much either.”

“I never feel particularly inclined to smile at you, senpai.”

☂️☂️☂️☂️☂️

The neighborhood gets quiet past ten at night. When the other salary men hit the karaoke rooms and the company drinks and runs home, Yuki abandons the office with a “Go home, Suguru!” and a cigarette already between her lips, lights flickering above her head.

And with that, the office floor’s quiet, and Geto knows that at some point around that time, Gojo will be browsing the sweet section of the downstairs Konbini, mistaking sugar for nutrition.

“It keeps me awake,” he says once to him, distractedly. “The taste’s better than coffee.”

Geto disagrees, says he’s stupid, says he needs to sleep, and that’s a weird memory to have, because while that one’s real – Geto lived that conversation and stole Gojo’s last gummy from his packet – it also feels like part of multiple conversation they had in a past life.

Another thing Suguru doesn’t believe in.

He stretches and looks at his screen’s clock, and gets some more work in. He wants that promotion without marrying, which is why he’ll spend July living in the office, clean clothes stocked up in his locker so he can stop going back home. Hopefully his shirts won’t get too crumpled.

For a second, he thinks about Gojo’s suit hanging in his wardrobe. After all, he might need to go back to his apartment for it.

“Have you lost weight?” Gojo blinks at him from behind his shades.

Geto unwraps his plain onigiri, sitting down. The rain hits the plastic covering them in the outside sitting area of the convenience store. Gojo leans closer, face scrunching and eyes squinting “Like, why are you barely eating your —“

With a gesture that comes with ease, Suguru places the palm of his hand on Satoru’s chest and pushes him back on the chair. Suguru takes him on, from the way his forehead relaxes to the long second he spends looking at Suguru’s hand moving away, and he feels warm. He wants to know what else he’d let his hands do to him.

Suguru clears his throat. “I haven’t.”

Gojo leans back, legs open and hands in his pockets, “You like soba, right?”

It’s his favourite dish. Suguru, however, hasn’t told him that. “Like, in general?”

Satoru nods. “There’s a restaurant ten minutes from here. If you, uhm, fancy a real meal. It’s open all night”

“Stop hitting on me.”

Satoru grins “Thought you liked it.”

“In your dreams.”

At that, Gojo falters. So unlike him. So unlike the fragments of the boy that visits his sleep. Suguru stops chewing, his stomach grumbling in displeasure.

“What if you do like it? In my dreams, I mean.”

Throat tight, Suguru follows the movement of Gojo’s lips, drops of rain hitting the asphalt, Gojo’s brief silence rendered inaudible. “Do you dream of me often?”

There’s something unsaid, because Suguru dreams of him every night. When he closes his eyes, he sees blue ones smiling at him and feels sand under his toes. He doesn’t know how it makes him feel, having all that knowledge about a version of Gojo Satoru who doesn’t exist.

“What if,” Satoru breathes, a sly grin thinning his lips “What if you were younger in my dreams?”

“How much younger?”

“Seventeen.”

Suguru halts. Gojo hides behind his glasses, which are square and not round today. “That’s young.”

“You have shorter hair, too.”

“Weirdly specific.”

The grin smothens into a smile. “And bigger earrings.”

The onigiri lies abandoned on a piece of paper. The air is muddy and warm, and Suguru’s shirt sticks to him like a second skin. Instinctively, he touches his naked lobes. Earrings are not part of his company’s dress code. "Interesting."

“But,” Satoru says, looking up to the rain, “I don’t get to see much of you as you are now, in those dreams.”

“What?”

“It’s weird, isn’t it? Like I don’t know what you looked like in high school. I bet you had acne.”

“I never had acne.”

“Liar.”

Suguru breaths in. “What’s your point?”

“Why don’t I dream of you?” Satoru relents, as if annoyed. “Why do I dream of this teenager I don’t know?”

Suguru’s mouth grows dry, at that, heartbeat jumping in his ears. He’s dizzy. “Soba, uhm?”

Satoru’s knees jerk up. “What does it have to do with –”

“I think I might want to grab some. If you want to...”

Gojo’s on his feet before Geto can finish his sentence, mood shifted into something bright, and for now, Geto doesn’t need his dreams to tell him how to feel about this aggravating man.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #geto suguru #stsg #satosugu #gego #stsg fanfic #satosugu fanfic #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #jjk fanfic #stsg brainrot #stsg: tongue tied #五夏

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