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bvidzsoo · 5 months ago

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Love Me Like A Rockstar (Special Chapter)

ー☆ Special Chapter: High In Low Places

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: Song Mingi x female reader

ー☆ Warning: cussing ー☆ Word count: 8k ー☆ Genre: university!au, enemies to lovers!au, rockstar!au ー☆ Rating: sfw ー☆ Summary: Love. You wanted none of it. You had already been heartbroken very badly once, you didn't wish to go through that ever again. But the Universe works in intricate ways and, somehow, you found yourself webbed up in a local rockstar's life, Song Mingi. He was everything you expected him to be, yet nothing like you imagined him he would be. What happens when you find mutual understanding and have heartful conversations? Will he be able to break down your walls? Will you be able to chase away his darkness?

A/N: Hello, loveliees! As promised, you won't have to wait so much for updates anymore! ^^ I am so-so curious of what you will think of this chapter, I think it has a special place in my heart. I think I could have written it much better, but this is how it turned out, I hope it's still good. Before you start reading, I'd like to point out that reader (y/n) in this chapter is referred to as: she/her! ^^ Listen to High In Low Places before or while reading this chapter, and check out the author's note at the end of the chapter as well, it's important hehe! Let me know your thoughts and as always, I hope you enjoy, happy reading! divider

Taglist: @orshii @or5i @lovely-red2 @scarfac3 @juicy-red @sunaswifes-blog @voicesinmyhead-rc @teez-the-time @maru-matt @kyeos4ng @deathbyyeekies @chicksmoothie @mjlbn01 @xhexy @tmtxtf @hwashiningstar @thatfavouritesong @ateez-atiny380

⟨Series M.list ↭ Previous Chapter⟩

♫Playlist♫

Mingi’s POV:

The studio apartment Mingi can afford for himself isn’t the biggest, let alone the fanciest, but it’s a nice home. It’s cozy now that he’s finally decorated it to his liking. Yunho always complained about the emptiness of the walls whenever he came over, so now, they are decorated with prints of Mingi’s favorite artists, musicians, and anime posters. Yeah, Mingi, apparently, is still into anime. It appears so that his mother’s ‘predictions’ of him outgrowing his ‘phase’—ironically, she’s said this both about his ‘phases’ when he got into anime and on the day he finally mustered up the courage to tell her that he wanted to become a musician—so, to put it simply, yes, Mingi is still into anime at the fragile age of twenty-three, and yes, he will always be into anime, even at the not so fragile age of seventy-five.

However, about the musician part…if Noir Zenith have a break-through and make it into the industry, all of Mingi’s dreams will be accomplished. Well, most of his dreams. He fears he cannot beat the record of eating seventy-six hot dogs in ten minutes—what an accomplishment it would be though. Mingi knows he’s good—surprisingly, around two years ago, he finally started believing in himself—and he has a silver of hope that if Noir Zenith don’t make it big, he can have a successful solo career still. His professors say so, at least, and so does Yunho. The second person who’s opinion counts the most to Mingi. The first would be his professors’ opinions—and maybe hers, but Mingi isn’t yet ready for that conversation. Not that there needs to be a conversation about it. Yeah, Mingi is pretty hardcore into her and sometimes he wonders if others can see it. If she can see it.

She’s like an enigma, hard to read, yet, at the same time an open book. That’s how Mingi sees her, at least. He thinks he’s never met such a complex and beautiful person inside out. He wonders if she wouldn’t have been so animus towards him at the beginning, whether they could have started out as something other than friends—considering the wishful fantasy that she did recognize the progress that’s been made between them, leading to a potential friendship. At least that’s how Mingi sees things. He wants more, of course he does, but he will never force her into doing something she’s not comfortable with. Maybe she’ll never like him the way he likes her, and that’s fine with Mingi. He can sit back and support her from the shadows if that means he gets to see her happy and content with herself and her life.

Will it absolutely crush his heart and turn him into the emo boy he was back in highschool? Absolutely. Does that stop him from silently yearning for her to return his feelings at the end of each day? No, it doesn’t. But that’s just who Mingi is. A sore loser who loves deeply, cares about everyone else first before he cares about himself, sacrifices himself for them and regularly throws himself under the bus for these people. Maybe that’s why having Yunho as his best friend is such a blessing in disguise. Yunho had taught him a few tricks, helped him become more independent and less sacrificial—but you know, Mingi could never fully get rid of that core part of his personality.

He's cooped up at his makeshift studio at home—really, it’s just a large oak desk pushed up against the wall of his bedroom, a mixer and laptop placed on it with tons of notebooks and scattered pencils around, his expensive headset that was totally a gift from Yunho when he started university, and his shitty microphone that he should change soon if he wants to keep producing at home—and then there’s a distant rumble in the distance, the storm is coming back. It’s been raining quite often lately, and Mingi hates the rain. He prefers to cozy up underneath his favorite blanket—yeah, it’s totally yellow and it totally has chicks on it, sue him, it was a gift from Wooyoung, after all, for his birthday two years ago—and whenever it rains, Mingi likes to drink some hot chocolate and watch a really sappy movie. If he cries, no, he doesn’t, at least he wouldn’t admit it to anyone—maybe Seonghwa, but that would be embarrassing still. He has an electronic piano in his living room snuggled up in the corner of the room, taking up quite the place of his already small enclosure, but Mingi is a musician, he needs his instruments at hand at all times. Hence the three guitars lining his wall in his bedroom, behind his back, as he’s currently clicking through folders on his laptop.

He needs to work on his music—he’s behind on two assignments, and the thing is, Mingi’s been inspired often lately, and so, there are many unfinished lyrics and beats waiting for him to return to and complete them, but most require of him to be in a certain mood. Like the one he is in right now, jittery a little bit, and maybe caffeinated to the point he should make sure his heart wouldn’t bail on him. Fear not, though, it’s not his first time. After all, Mingi is a university student and this is nothing compared to the three all-nighters he pulled one after the other last year after he procrastinated badly. If it wasn’t for Seonghwa and his worrisome nature—okay, maybe Mingi wouldn’t be here right now, but he tends to stop his brain from straying towards thoughts as such. He’s had dark moments in his life before, and recalling them would completely destroy his mood.

As he clicks open another folder, Mingi pauses. Okay, so, the thing is…Mingi is a loser. And he’s so deep in this unclear relationship—friendship—that’s got his mind preoccupied lately, that if anyone were to see the folder with her name in his laptop—yeah, he’d be mortified. You see, these songs aren’t about her, per se—they totally are, but Mingi is a scared loser and he won’t admit it just yet—these songs are for her. You know, from a friend to a friend—he hasn’t dedicated any songs to Yunho yet, but let’s ignore that detail—and Mingi really hopes that one day she’ll be able to listen to these totally friendly songs that aren’t about her. Yeah.

Mingi opens the newest folder and his eyes fall on the latest documents he’s been working on. He had composed the beat for this song a while ago, when he was still unsure whether Seonghwa and Wooyoung would be up to explore something that is more indie, but now it’s been the center of his attention for a while now. For two weeks, precisely. He’s meticulous when it comes to lyrics writing, it’s an irritating defect he has, at least that’s how he sees it. But his professors always praise him for how lyric and poetic, at times, his lyrics are, so he takes pride in that and tries not to get mad at himself for taking so long to finish one goddamn lyrics.

He licks his plush lips and pushes up his glasses on the bridge of his nose as they were close to slipping off. And sue him, really do so, but he has noticed her staring at his glasses quite often. And her eyebrows always furrow just a little, deep eyes hyper fixating on his nose and glasses. Mingi can’t say for sure, but he’s pretty sure she’s bothered by his lack of unbotheredness whether his glasses are slipping off his nose or not. Sometimes he forgets he’s wearing his glasses, that’s why. He clicks on the document and it opens, so he takes his headphones and puts them on, pursing his lips as he grabs one of his notebook’s and a pencil.

‘Me and you/Me and you are fireproof’ – The beat starts off simple, nothing too crazy or jumpy. Mingi wanted the beats to be calm and chill, kind of crawl in your ears at the first listen. His raspy voice is smooth too, void of its usual raspiness this time. He can rarely control that, but after much experimenting, Mingi realized if he loosens his throat enough and sings deep in his throat, his voice comes out softer and less raspy.

‘Always try to blame my youth/I just wanna be your muse’ – The beat is steady, Seonghwa will love the fact that he gets to play the drums so early into the song, and Mingi’s voice drops significantly. He loves playing with intonations, he loves putting emotion into his words, into his voice. It’s like a play for him, a game of playing hide and seek with whichever emotion he wants to show or mask through his voice. Right now, it’s sultry, it’s breathy, and it’s exactly the way he’s intended it to be.

‘Neon light leads us to the end of time/'Cause I can see infinity in your eyes, in your eyes’ – Mingi closes his eyes as he lets the music take over him, pencil tapping against his notebook rhythmically. And he’s taken by his own words, finding himself relating to them more and more as days pass by. Whenever he closes his eyes, he can see hers, deep and dark in its color, blending in with his, always holding his gaze fiercely. Mingi’s been told that he’s an intimidating person at first glance—eyes, nose, cheekbones sharp—his face expressive and rarely hiding how he’s truly feeling, but that’s just first impressions, because Mingi is anything but cold or unfriendly. And whenever she holds his gaze, Mingi cannot help but try to ignore the way his heart jumps in his chest, pulse quickening. And whenever she smirks or her eyes crinkle from her laughter, Mingi thinks he’s getting deeper and deeper into this mess he’s created for himself.

‘You and I got some troubles we're facing/I know we can make it staying high in low places’ – The beat drops for a second, and then the instruments are back with Mingi’s voice, accompanying each other well, the rhythm picking up just slightly. Mingi can feel the words crawling together in his brain now, his body jittery again as he grins, gripping his pencil tighter. The chorus is good, but he hasn’t been able to write past it, but it’s coming to him right now.

‘Never mind all the tears that we wasted/I know we can make it staying high in low places (ooh)’ – And Mingi remembers the night he found her in his favorite diner, looking like she’s been crying for a while now, eyes rimmed red and nose and cheeks flushed. The rain had soaked her clothes, her hair sticking to her face, and Mingi swears he hasn’t seen anyone more beautiful than her. He wishes he knew when it all started, this—infatuation he feels towards her—but he’s clueless. Or maybe he’s not, maybe he’s just afraid to admit that he’s seen her around campus before and found her breathtaking. Maybe Mingi always has had his eyes on her and has just opted to remain in the shadows, because quite frankly, he sucks at approaching people and initiating anything. And maybe the day Wooyoung showed him pictures of Seulgi on her Instagram account, he had spotted her next to Seulgi, maybe Mingi’s heart had started racing with a stupid flicker of hope in it. Maybe Mingi really is on the brink of dropping a random ass confession onto her, but he knows she’s not ready, and he’d hate himself if he ever made her feel uncomfortable. He knows someone has hurt her gravely, and he wants things to go right this time. He can’t fuck it up.

‘In your arms, in your arms (ooh)/High in low places’ – Mingi thinks she can take him higher than anyone else, show him a whole new world. If there’s one thing he thinks can compete with her beauty and wits, it’s her art. Mingi doesn’t know much about fine art and paintings, but he knows goddam well that whoever that Monet guy was that she loves so much had nothing on her—and as you can see, Mingi is down bad, because Claude Monet was, and still is, a legend of Impressionism.

Mingi ruffles his dark hair, it’s gotten a little longer, and adjust his glasses again before he grins, jotting down the next words that will turn into the lyrics of his song. He’s composed the song with Seonghwa and Wooyoung’s timbre in mind, and he knows their voices will fit beautifully, complete it with a harmony that his unfortunately lacks. But that’s the beauty of their band. Each one of them has a particular charm that the other one lacks and they complement each other in a subtle, yet obviously gorgeous way—and well, Mingi isn’t a narcissist, but he is a Leo, and he can’t deny that their looks aren’t eye catching as well, definitely another asset of theirs that just so happens to add to the charm of Noir Zenith. – ‘Wasted days/Wasted 'til we're MIA/Stuck inside a desert haze/I just want to slip away’

Friday (11:30 am)

Me: i see u still haven’t checked my message… nothing too worrisome u certainly know how to make a man yearn for you lol that was a joke…dont freak out on me pls (lowkey true tho)

Mingi was restless. He thought that when had texted her that he got home safely—you know, after they hung out at her place, waiting for the rain to stop while killing the time by watching a movie and they have almost kissed—Mingi really thought she was just busy. And he still thinks so, because why would she ignore his messages? He’s texted her a few times already and she didn’t even bother to read them. Mingi wasn’t expecting anything from her, wasn’t trying to push her, but he was a little bit restless now. Sue him, but he couldn’t help himself. He took another glance at his phone, waiting for his messages to be read, for her to finally start typing back, but there was nothing. And the fact that her contact name stared back at him as if it was mocking him wasn’t helping with Mingi’s racing thoughts. He was an overthinker, after all. In case you were wondering, Mingi has saved her in his phone as: her (my artsy girl).

Yeah, maybe Mingi was a lot more into her than he had realized at first. But to be fair, there was nothing wrong about saving her like that. She is an artsy girl, and she’s—Mingi doesn’t want to elaborate on that just yet. And so, he’s pacing up and down in his not so big living room, walking around his couch and glancing down at his phone every few seconds. Okay, he’s effectively going crazy right now and he wants to pull out his hair. Which isn’t a smart idea, he fears his handsomeness stops at him going bald. And okay, maybe he’s spiraling. Maybe his heart is about to fall into his ass, and maybe he’s trying to take deep breaths in order to not pass out. Maybe Mingi is handling the radio silence horribly. Actually, make that horrifyingly bad, that’s how he’s not handling all this.

If he stops for a second and takes a deep breath, ripping his glasses off in frustration and rubs at his eyes quite painfully, he can feel it all coming back. The warm feeling he’s felt while they settled into her bed, the way his eyes lingered on her pursed lips as she searched for a movie to watch. And her room—let him not even get started on her room, Mingi fell in love with it. It’s just so her that he feels like he knows her a lot better now that she’s allowed him inside her safe place. Her drawings and paintings were breathtaking. He—he saw the drawing laying on her bed, sketchbook all open and shit, and yeah, he fought every muscle in his body to not grin and jump up and down in excitement at the replica of him in her own sketchbook. Mingi knew she would draw him sometimes, but now he’s wondering just how often she finds herself drawing him. Does that mean she thinks of him often? Or does she just simply get carried away and mindlessly draws whatever person comes to mind first? But if that’s the case, why would he come to her mind when she wasn’t even fixating on him?

Mingi is a mess, alright, he’s panicking. He’s panicking because he can still feel the ghost of her warm breath against his cheek, the feel of her soft skin. He was right there; the opportunity had been beautifully given to him—and he does not regret not kissing her. Yeah, he kissed the corner of her lips, because he wanted it to be her choice whether they actually kiss or not. Don’t get Mingi wrong, if it were after him, he fears he would have devoured her ages ago, but after so many years of struggling with his own emotions, he became really good at restraining himself, at having control over himself in tense situations. It’s both a curse and blessing in disguise, because he really just should have kissed her, dammit. Why is he such a considerate gentleman? They didn’t even kiss and she’s ignoring him now. Great job Mingi, you tried to avoid a disaster only for it to still become reality. Sometimes, he hates himself, but he thinks that’s okay. Everybody hates themselves a little bit at times, even if they deny it.

Mingi chews on his bottom lip and decides to place his phone face down on his couch and meditate—Mingi doesn’t know how to meditate. The air is chilly outside and maybe he forgot to pay some bills so his heater isn’t exactly working at the moment, but fear not, Mingi is a big boy—he’s a man, alright—and he will pay his bills. Tomorrow. So, due to this itsy bitsy tiny little fact, he might be bundled up in his sweater. Well…the sweater’s his now. It wasn’t his two days ago. It was her cousin’s, more precisely, but since she gave it to Mingi, it’s his now. And if he wears it almost every day, no, he doesn’t. It bogs his mind a little bit that it just so happens to resemble the same sweater Yunho used to love, to the point his mother had to hide it from him, that’s how often he’d wear it—and maybe this is another factor that makes Mingi cling to it that much more. Maybe the fact that it’s from someone he really likes, and the fact that it makes him remember someone he really loves, fucks with his mind. Especially if seasonal depression is hitting hard. He’s trying to fight it; he’s trying to do better—he’s promised Yunho and himself that he’d do better—but he feels his chest get heavy, and he hopes Seonghwa hurries his ass over before he can spiral even further into the madness his thoughts bring with themselves.

And Seonghwa, like the angel he is, does indeed save Mingi from the doom that has been looming over his head. There’s a knock at Mingi’s door and he jumps up from the couch, racing to the door. He makes it there in three long strides, his apartment really isn’t that huge. Seonghwa is smiling at him softly as Mingi opens the door for him, and so very out of character, Mingi lunges for his close friend and engulfs him in a tight hug, “Thank you for coming.”

Seonghwa is speechless and frozen for a second, but then he chuckles, “My, my, my, you must have been really lonely if you’re so happy to be in my company.”

“I’m always happy and eager to be in your company, Hwa.” Mingi says with a pout and makes way for his friend to step inside. Seonghwa chuckles, his round eyes twinkling under the light of Mingi’s lamp. It’s barely noon but rain clouds are gathering outside once again, and Mingi hates it with all of his soul. Why is it raining so much lately? Isn’t it supposed to snow, rather? It is almost the end of November, after all.

“I know.” Seonghwa whispers as he ruffles Mingi’s hair, having shaken off his coat and discarded his shoes at the door, he walks further inside Mingi’s apartment. He’s been here plenty of times, and he knows he can make himself at home and do whatever. Mingi doesn’t really mind. Seonghwa has a tote bag in his hands as he nears Mingi’s round table in the kitchen area—Mingi’s living room and kitchen are just one big room, divided by nothing—and Seonghwa starts emptying his bag onto the table. Mingi walks closer, peaking at the items Seonghwa has brought over. Dye and bleach. Okay, maybe Mingi’s at the brink of a lapse of judgement, but he knew Seonghwa wouldn’t bat an eyelash if he randomly called him up and asked him to help him change up his hair. Mingi’s been wanting a change for a while now, it’s almost unfortunate that she is the one that pushed him into enough ‘madness’ to finally do it. She is a catalyst for quite a few things happening in Mingi’s life right now, or so he had noticed.

“Are you sure you want to bleach your hair, Mingi?” Seonghwa’s voice carries doubt as Mingi leans his hip against the table, grabbing the bleach out of Seonghwa’s hands.

“Yup, pretty sure about it.” He mutters, his lips pursed as he turns the box over a few times.

“How come?” Seonghwa mirrors his pose, hips resting against the table and arms crossed in front of his chest. He has that critical look on his face, and Mingi considers for a second if it was smart to ask Seonghwa over Wooyoung to help him. Wooyoung is nosy, but at least he can be easily distracted. Seonghwa, however, he presses and presses until he gets the truth out of you. Mingi sometimes hates that, there are no secrets in front of Seonghwa, yet he holds too many secrets.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, actually.” Mingi tries to sound nonchalant as he absentmindedly lets his fingers run through his dark locks.

“But?” Seonghwa raises one eyebrow and Mingi’s lips purse as he averts his eyes.

“Can you not interrogate me this time?” Mingi’s voice is whiney, nothing Seonghwa isn’t used to, “I just really need a change, no big deal.”

“Okay, fine, I believe you.” But Seonghwa doesn’t sound completely convinced as he says that, and Mingi offers him a very fake grin, smile boxy and full of teeth. It makes Seonghwa chuckle as he takes the bleach out of Mingi’s hands, and grabs his tote bag before he makes his way to Mingi’s bathroom. Like a puppy, Mingi follows after him as he grabs the dye, and turns on the light switch for Seonghwa as he places everything in his hands down on Mingi’s counter in the bathroom, “Silver blonde, then?”

Mingi hums and closes the lid of toilet, sitting on it as he watches his friend, “It’ll be a hard process though, I don’t promise I’ll be able to pull it off right away.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” Mingi shrugs, fiddling with his fingers in his lap, “You’re pretty great at these type of things, I trust you.”

“Yeah, well, Hongjoong didn’t see my vision when I dyed his hair half blonde and half black.” Seonghwa huffs under his breath, still pretty salty about his boyfriend not liking the look as much as Seonghwa, and quite literally everyone else around him did. Mingi chuckles, still remembering Seonghwa sulk for a few days because of it. It was endearing how much Hongjoong’s opinion mattered to Seonghwa. When the two were together, Seonghwa’s eyes sparkled, and his skin glowed, his laughter more frequent, and disposition overall just happier. And Hongjoong—Mingi’s known him for four months now, that’s how long the two had been dating for—and despite Hongjoong trying to remain impassive around his lover, it was so very obvious of how in love he was with the taller one. Hongjoong rarely smiled, but when he was with Seonghwa, his cheeks would hurt and flush a light shade of red. Mingi quite quickly realized Hongjoong loved looking at Seonghwa, his eyes somehow always straying onto his lover, lingering there with profound love written all over his face. Mingi was witness to the almost disastrous end of their—at that time—short lived relationship as Seonghwa’s insecurities got the best of him and drew him away from Hongjoong. But Hongjoong didn’t give up, and partially thanks to Mingi—and Wooyoung—here they were now, happy and in love, looking forward to many more years together.

“Hongjoong is quite daft at times.” Mingi finds himself saying as he rolls his eyes, making Seonghwa pause his actions as he looks at Mingi sharply.

“You would never dare say that to his face.” And Seonghwa was right, Mingi would rather shit himself than badmouth Hongjoong to his face. That man might be shorter than Mingi himself, but he’s certain Hongjoong would drag him through all levels of hell and embarrass him to the point he’d be on the verge of tears—simpler put, Hongjoong is ruthless and sharp, and Mingi is scared of him.

“Of course, I wouldn’t dare say that to his face,” Mingi shudders, making Seonghwa almost smile, “He’d make me suffer in my next life too, if I did.”

“Serves you right for always talking shit about others.” Seonghwa chuckles, making Mingi scoff.

“I don’t even do that, hey, I’m just honest.”

“And dumb, but what’s new.”

And just like that, Mingi finds himself half an hour later sitting on the cold tiles of his bathroom floor with Seonghwa, second round of bleach all set on his hair and burning just a little bit his scalp—Seonghwa reassured him multiple times that he wouldn’t go bald, but Mingi is still skeptical about it. A little bit too late for that now, I guess. Seonghwa had placed two towels on Mingi’s shoulders, one at the front and one at the back, to protect Mingi’s sweater in case the bleach dropped on it, and they were kind of dragging down Mingi’s sweater’s collar, but he wouldn’t complain about it just yet. They would be taking the bleach off soon, and he knows Seonghwa would go off on him for whining when all of this was Mingi’s idea in the first place. Music is playing softly in the background, and Mingi tsks as Seonghwa accidentally overlines his pinky nail, smudging his skin too with black nail polish.

“You’re so bad at this, Hwa.” Mingi groans, grimacing as Seonghwa’s tongue is stuck out as he concentrates on painting Mingi’s nails black. They were far from perfect, and Mingi’s heart mourns for a second, until he realizes it kind of looks cool. Edgy. Maybe Seonghwa is onto something.

“Yeah, because it’s usually Hongjoong who paints our nails, and not me.” Seonghwa’s gaze is sharp as he throws Mingi a look, Seonghwa’s own nails painted, but an obnoxious neon pink. It is a little bit out of Mingi’s comfort zone, but Seonghwa said he liked the color and wanted to try it out. And who is Mingi to judge? Plus, he would’ve been a really bad friend if he didn’t do as his close friend wished.

“Okay, done!” Seonghwa grins, closing the black nail polish and putting it aside, “We should wash out the bleach too, before you actually go bald—”

“Seonghwa!” Mingi screeches, getting to his feet in an instant as he faces the mirror on his wall, gaping at himself. His hair is a yellowish color; however it is turning whiter by the second.

“I’m just kidding.” Seonghwa snickers, and then, as if a bulldozer hit the side of the building of Mingi’s apartment complex, his front door is thrown open, and a loud screech resounds through the open door of his bathroom.

“I’ve arrived!” Undoubtedly, the high-pitched voice belongs to none other than their dear friend, Wooyoung, “And I’ve got pizza!”

“Lock the door!” Seonghwa calls out as Mingi leans over his bathtub, letting Seonghwa rinse out the bleach tenderly from his hair. Finally, Mingi’s scalp had felt like it was on fire, but he was too scared to let Seonghwa know. Now, he prays his fair won’t fall out completely. There is shuffling outside the door and then, Wooyoung in all of his glory, barrels through the open door.

“Damn, it smells like poisonous gases in here.” He gags, placing the pizza boxes on the floor as he beelines it for the small window, “And your music sucks.”

“Fuck off!” Mingi hisses, twisting his arm to give Wooyoung his middle finger, “Limp Bizkit is a great band!”

“Yeah, if you like noise.” Wooyoung huffs and suddenly the music is stopped, making Mingi groan as Seonghwa just chuckles, massaging the strawberry smelling soap into his hair.

“You are the noise here, Wooyoung.” Mingi fires back, making Seonghwa snort loudly as Wooyoung puts on some pop music, making Mingi groan. He isn’t in the mood to listen to pop music right now.

“Stop bickering,” Seonghwa says, rinsing the soap out of Mingi’s hair, “and feed me some pizza, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung happily obliges as he opens one box, a slice already missing as he had eaten it on his way up to Mingi’s apartment, and he takes a slice for Seonghwa. He walks over to his two friends, and before he can feed Seonghwa, Wooyoung throws his left arm around Seonghwa’s waist and nuzzles up against his back, making Seonghwa sway and spray the side of Mingi’s face with water.

“Hey!” Mingi yelps as water enters his nose, making Wooyoung cackle into Seonghwa’s back as he hides his face in his friend’s back, inhaling Seonghwa’s familiar scent. Wooyoung can be a complete menace at times, but Mingi and Seonghwa would never admit they love him the way he is. It is hard not to when Wooyoung is such a good and respectful person.

“Oops, my bad!” Wooyoung giggles as he finally releases Seonghwa and holds pizza slice up to his mouth as Seonghwa takes a bite while putting conditioner in Mingi’s hair.

“You can see yourself out if you’re only here to disturb our piece of mind—Wooyoung!” Mingi, it seemed like, is Wooyoung’s target for the day as he had slaps Mingi’s ass hard, enjoying the way he is bent forward and over the bathtub. It makes Seonghwa laugh loudly, the cute sound has Mingi giggling too, and in no time, the three of them are shaking with laughter, reveling in each other’s company. There is nothing more healing to Mingi than spending his time with his closest friends—and Yunho, of course.

『In your arms, in your arms

Staying high in low places』

More days passed and Mingi was helpless. He really doesn’t understand whether he has done something so deeply wrong to deserve this—to be ignored by her. It’s Sunday, and his texts weren’t even read. He thought of calling her, but ultimately talked himself down and found something else to do. Like write his sappy lyrics that is about her. Okay, Mingi has to admit this one. He feels like he is going crazy, and the problem is that he could talk about it to someone, but he just doesn’t want to. Not yet, at least. He is scared if he says it out loud, it would become reality. Her, leaving him. Not that they are together or anything, but Mingi just simply doesn’t want to lose the friendship that’s blossomed between them over the month. It was gradual and not sudden, he knew she still had some prejudice about him and didn’t fully trust him, but they were making progress. And now Mingi hates himself for the near kiss. If he had been a little bit smarter, more in control of himself, it would’ve never happened. And it kills him that he can’t turn back time, but would it change anything? Would he actually do it differently? Would he when she was looking at him with eyes that were shining with curiosity and want? When her expression was inviting and warm and yearning? Yeah, no, Mingi has self-control, but not to the point to stop himself from giving in when someone looked to be wanting just as much as him. And Mingi has to stop thinking about her, for God’s sake he’s been trying so hard over these past few days that he’s convinced he’s finally going mad, so when Wooyoung texts him that they are going out for dinner later tonight, Mingi jumps in delight and starts getting ready.

And they go to his favorite diner too—where him and her had met, and she was all wet from the rain and crying due to something unknown to Mingi—and he has to stop thinking about her when he’s with his friends! The atmosphere is light and cozy, lightning dim but not to the point you can’t see, and the music playing is retro and if Mingi turns around, he can see an elderly couple dance around happily, laughing and talking to each other. His stomach coils at the sight, and he tries to fight the yearning and sadness that tries to overtake him, he really does.

“So, Seonghwa,” Wooyoung breaks Mingi’s intense gaze and mindless thoughts, “how’s that art gallery looking?”

Seonghwa blushes for a second, and hides his mouth behind his palm as he tries to chew his chicken nugget faster, “Good, good. I found a spot for it, finally.”

Wooyoung beams at that and Mingi can see Hongjoong trying to bite down his smirk, “That’s amazing! Why haven’t you said anything?!”

“He thinks he’s gloating if he says anything,” It’s Hongjoong who answers instead of Seonghwa, and his answer makes both Mingi and Wooyoung roll their eyes at his words, “He thinks everything he’s achieved lately isn’t because of his own merit—”

“Hongjoong!” Seonghwa flushes even more, his cheeks already tinged pink from the alcohol he had consumed during the evening, “Why would you say that to them?!”

“So that there’s someone else other than me praising you for your hard work and letting you know that you are the reason these things are happening to you, my love.” Wooyoung pretends to gag when he hears the endearing words leave Hongjoong’s mouth, but Mingi just smiles and takes a sip of his own beer. It’s been a while since he had drunk, he felt the need tonight. He had hoped it would help him unwind—it wasn’t working so far.

“You need to stop having this impostor syndrome, Hwa.” Mingi hears himself talking, eyebrows furrowed as he steals a fry off of Wooyoung’s plate. The shorter one makes a sound of displeasure, and in a petty revenge, steals a pickle off of Mingi’s plate.

“Let’s stop talking about me, please.” Seonghwa says with a sigh, eyebrows furrowing, and it’s obvious he isn’t feeling comfortable. Mingi pretends he doesn’t see Hongjoong place his hand on Seonghwa’s thigh and squeeze. Mingi pretends he doesn’t suddenly feel a pang of jealousy towards the couple. They worked through their differences and doubts, and here they were, in love and going forward. Why could Mingi not have that too? Why did everyone abandon Mingi in the end? His parents told him he had to fend for himself if he chose to be a musician, and if it weren’t for his grandparents funding him until he has finished university—he doesn’t want to think where he’d be. Yunho had once abandoned him too, left him alone in this city, letting him unknowingly almost destroy himself. Wooyoung, now, has Seulgi and he spends a significant amount of his time with her, and is rarely up for their schedules gaming nights, Mingi feels abandoned. Seonghwa is like he has always been like, but he’s not as spontaneous as before. Sometimes Mingi just wants to go on night drives and listen to music and Seonghwa isn’t available because of Hongjoong anymore, Mingi feels abandoned.

“How’s the deal with the label going?” Hongjoong speaks up after the prolonged silence, not uncomfortable by any means, and Mingi heaves a sigh as he downs his beer in one go. Wooyoung raises an eyebrow at that.

“We’re still negotiating the terms, payment, and all the gist.” Mingi mutters, placing his chin in his palm. He’s not drunk, nor tipsy, but he feels a light buzz in his head. One more pint and he might just become tipsy.

“I see,” Hongjoong hums, rubbing his lower lip with two fingers, “But they’re treating you well, right?”

Hongjoong, as usual, is wearing fancy clothes. It’s a Sunday evening, yet he’s dressed to the nines. Mingi feels a little uncomfortable because of that—and just what’s his problem?! What’s gotten into him today? He’s never been like this before; he feels annoyed at himself.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mingi mutters, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Wooyoung, despite being labeled as someone who talks and talks without paying attention to those around himself, has picked up on Mingi’s displeased mood, and scoots his chair closer to his. He grins widely at Mingi and throws his arm around his friend’s shoulder, pulling Mingi into his side. Mingi doesn’t say anything despite not feeling up for the physical closeness, and allows Wooyoung to pinch his cheek.

“Lighten up, dude, what’s wrong?” Wooyoung asks, but not loud enough for Seonghwa and Hongjoong to hear as they have started softly conversing about something. Seonghwa is smiling, eyes narrowed and the way he’s leaning towards Hongjoong have both Wooyoung and Mingi knowing that he’s saying something inappropriate, and if Hongjoong’s eyes widening isn’t confirmation for Mingi and Wooyoung, then Hongjoong choking on his water certainly is.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Mingi gulps, picking around his food before he steals another fry from Wooyoung’s plate and dips it into his own ketchup, “I think I’m tired.”

“Dude, it’s a Sunday evening, how are you tried?” Wooyoung is confused as he finally releases Mingi, and he tries not to let it show on his face that he’s happy for the separation.

Mingi thinks for a second, though, and makes up a stupid lie, “I still haven’t recovered from yesterday’s game.”

“Right.” Wooyoung doesn’t believe him and it’s nothing new to the both of them, Wooyoung sees right through Mingi’s lies. Everyone does, actually, he can’t lie to save his life, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“I just—” And Mingi almost goes off, but he abruptly remembers where he is as people start clapping behind him, “Nothing, I’m just tired. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Okay.” Wooyoung whispers while looking disappointed, and Mingi suddenly hates himself for making his friend feel like that. He can’t help but think he’s made Wooyoung feel like he’s not worthy of knowing Mingi’s thoughts, of knowing what his heart desires. And he wants to talk about how much it affects him that she hasn’t texted back—and probably won’t, Mingi came to the realization—but there’s a lump in his throat that is kind of making him choke up right now. And when he hears Seonghwa giggling, and he looks up, Hongjoong is leaning towards Seonghwa with a mischievous look on his face, and then Seonghwa steals a kiss from his boyfriend that makes Hongjoong freeze. Wooyoung is typing away on his phone, and Mingi knows he’s talking to his girlfriend, Seulgi, because who else would Wooyoung be talking to? And the lump in Mingi’s throat tightens and he abruptly stands, heartbeat quickening. His three friends look up at him alarmed, and Mingi’s embarrassed, but he can’t help himself as he grabs his phone off the table and pushes it in his pocket.

“Sorry, guys, I’m not feeling well.” Mingi croaks out, clearing his throat as his tone wavers, “I’ll head home now, you enjoy yourselves.”

“Hey, Mingi,” Hongjoong has concern written all over his face and it makes Mingi almost cry. He hates how sensitive he is, “I can drive you home—”

“That’s cool, man.” Mingi is shaking his head at the offer, he needs fresh air and a long walk to try and clear his mind, otherwise he’ll have a panic attack. He can feel it, and he does not want that.

“Mingi—”

“Seriously.” Before any of his friends could insist more, he throws his jacket on and waves at them. And then he’s out of the diner in a second, feeling a little bit bad for not greeting Dahyun first, but the place feels too stuffy and warm for him to stay inside anymore. He takes off and tries to take deep breaths, but his lungs won’t expand fully. His hands are slightly shaking as he grabs his phone out of his pocket and he unlocks it, staring down at her contact. Nothing, still. Mingi’s heart clenches and he bites his lower lip, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. He can’t do this anymore; he feels like he’s breaking. He doesn’t understand why she won’t at least give him an explanation. Fine, she doesn’t want to be friends with him anymore, but she has to explain why. Mingi won’t rest until he doesn’t know the reason, and it’s making him crawl up a wall. He dials a number before he can even think more about it, and he finds himself teary eyed at the familiar male voice.

“Hey, Ming!” It’s cheery as always, and Mingi knows Yunho is smiling on the other end, “Fancy seeing you call, it’s not like I haven’t heard your voice like—four hours ago.”

“Yunho.” And Mingi feels horrible for worrying Yunho, because the last time he called his best friend and sounded like this—things were bad. And by the way Yunho goes quiet before he gasps quietly, Mingi knows he fucked up and he shouldn’t have called when he feels so all over the place, but he needed to hear his best friend’s voice, he needs Yunho. Because there’s no one else like Yunho in the world. No one else who understand him like Yunho. No one else who knows him like Yunho. No one else who’s always been next to him like Yunho has been. No one else who loves him unconditionally like Yunho does.

“Mingi, what’s wrong?” Yunho sounds panicked and before Mingi can stop himself, a tear falls down his cheek, “Please, talk to me. Do I—do I have to come home? I can drive down right now, but it’ll take two hours—”

“Yunho,” And Mingi’s now crying as he crosses the road quickly, walking to a park that’s dimly lit so he can cry in peace, away from prying eyes—not that there are many people out at this hour, “You don’t—don’t have to come home, I just—I’m so confused, and I’m tired, and I need someone.”

“Mingi, you have me, tell me what’s wrong.” Yunho’s voice is soft and Mingi is grateful they aren’t on facetime, because he’s positive Yunho’s eyes are filled with tears right now, and that would just make him cry harder. He tries to wipe at his cheeks, but the tears just keep coming, and the lump in his throat gets harsher and makes it a little hard to speak, but Mingi powers through.

“I met this girl,” He sniffs loudly and takes a deep breath, and Yunho is quiet, listening closely, “you know her, I’ve talked about her a few times.”

“The girl who paints and draws, right?” Yunho asks just to make sure.

“Yes.” Mingi sniffs, his tears becoming fewer, “And she’s—there was a heavy rain on Thursday and I drove her home before it got that bad, but I would have had to wait for it to pass in my car—but she invited me inside. And it was fine, it was fun and everything went well and then—then I—she—we almost kissed. Her mother got home and she interrupted us, and it’s just, she was a little weird right after it, but—she—she hasn’t texted back since Thursday, Yunho. She didn’t even look at my messages and I sent her plenty. I—I don’t know what to do because I think—I think I like her a lot, Yunho, and I don’t want to lose her over something so banal. We’re not even a thing, we’re just friends, but I—I don’t want to lose her too.”

What a word-vomit, Mingi thinks, as he sniffs loudly and rubs at his nose and cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, sitting on a bench as he pulls his legs up and hugs them to his chest. Yunho is quiet for a second on the other end, until he sighs long.

“Oh, Mingi,” He sounds sad, and it makes Mingi chew on his bottom lip again, holding back a new flood of tears, “That’s so fucked, what the hell! I know you feel like shit, and I know what you are thinking right now—I’ve known you for my whole life—so, please, stop blaming yourself for her own actions and reactions. You didn’t do anything wrong and she should treat you better. You don’t deserve to be ignored and you do deserve an explanation. I’m sorry I can’t be physically there for you.”

“This is enough.” Mingi whispers, feeling his heart less heavy now that he’s said all that, “It’s enough that you listen to me and reassure me. Hearing your voice is enough too, Yuyu.”

Yunho chuckles on the other end and Mingi cracks the smallest smile, “You’re so sappy, but I’m glad I’m able to help even if I’m not there with you. I would tackle you in a big hug right now and definitely buy your favorite chips and go on a drive with you, if I could.”

Now, that makes Mingi sad again, dammit, “You know what? Maybe you should drive here tonight.”

Yunho snorts, and Mingi stands, determined to walk home now, “I am planning on going home in a few weeks, actually.”

“Why not tomorrow?” Mingi insists, eyebrows furrowing at having to wait that much more. It’s been almost two months since Yunho has come home.

“We’ll, I’ve already got—”

“Stuff to do and shit.” Mingi cuts his best friend off, already knowing what he would say. They snort at the same time and then break into quiet giggles. Mingi is content all of a sudden, head a little clearer and lump from his throat gone, finally.

“I miss you.” Yunho beats Mingi to it, and Mingi smiles from ear to ear as he turns onto his street, he doesn’t live that far away from the diner.

“And I miss you too.” Mingi says it back, tipping his head back as he looks up at the night sky. The sky is finally clear and he can see the stars and the moon. It makes him smile again, Mingi loves the moon a little bit too much, perhaps, “I love you, Yuyu.”

“I love you, Min.”

And to Mingi, there is nothing more therapeutic than talking to his best friend, hearing his voice, being in his presence and able to share his affections towards him. Yunho is too precious to him.

Sunday (1:01 am)

Me: …you’re ignoring me, arent u? im sorry, y/n, i dont know what i did wrong, but we can talk about it we’re friends, after all…right?

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A/N: So, hi again. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, because I have another surprise for you all hehet. If you are interested in Seonghwa and Hongjoong's story, I can happily tell you that I have created their own spin-off on AO3 and it's called Our Atoms Fusing. It's on-hold currently, but I am happy to announce that I will be picking up writing for that too, and it will have in total around 7~8 parts. So, check it out if interested! ^^ I've kept this a secret for long as I wanted the timing to be right lol, despite the hints I have dropped about them, I am so glad I can finally talk about it. Istg, I'm obsessed with these two, I can't wait to continue their story too! And sorry if there are mistakes, I'm spent lol.

Also, if you happened to notice the mistake I made, no you don't, shhh.

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luveline · 2 years ago

Text

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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munson-blurbs · 7 months ago

Text

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Running an errand together brings out even more sides of Eddie Munson, including one that you wish you'd never seen (5.2k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, parental conflict, poverty, jealousy, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter six: the eye of the tiger

Guilt fit like the shoes your mom forced you to wear as a kid, the dressy ones reserved for special occasions. It pinched at you, dug into you, a constant reminder of its unwelcome presence.

And so you did everything you could to alleviate the discomfort. On Wednesday, Dad mosied into the lobby for his shift to find the floor meticulously swept; there was not a speck of dust in sight. If he had any suspicions, he didn’t bother to show them. He was probably just grateful for the help regardless of its cause.

Mom, as usual, was more skeptical of your intentions, raising a disbelieving brow when you presented her with the bills you’d reorganized by their due dates. You’d offered up the excuse of being bored with nothing better to do. Did she buy it? Unlikely. But she also didn’t pose further questions, choreographing another step in your dance.

And when Dad hung up the phone Friday afternoon, thumb and forefinger massaging the bridge of his nose, you jumped at the chance to fix the situation.

“Everything okay?”

He looked up with a start, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to realize you’d been standing in the doorway.

“That was Uncle Mo,” he said with an elongated sigh. “The delivery truck won’t start; something’s busted, I guess, so we won’t get our wallpaper until it’s out of the shop.”

“I can go after class,” you volunteered. The shop was a twenty minute bus ride from school, no transfers required. Lugging it on the subway back home might prove more challenging, but you could manage it.

He dashed your dreams with a swift shake of his head. “They close early for the Sabbath.” Which meant they’d be closed all day tomorrow, too.

Dad glanced around at the walls, lip scraping over his bottom lip. Their barrenness unsettled him; his pride and joy left empty and exposed.

Imagine how he’ll feel once this place is boarded up for good. Bet he won’t care about some ugly walls then.

“I’ll go on Sunday.” The promise practically made itself before you could stop it. Your final paper was due on Tuesday, and you had planned to spend your weekend finishing it, but that would need to take a backseat until the wallpaper crisis was resolved.

You could be part of that solution. For now, at least.

Sunlight teased summer’s beginning and warmed your skin. The walk to the subway station required you to cross paths with the mailbox you’d fought with—and humbly lost to—a few days prior. Dejection shot through your chest as you paused in front of it, focusing on a spot of rusted metal where the paint had flaked off. Short of intercepting the United States Postal Service, there was nothing you could do. Besides, your acceptance was probably already locked inside NYU’s admissions office, sitting among a pile of identical envelopes. Most of them, you suspected, were mailed with exuberance and not with the trepidation you carried.

The station’s stuffiness engulfed you as you descended the stairs, fingertips brushing the railing to ensure your balance. Your return trip would be short of torture, sweat prickling beneath your arms at the mere thought of dragging wallpaper through the thick humidity. You might have to splurge for a cab to avoid melting completely.

Frantic, impassioned guitar strumming grabbed your attention just before you approached the turnstile, echoing off of the concrete and infiltrating all of your senses. Your breath caught in your throat when you saw that Eddie was the source of the noise. He leaned against the wall as he played an electric guitar—the same one he had clutched so dearly when sleeping at the bus stop. There was no microphone, no amplifier; just him and his instrument. The case was open in front of him, now holding a few scattered dollar bills and some loose change.

He didn’t notice you, not at first, so you took that opportunity to silently watch him. His head nodded along with the beat, his voice a low timbre as he sang.

Trust I seek and I find in you

Every day for us something new

Open mind for a different view

And nothing else matters

The chords were nearly drowned out by his vocals, and the softer strumming should have clashed with the harsh lyrics, but he made it work.

It was somehow even sadder than when Metallica played it, though not from a lack of power. Eddie’s version intertwined anger with desperation, a somber reprise of the gritty original.

Deft fingers pressed into the frets, the pick pinched between the other hand’s thumb and forefinger. He took a step forward to launch himself into the chorus with a combination of focus and ease. This is what he was meant to do, what he was born to do. Whether he was in front of a captivated audience of thousands or a smattering of indifferent commuters, he was a rockstar.

Never cared for what they say

Never cared for games they play

Never cared for what they do

Never cared for what they know

And I know, yeah, yeah

Heat blossomed in your belly at his gravelly voice, the way he pulled the notes from the depths of his diaphragm and belted them out. The E train came and went as it screeched along the tracks, but you remained as though the soles of your feet were glued to the ground.

So close, no matter how far

Couldn't be much more from the heart

Forever trusting who we are

No, nothing else matters

For a brief moment after finishing the song, Eddie’s chest puffed out with pride. It quickly faltered in the absence of applause, but before he could play another song, his gaze landed on you. He grinned and shook a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. Part of you wanted to fix it for him, to tuck it behind his ear or sweep it all back into a ponytail, but you refrained. Instead, you dug into your purse and tossed a dollar into the case.

“Was that the one I gave you for the cab?” Eddie asked, fingers absently brushing over the strings in a series of random chords.

“Nah, this was from the other asshole guest who made me late for class.”

Your jibe caught him off-guard and he actually laughed with such force that he had to stop playing. “And here I thought I was the only one.” He ran a hand through his hair, wincing as it snagged on a knot. “Are you going to the library or something?”

You lacked the energy to explain that the library was in the opposite direction, opting instead to cut to the chase. “Picking up the wallpaper.”

Eddie’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head. “I thought it was being delivered.” As you relayed the whole broken-truck saga, he started sliding the guitar strap up off of his back and crouched down, stuffing the money from the case into his pockets. “Cool. I’ll go with.”

“Oh, I wasn’t–” You paused mid-sentence to consider your words. “I mean, you don’t have to. I can do it on my own.”

“S’fine.” Eddie laid the guitar down with the fragility that one would handle a newborn baby and snapped the case shut. “Didn’t realize this station is basically dead on Sundays. I normally just play here during the week, but I’ve been out of commission.” He held up his bandaged finger and pouted impishly.

The familiar playfulness settled back into the conversation, breaking up any lingering awkwardness, and you snatched up the opportunity to tease him. “Ah, right. Your man stuff.”

“Very manly. Burly, some might say.” He extended one hand in front of him, palm up, to gesture towards the turnstiles. “Shall we?”

You led and he followed behind so closely that his chest smacked into your back when you stopped in your tracks. The uneven weight distribution, courtesy of the guitar case lolling at his side, thrusted him forward, the metal buckle on his belt digging into your skin through your shirt.

It set off a domino effect, one that had you falling face-first to the ground. Before you could even brace for impact, you felt Eddie’s fingers digging into your hip and tugging you upright. The way he caught you was almost reflexive, his grasp controlled enough to avoid bruising your skin, but strong enough that you realized he could if he wanted to.

“What happened?” His tone was mixed with both concern and amusement; a crackle of laughter broke up his question.

An embarrassing adrenaline surge shot through you, bringing with it a chill that immediately preceded a heatwave of perspiration. “The, um…” You lamely pointed at the card swipe machines that had replaced the token receptacles. “I forgot that we need those MetroCard things.”

Eddie let go of your hip and you felt his absence almost immediately. “No, we don’t.” He left no time for questioning, hoisting the case to the other side and pushing himself up and over the bar, landing on his feet with cat-like dexterity.

You stared at him in disbelief. Sure, you’d jumped the turnstile a time or two, but that was back in high school, under the influence of friends you hadn’t talked to since.

“What’re you waiting for?” He called out. A Cheshire-cat grin graced his lips.

What were you waiting for? It’s not like the transit police were scouring the station. The poor schmuck stuck at the now-defunct token booth was exasperatedly trying to explain the new system to an older gentleman; he probably wouldn’t have noticed a wildebeest stampede. And you certainly weren’t eager to contribute to the politicians who lined their pockets with taxpayer money.

Fuck it.

In one swift motion—much more graceful than your earlier stumble—you mimicked his actions. One foot, then the other, your biceps supporting your body weight.

“You little rebel.” Eddie tutted, his smirk showing off his teeth. You never noticed the way one canine is slightly sharper than the other, and it digs into his lower lip. “This is how it starts, y’know. One day, you’re skipping out on train fare; the next, you’re committing armed robbery.”

If he kept rubbing your nerves raw, you might be more tempted to commit homicide.

Another E train arrived not long after. You were an expert at scouting empty seats, and you made a beeline for the first one you found. There was another one across the way, just vacated by a woman pushing a stroller, and you assumed Eddie would take it.

Instead, he shoved his guitar case towards you, parting your legs between the knees, and grabbed onto one of the overhead handles.

“Can you hold this?” Eddie asked belatedly. He rocked forward onto his toes as the train moved to keep his balance. A guitar pick necklace swung out from beneath the vee of his shirt and swayed above you.

You drank in the way he towered over you, so close that he was all you could see. The mingled scents of the motel’s soap and a musky deodorant wafted off of him and enveloped your senses. For a second, there was only him, and whatever the outside world had to offer was just shy of meaningless.

“There’s a seat down there.” You peered around him and gestured to the one you’d spotted earlier, careful not to point at anyone.

Eddie looked but declined with a shrug. “Nah, I’m good. I like standing.”

“See, that’s the kind of thing that separates the natives from the transplants.” You smiled up at him. “You didn’t even want to sit down after a gig? Or a long rehearsal?”

“I didn’t really ever take the subway,” he admitted. “Maybe, like, once or twice.”

You huffed out an incredulous laugh. “How did you get around?”

“Taxis, car service.” He ticked off the items on his free hand. “One time we rented a helicopter, but then the label threatened to revoke the company card.” He chuckled forlornly, like the memory was heavier than an impromptu helicopter ride.

“Sounds like you were living the life.”

Eddie shook off his wistfulness with a cheeky grin. “Hell yeah. Expensive restaurants, swanky hotels…did I ever tell you about the time we trashed our room?”

“You did not.” You’re not sure you want to know, considering he’s currently staying in one of yours.

He laughed. “Get this: we come back to the hotel after a gig. We’re all fuckin’ exhausted. As soon as we walk into the lobby, the night manager is on us like a hawk. I mean, the guy gave a stink eye like you wouldn’t believe.” He tried mimicking him, but he was too upbeat to embody the manager’s full ire. “Anyway, we’re not in the room for five minutes when there’s a knock on the door. Of course it’s that schmuck, warning us about the noise policy.”

You looked at him incredulously. “That’s why you destroyed a hotel room?”

“Mhm.” Eddie proudly nodded, not missing the way concern furrowed your brow. “Don’t worry, Heiress. I’d never trash your place.”

“I’d have to get Phyllis after you.” Laughter bubbled out of you at his visible cringe, probably thinking of being on the other end of her baseball bat. “Okay, so what’s the dumbest thing you guys bought with the company card?”

People pushed through the aisle as the train pulled up to the stop, elbows nudging Eddie until he was practically on top of you. Every hair on your body stood up at the sudden change in proximity. “Probably one of those stuffed tiger things for our apartment,” he admitted.

“You and your band bought a taxidermied tiger?” You scoffed.

His face flushed, and he scratched at his jaw like he’d been caught red-handed. “N-No, not the whole band. Just me and the drummer. We, um, she was my girlfriend, I guess.”

Puzzle pieces started falling into place and interlocking curves. His ex-girlfriend was also in the band, which was probably why they broke up once Eddie quit. “How long were you two together?” You instantly regret not asking about the tiger instead, for his sake and yours.

“Hard to say; we were pretty on-and-off.” Eddie tried to play it off casually but terse laughter gave him away. The subway lurched and Eddie swayed forward again, his knee grazing yours. “But it was about a year from start to finish.”

You let the information sink in. He had a girlfriend in Death’s Echo, but he seemed to be unattached at the moment. Made sense, considering he was living in your motel rather than with a partner.

“That’s what no one tells you about money: it runs out.” Eddie continued. “It’s like, common sense or whatever. But when you have no money and then you get a shit-ton of it, it’s hard to imagine ever going back.”

His eyes found yours like he had been searching for them, and you held his gaze until a monotone voice crackled over the speaker, announcing that the train was approaching the Forest Hills-71st Avenue station.

“We have to transfer here.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose, clearly not thrilled by this extra step, but he followed your lead without any audible protest.

“Y’know,” he said as the doors opened, the two of you joining the swarm of people pushing their way out, “my neighborhood back home was also called Forest Hills.”

“Seems fancy,” you quipped.

He laughed, head thrown back. “Oh, yeah. It’s the most glamorous trailer park in all of Indiana.”

The faux pas curdled in your stomach. What were you thinking? He had just confessed that he was broke before Death’s Echo.

“Sorry, that was stupid.”

He shrugged off your comment, seemingly unbothered. “How many stops is this next one?”

“Just two.”

He hummed his acknowledgment, and with the R train less crowded than the E, you found seats adjacent to one another.

You did your best to ignore the way his right leg brushed your left, the worn denim against your bare skin as the train jostled him. He murmured a barely-audible “sorry.”

There was no reason for him to apologize, and you almost told him this, but you substituted a tight smile for words. Truthfully, you were glad he confirmed that the touch was accidental. You’d nearly nudged him back, a secret handshake of sorts, and your body burned with the mere prospect of embarrassment.

The train screeched to a stop in front of a sign that barely read 63rd Drive-Rego Park, most of the letters covered in colorful graffiti tags.

“This is us,” you said, handing him back his guitar so you could stand up.

Eddie stepped aside with a small bow, equal parts awkward and endearing. “So, uh, where are we going, exactly?” He stayed close enough so you could hear him over the cacophony of commuters.

“S’just a few blocks.” You maintained your fast-paced stride so as to not get bowled over.

He kept up with you surprisingly well for someone unused to navigating the city’s public transit. The fresh air welcomed you as you ascended the stairs, leaving behind the station’s mugginess. Conversations and traffic replaced metallic clunking while you weaved in and out of a sea of pedestrians, checking every so often to ensure you hadn’t left Eddie behind.

Bold white letters on a maroon awning proudly proclaimed Eisen’s Paint and Supply, and the faint sound of bell chimed when you opened the door. A middle-aged man stood behind the counter, eyes lighting up when you walked in.

“Uncle Mo!” You exclaimed, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. Uncle Mo wasn’t your father’s brother, but their bond went beyond blood relation. He was part of nearly all of Dad’s stories since they’d met in high school: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

There was more gray in his hair and in his beard than the last time you’d seen him, the lines from his lips to his jaw more pronounced, but he still wore the same cologne that you’d remembered. The familiar scent was like home, a reminder of all of the Thanksgivings your families had spent together before the motel engulfed your life.

He beamed, his hands bracing your upper arms as he got a better look at you. “Look at you; so grown up!” His eyes misted over for a second before he blinked the moisture away. “How long has it been?”

“Too long.” You turned back to Eddie, waving him over and introducing him. Uncle Mo politely extended a hand that Eddie shook quickly before shoving his fingers back in his pocket.

“Before I get your paper,” Uncle Mo said to you with a mischievous smile, “I have a bit of a surprise.” The stockroom door swung open on cue and a young man stepped out from behind it.

Your hand flew to your mouth in shock, every bone in your body vibrating. “Ben?” The name was muffled but still audible, and Ben opened his arms just in time for you to tackle him in an embrace.

His gangly teenage limbs had been replaced with hard muscle, his chest straining through his t-shirt. There was no trace of the wispy excuse for a mustache he’d once proudly sported; his face was freshly shaven, only the slightest evidence of his stubble scratched against your cheek when he pulled you to him.

“I couldn’t believe it when my dad told me you were stopping by,” Ben said, finally letting go after a few moments. He looked at Eddie as if noticing him for the first time. “Ben. Nice to meet you.”

Eddie said nothing in response, his jaw set and his arms crossed over his chest. Whatever friendliness he’d shown Uncle Mo was clearly not being granted to his son.

“Ben, this is Eddie,” you hurried to explain before the tension became unbearably dense. “He works for the motel, doing different repairs and odd jobs. Whatever we need, really.”

Your old friend nodded and brought his attention back to you. “Do you guys need help bringing the wallpaper back? I don’t have anything to–”

“We’ve got it.” Eddie cut him off curtly, clipping the conversation’s wings. His eyes narrowed in judgmental assessment and their milk chocolate hue turned dark.

Ben had evidently stepped on his toes; you thought back to the wasp’s nest and his adamance to clobber it with a baseball bat despite your insistence to wait until you bought the spray. You shot Eddie a look that he either disregarded or didn’t notice, because his clenched jaw never loosened.

“Right, yeah.” A blush crept into Ben’s cheeks, the other man’s brusqueness catching him off-guard. “But we should catch up soon,” he said to you, “maybe grab a cup of coffee?”

It was an effort to ignore the way Eddie tensed up; even more so to pretend like his reaction hadn’t stirred something inside of you. Everything between you and him, and you and Ben, was strictly platonic. Whatever melodrama he’d conjured up was his problem, not yours.

Your relationship with Eddie teetered between acquaintances and friends; he was in no position to get bent out of shape over you going for coffee with Ben or any other man.

You pushed the intrusive thought away long enough to answer Ben’s question. “Yeah, of course! You’re home for the whole summer?”

“Actually…” Ben’s grin widened, harboring a secret he was eager to spill. “I’m back for good. You’re looking at Dr. Benjamin Eisen, D.D.S.”

“That’s amazing!”

He nodded happily, enthusiasm unrestrained. “Thanks. I’m hoping to open up a practice nearby, so I’ll be sticking around for a while.”

That was the best news you’d heard in a while. The pair of you were once inseparable, always devising plans to convince your parents to extend their visits. When you were six, you’d almost started a fire trying to put on a pot of coffee, hoping that it would coax the Eisens into staying longer.

Too bad you’d forgotten to add the water.

Uncle Mo returned from the stock room with rolls of wallpaper, and his son shuffled towards him to take one from his grasp.

“Are you sure I can’t help out?” Ben tried again. He only looked at you when he spoke.

You almost took him up on his offer, the reply sitting on the tip of your tongue, but Eddie answered for you.

“We’re good,” he said flatly, taking the rolls from the other men. “I used to lug around amps all the time. This is nothing.”

He’d uttered the same phrase before taking a bat to a wasp’s nest, and he’d ended up hurt. Still, inviting Ben along would almost certainly guarantee an awkward commute home. At best, you’d force stilted small talk; at worst, Eddie might shove Ben onto the tracks.

“Thanks anyway,” you said politely, trying to temper your irritation.

Ben gave a tight smile, brows shooting up when remembered something. “Let me give you my new phone number so we can set up a time to meet up.” He plucked a business card from the little plastic container on the desk, flipping it over and scrawling his number on the back.

“Sounds great.” It truly did, save for Eddie’s glare that made you grateful looks couldn’t actually kill.

Tucking the card into your purse, you held him in one last hug before bidding them goodbye.

Eddie said nothing the entire walk back to the subway station. He strode there despite heaving around a guitar case and cylinders of wallpaper. You suspected he could have flown there if he wasn’t so bogged down. The closest he came to acknowledging your presence was the scoff he let out when you veered off-course to buy a MetroCard.

You ignored him, still fuming over his behavior towards Ben. With trembling fingers, you dropped your change into the coin slot, acutely aware of his presence as he stood beside you. He was close enough that you could hear his tense sigh, as though his frustration was justified.

Yanking the card out from behind the swinging Plexiglass, you silently stalked over to the turnstile, Eddie begrudgingly hot on your heels. The tiny diagram showed the magnetic strip facing downwards and you did your best to emulate it. After two failed swipes, the machine relented and gave an approving beep.

“Go,” you told Eddie, and when he stared at you blankly, you repeated yourself with considerably less patience. “Go.”

“Okay, okay.” There was no hiding his surprise at your insistence, the sharpness of your tongue. He obviously wasn't accustomed to taking the attitude he dished out. His eyebrows crashed into his hairline as he maneuvered through, wallpaper bumping up against the metal gates.

There wasn’t enough money left on the card for you, so after a brief glance at your surroundings, you once again lift yourself up and over to the other side. The metal barrier seemed laughably obsolete beneath you.

Eddie blinked twice in rapid succession but composed himself before you reached him again. A peculiar expression graced his face; not so much amusement as much as admiration. If you weren’t so annoyed with him, with his antics back at Eisen’s, you might have cracked a joke about his bad influence rubbing off on you.

The first leg of the trip—the shortest part, as it were, went smoothly. It was once the E train departed from Forest Hills that it almost immediately halted, the exasperated conductor announcing that extensive track work was causing delays.

“Fucking great,” you muttered. Experience told you that the remainder of the ride would be stop-and-go, which meant more time spent with Eddie.

He’d exhaled an exasperated sigh of his own, eyes flickering over the subway car and foot tapping to a beat only he could hear. When he finally spoke, it was the last thing you’d expected him to say.

“Wanna play I Spy?”

“Um, what?”

“Y’know, I spy with my little eye…” he explained, as though you were confused about the game concept.

It took every last ounce of energy not to burst out laughing at his odd request, though it helped that annoyance still tarnished your mood. “All right. Sure.”

“Cool.” He glanced around again, rubbing his palms over his thighs in concentration. “Okay, I spy with my little eye, something purple.”

Squinting, you searched for shades of lilac and violet. “That woman’s shirt?” You jutted your chin towards an older woman sitting across the car.

“Nope.”

“That little girl’s shoes?”

Eddie just shook his head, his dimples gradually deepening with each wrong answer you gave.

Your next three guesses were also incorrect, and Eddie triumphantly pumped his fist when you admitted defeat.

“It’s the words on that sign,” he said, pointing to an advertisement for psychic readings.

It was your turn, and it didn’t take you long to find your target.

“I spy with my little eye, something…douchey.” Your gaze never left his face, watching the skin crease between his brows as he connected your implication.

Eddie threw his head back and cackled, drawing the ire of your fellow commuters. You shushed him with a hiss, his apathy only fueling your anger.

“Fine, I guess I deserved that.” He leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms upwards. For a second, you thought he might drape one over your shoulders, but he brought them right back to his lap.

“You guess?” You gawped, and he laughed even louder. “You were a total asshole to Ben for no reason.”

Eddie’s voice got feather-soft; you had to lean in to hear him. “Trust me; I had a reason.”

You snorted. “What, him offering to help carry the wallpaper threatened your ‘man stuff?’”

“Something like that.”

Crossing your arms, you shot him a bemused grimace. Whatever testosterone-laden excuse he concocted would just strengthen your irritation, so you saved yourself the headache and plundered on.

“Ben and I have been friends since I was born.” That wasn’t an exaggeration; a photo of one-year-old Ben holding newborn you was tucked away in one of Mom’s albums. Dad had snapped the photo while Uncle Mo sat next to his son, helping cradle your head. You were only a few hours old. “Whatever your problem is, don’t make it mine. Or his,” you add.

Eddie had no response to that, and you preferred it that way. Maybe he was learning not to argue with you, especially when he was so obviously wrong.

Your response halted all conversation for the rest of the extended ride and continued during the short trek back to the motel. The quiet was necessary, but not peaceful, and you refused to buckle when an invisible pull urged you to talk again, to push past the discomfort. If you couldn’t outright tell him that he’d upset you, the least he could do was feel that anger.

“Where do these go?” Eddie asked once the motel’s doors closed behind you. You pointed to the supply closet and he ambled over, wincing as the hinges squeaked in a plea for lubrication. “All right, so, I can get started on this tonight if you want.”

You considered this for a moment before shaking your head. The lobby could survive another night with bare walls, but you needed a break. A break not just from Eddie, but from his naivety to his actions having consequences.

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

He stilled, his hands halfway in his pockets. “I mean, I was going to stop by anyway; I might as well—”

“I think I just need some quiet tonight.” It was the nicest response you could muster, though the way the words passed through your clenched teeth gave away your annoyance.

“Oh.” His cheeks puffed out as he exhaled a breath of air, his eyes refusing to meet yours. Confusion tied his tongue, but if he didn’t realize the mistake he’d made, you were in no mood to spell it out. He waited a beat for you to follow up, to iron out the creases with an explanation that had nothing to do with his earlier behavior, but that never happened.

The lack of reassurance pained you, too. You despised leaving matters unfinished; part of you wanted to apologize—for what, you weren’t sure—just to have some resolution.

Eddie raked his fingers through his curls. “Well, I’m sorry for pissing you off, or whatever.”

Or whatever. Those two words almost had you smacking him upside the head with the wallpaper tubes. Maybe sealing his lips with the glue, too.

The worst part was the shock on his face when you’d wordlessly stormed out of the supply closet towards your room. Like he had no idea what he’d done wrong or why his non-apology fell flat.

No, that was a lie. The worst part was actually the pang of disappointment in your chest when there were no footsteps pounding down the hall, no knock on your door, no attempt to talk through the situation. As much as you wanted to be left alone, you’d clutched to an optimistic sliver that he would follow you. It was a pathetic need for proof that he cared about you as more than just his employer. As his friend.

But there was nothing.

That silence hurt most of all.

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#eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #lam

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yaniiiiism · 10 days ago

Note

hi can I request anything about minho PLS ur newest story of him was so cute I’ve read it like 6 times so far 💗💗, but can it be fluffy pls :) thank you x

hihi love <33 so glad u loved the minho bd oneshot !! tyvm for the req too!! also YES I LOVEEE writing about minho. esp fluffs. so here you go, your wish is my command hshshshshshsh; its a pretty short one cuz it rly was sitting in my drafts for a loooong for now and w the 'just fine' series+other writing schedule i cant rly write more for now hah😭😭😭 hope you like this one >< !!

our moonlight. ꒰ a l.mh imagine ꒱

✦ ִ 💌 ⁔ ⁔ ۪ ⊹ ֗ ꫂ

masterlist > schedule > main directory

♪┆pairing : lee minho x fem!reader ͏ ♪┆info : established relationship, domestic fluff, tooth rotting fluff, cute, loveeee ♪┆ personas: lino idol!au , reader is doing masters+wears spectacles, but career isn't mentioned and hobbies either so add yours !! ♪┆word count : 0.9k ♪┆warnings : sm fluff. ty for the req anon <3

The hum of the city outside was a comforting backdrop as Y/n sat in her apartment, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She adjusted the brown frame of her glasses, staring at the glowing screen in front of her.

Assignments always had a way of consuming her time, but tonight, her thoughts kept drifting elsewhere.

The sound of keys jingling at the door snapped her back to reality. She smiled to herself, knowing exactly who it was.

The door opened quietly, and the guy stepped inside, the dim light of the apartment highlighting his newly dyed dark brownish-scarlet hair. It suited him perfectly—soft, warm, hot, and too fine.

He noticed her immediately, sitting on the couch in one of his tees- fitting her loosely, paired with shorts that barely peeked out from under the hem. She looked effortlessly cute, and his heart swelled at the sight.

"Busy, hmm?" Her boyfriend asked, his voice gentle yet teasing, as he closed the door behind him.

She looked up, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

"You’re home," she exclaimed, pushing her glasses up her nose. "And you look so fluffy today. I can’t get over how perfect this hair color is on you."

Minho cringed at her words, his face turning into mock-disgust, running a hand through his soft locks. "You think so? I thought you’d like it."

"I love it," she replied, her tone affectionate. "You look like a hot rockstar who's secretly a red velvet muffin inside."

"Interesting choice of words.." He chuckled, shaking his head at the nickname. "A red velvet muffin? Really? I was going for something more...mature."

She giggled, setting her laptop aside. "Oh, trust me, you look very mature," she teased, her eyes trailing over him. "But I can’t help it, you’re just so adorable."

Minho made his way over to her, his movements slow and deliberate. He leaned down, brushing his lips against her forehead before whispering, "And you, look way too good in my shirt."

Y/n smirked, pulling him down by his hand to sit on the armchair nearby. "You mean my shirt now," she corrected, her voice playful.

"Is that so?" His eyes sparkled with mischief. He sat down, pulling her with him so that she ended up on his lap, straddling him.

She gasped softly, her hands instinctively finding their place on his broad shoulders. "Someone’s feeling bold tonight."

"Bold?" He tilted his head, his expression innocent. "I’m just getting comfortable."

She rolled her eyes, though her heart was racing. "Comfortable, huh?"

He nodded, his hands resting on her waist, gently tugging her closer. "Very comfortable. I mean, how could I not be when I have you right here?" His voice dropped to a whisper, lips brushing against hers.

She couldn’t help but smile, her hands moving to play with the soft strands of his dyed hair. "You really do look good with this color," she murmured, her lips hovering just above his.

"Then stop talking about it and do something," he challenged, his voice low and teasing.

Her smile widened as she accepted the challenge, closing the small distance between them. Their lips met in a slow, deliberate kiss, the kind that sent shivers down her spine. His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her even closer as the kiss deepened.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she melted into him, every inch of her body aware of his presence. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, and it was comforting, grounding her in the moment.

His hands slid up her back, his touch gentle. He broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against her lips, "You taste like strawberries."

"You look like one," She chuckled softly, brushing her nose against his. "But you taste like trouble."

"Is that a bad thing?" he asked, his voice pouty, laced with amusement.

"Not at all," she replied, capturing his lips again.

The world outside her apartment faded away, leaving just the two of them, lost in each other. Their kisses stayed soft, more calm, as if they were making up for all the time they’d spent apart.

Minho's hands roamed over her body, his touch setting her skin on fire. He loved how she responded to him, the way she clung to him, the little gasps that escaped her lips between kisses.

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer, as if she could never get enough of him. She could feel the smile on his lips as he kissed her, and it made her heart swell with love.

Eventually, they pulled apart, both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other.

"You really need to come over more often," Y/n whispered, her fingers tracing the outline of his jaw.

The guy only chuckled, his breath warm against her skin. "I’m not going anywhere, not when you look at me like that."

She blushed, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. "Like what?"

"Like I’m the only person in the world," he replied, his voice soft, sincere.

She smiled, her heart fluttering at his words. "That’s because you are," she whispered, leaning in to kiss him once more.

This time, it was better, more tender, a promise of all the moments they would share in the future.

And as they held each other, wrapped up in their own little world, they knew that nothing else mattered. Not the assignments, not the schedules, not the outside world—just the two of them, here, in this moment.

a/n. ୨ৎ

LOVED writing this. ginger/red/brown lino has me on a chokehold (clearly). originally thought of seungmo but minho fit too so !! thanku to my first req, dear anon, once again, hope u love it bae <3 if u liked this lmk by commenting or liking <3 check out my post-schedule/masterlist/taglists/etc right here ! channie late bd fic soon ! thank you for reading >< !! — love, yani ♥︎

thank you for the dividers! ♡︎ @adornedwithlight

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

Note

In a week-

Hear me out: Rockstar Poly!marauders and Rockstar!reader???? Like, maybe no one knew the marauders was dating reader till they performed together for an event?????

Thanks for requesting lovely!

join the party

rockstar poly!marauders x rockstar!reader ♡ 1k words

The tabloids had started speculating when too many of your tour dates lined up. It’s only natural that you’d end up spending some time together, in the same occupation and occupying the same spheres, so you were seen with each of the boys at various eateries, at afterparties, on the street. The only problem for journalists was, they couldn’t figure out which band member you were dating.

They were clutching at straws. A picture of you grabbing Remus’ hand to pull him into a store, an interview wherein Sirius had complimented your new single, a zoomed-in video of James carrying four coffees back up to the hotel instead of three. The speculation was all over the place, scattered and nearly baseless.

Not after tonight. It had been Lily, the Marauders’ manager, who’d had the idea to take this story by the reins. She’d pointed out that fans were only getting more obsessed with the question of which of the boys you were dating, and with both of you releasing new albums soon, it was as good a time as any to capitalize on that interest. Plus, if you did the big reveal before any magazine could figure it out, it’d be your concert that went viral, not their publication. “More press,” she’d said enticingly, “means more people learning your names and listening to your music.”

You’d thought the boys would be the ones to have qualms. Remus wasn’t the type to enjoy making his private life public (it was more an unfortunate side-effect of his career than a draw) and James always talked about how keeping your relationship a secret made it feel less like they had to share you with everyone else, but in the end, they got on board with Lily’s scheme quickly. You all agreed that someone was going to figure you all out sooner or later, and if your romantic life was going to be broadcast, it may as well be on your own terms.

Still, that doesn’t mean you’re not nervous.

“Loosen up, angel,” James says, prodding at your foot with his as you lie on Remus’ chest, picking through his usually well-guarded stash of chocolate. “This is supposed to be fun, remember?”

“It’s not the show I’m worried about,” you say, rubbing your socked foot along his mindlessly. “I’m excited to play with you guys, I just wish we could do that without everyone making assumptions.”

Remus hums in agreement, but Sirius makes a derisive sound, turning to look at you from the mirror. His eyeliner is half done, making one eye seem big and dangerous and the other naked.

“You two are being so dramatic,” he says. “Of course they’re gonna assume, and they’ll be right. That’s the point.”

You sigh, tipping your head back onto Remus’ shoulder, and he runs his hand up and down your side commiseratively.

“It’s going to be a great show.” James tries again to lift your foul mood. You try to look less dismal in return. “You and Sirius’ voices go so well together, the crowd will love it.”

“It’s true.” Sirius smirks at you through the mirror. “And later, we’ll go to the afterparty—”

“Do we really have to?” Remus asks.

James looks sympathetic, reaching forward to rub his calf consolingly. “‘Fraid so, love. Lily says the only way to control the narrative is to talk to people after the show. We don’t have to stay the whole time, but we’ll practically be on the clock.”

“Anyway,” Sirius goes on. “We’ll go to the afterparty, and everyone will tell us how cute we are together, and everyone north of the equator will want to be us and fuck us at the same time.”

You can tell Remus has something to say about that, but before he can, Lily pops her head into the dressing room. “Guys, the opener is finishing up,” she says, eyes lingering on each of your faces assessingly. “Everyone ready?”

“Just a second…yeah,” Sirius says, finishing his perfectly messy eyeliner. “Ready.”

Lily nods before ducking back out, off to go coordinate light technicians or whatever she does in the rush before shows. James offers you and Remus a hand each, hauling you up. You lick your thumb, wiping a bit of chocolate from the side of Remus’ mouth, and he gives you a half-smile of thanks.

“We got this,” you whisper to him, and he takes your hand, squeezing lightly.

“I know we do, sweetheart.”

Sirius is the only one talking as you all make your way to the side of the stage, the crowd cheering loudly as the opening act wraps up their set.

“Hey.” A hand lands on your shoulder, and you turn to find James attached to it. He’s looking at you with more than the usual pre-show nerves, something more like worry. “Are you really upset about this? We don’t have to go through with it, it’s not too late to tell Lily it’s off.”

Yes it is, but he’s a sweetheart for saying so. “No, I’m okay,” you promise, reaching up to squeeze his wrist reassuringly. The other band is exiting on the opposite side of the stage, the lights going out. You’re going to be going out there any minute. “I’m excited to perform with you guys, and…and I’m ready to be done with the sneaking around. I’m just nervous, I guess.”

James slides his hand up from your shoulder to cup your face, your hand still clasped loosely around his wrist. He smooths his thumb over your cheek fondly, eyes gone soft under the faint glaze of adrenaline. “Don’t be, sweetheart. You’re going to do great, and we’ll all be up there together.” He stoops lower so only you can hear him. “Just between us, you and Sirius sound great together, but you can hit notes he never could. They’re gonna love you out there.”

You grin, and Sirius turns around, eyeing the both of you. “I heard my name,” he says accusingly. “What’re we talking about?”

The lights come back on, and that’s your cue. “Nothing!” you chirp, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the stage. “Let’s go.”

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hazelsmirrorball · 1 year ago

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Rockstar Girlfriend IV. | Hazel Callahan

Rockstar! Hazel Callahan x Popstar! Reader Summary: Hazel Callahan and Y/n L/n have to be in a pr relationship, but both of them can stand each other but recently things are starting to look up. Warnings: Enemies to lovers! Enemies to lovers! Enemies to lovers! Angst , slight jealous! Hazel. Sad! Fight (not physical) Not proof read. Sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my main language. a/n: It’s friday so it’s time to be sad in bed! Here you guys go, thank you so so much for all the support. I love reading your comments, they really make my day. Thank you for reading

part one. part two. part three. part five

Hazel Callahan was never a jealous person, why would she be? There was no reason to be jealous. She had everything she could possibly think of, fame, money, talent and the list goes on and on. She could talk all day about all the things she had but aside from those material things Hazel knew she was attractive, she could have anyone fall at her feet in an instance. So she couldn’t understand the wave of jealousy hitting her body as she saw Y/n from afar flirting with someone. Hazel gripped tightly on the beer she was holding glaring daggers towards Y/n as she threw her head back laughing at some joke the person next to them.

“I bet it wasn't even that funny” She muttered to herself while taking a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving Y/n ‘s way.

“Who isn’t that funny?” Josie asked, popping out of nowhere behind Hazel causing her to jump, almost spilling her drink. Hazel rested her hand on her chest trying to push away the fact that she had scared the living shit out of her. Josie turned towards her unconsciously blocking Hazel’s view of Y/n.

“What the fuck, Josie? You can’t jump out of nowhere. I could’ve spilled my drink on this lovely white couch. This is a million dollar couch. We can’t afford to ruin this couch” Hazel rambled reaching towards the couch pushing herself up so she could see the interactions Y/n was having with the unknown stranger better. Josie rolled her eyes, still not noticing Hazel's true intentions.

“Have you seen your net worth? You could fill a house just with those damn couches and still have money. But that’s not even the important thing. Today’s the perfect day to scare people.” Josie responded by pulling Hazel by the arm, making her sit next to her on the couch.

Josie was right, today was the perfect day to scare people. October 31st had rolled around really quick and this year people were more excited than ever. And people being excited by something made management want to hop on that train. That’s how Hazel and everyone else found themselves at a Halloween costume party in honor of B/n’s album launch. As much as Hazel wanted to deny it, she actually wanted to be at that dumb party. She had seen how important that album was for Y/n and her career. She had worked hard to get it out and the least Hazel could do was support her.

The past few months as a PR couple weren’t as bad as she thought it would be. Being forced to go around town to be spotted by paps and fans so turned into dates where they could talk countless hours about things that didn’t make sense. Movie nights, sleepovers, late night dinners, they outings started transitioning from public to the privacy of their house. Hazel had learned every inch of Y/n’s apartment and every incho of her heart. It was hard for Hazel to see the line of where their pr relationship ended and their relationship started. She had found herself wanting for her phone to light up wishing it was a text from Y/n or how everything reminded her about Y/n. She was falling and she was falling hard.

All she could think about was Y/n. Every ounce of inspiration started with Y/n. She made Hazel feel complete. Yes she had “everything” but nothing in the world could make her feel the way Y/n did. Hazel wanted her to feel happy and if she had to go to that party and dress up, she would do it in a heartbeat. So as soon as the theme of the party got revealed, Hazel found herself at the nearest halloween store.

Hazel was actually excited to go to the party and see Y/n, knowing that she was going to love her ghostface costume, but never in a million years she would’ve thought that she would see Y/n, her Y/n, snuggling up to some random person.

“Hello? Earth to Hazel. Are you here?” Josie exclaimed concerned, snapping her fingers in front of Hazel’s face. Hazel shook her head turning to face Josie finishing the last sip of her beer and placing it on the small table in front of them.

“Shouldn’t you be…I don’t know making out with your girlfriend or bothering PJ? Don’t we spend enough time with each other as it is?” Hazel snapped, taking Josie's drink and taking a sip. She waited a few seconds before turning her head once again on the pair a few feet away from them, noticing how they hovered against each other a few inches of locking lips.

“Rude much? I have you know, Isabel is currently talking with this agent about a modeling gig and PJ is desperately trying to get a girl which leaves me no option to spend time with you. So, what’s up your ass. You’ve been moody ever since we got here.” Josie said getting more comfortable on the couch in front of her. She followed Hazel's gaze, noticing what she was looking at. “Oh, you found out about them?” Josie asked Hazel, making her snap her head towards Josie quickly.

“Them? What do you mean about them?” Hazel responded quickly, not trying to hide her true emotions or intentions. She was going to find out who that person was and why she was wasting her time with them instead of spending time with her. Y/n didn’t even think of sending a hello towards Hazel’s way being too busy making googly eyes at the unknown person.

“That’s Y/n ex, they were together before the pr thing between you two started. I guess since it’s over they are rekindling their relationship.” She continued while resting her legs on the coffee table in front of her. Hazel furrowed her eyebrows trying to process the information she had heard.

“Wait. What do you mean now that it’s over?” Hazel asked, placing Josie's drink down completely facing her this time, her body almost on top of hers.

“Didn’t you receive the constant chained emails? They have been updating both of the bands about your guys publicity stunt. ” She replied, searching for her phone so Hazel could read the emails their manager had sent both of the teams.

“Who the hell even reads email anymore? I thought G sent the important updates via message. Why did no one tell me that they were sending things via email.” Hazel replied, taking Josie's phone scrolling down to read the messages in front of her.

Hazel felt her world spin as she read the words in front of her on the flashing screen. Her eyes quickly scanned the twenty emails and all the responses. Everytime she read one more word she could feel the high she had with Y/n slip away, it was all fake.

Without even thinking it twice Hazel felt herself move up from the couch heading towards Y/n not before handing the phone back to Josie. Her stomps were strong as she pushed past the crowd of people. When she finally got next to the pair she grabbed Y/n’s arm ignoring the disappearing smile on her face. Before her or her ex could say a word, Hazel pulled her outside. The cold breeze hit Hazel's face, but she could feel herself getting hotter by the minute, pissed off out of her mind.

“What the hell,Hazel? I was trying to have a conversation” Y/n exclaimed annoyed, pulling her arm away from Hazel’s touch. Hazel looked at her pissed off, something unfamiliar to Y/n. She was used to seeing cocky Hazel and as of recently sweet Haze; but angry Hazel was a new thing for her.

“When were you going to tell me about the emails?” Hazel said roughly, not breaking eye contact with Y/n. She could feel how just by her choice of words Y/n confidence turned down.

“The emails? What emails?” Y/n asked clearly about her throat while playing with the ends of her skirt. Hazel laughed sarcastically, taking her by the chin, making her look at her.

“What emails? Let me help you out and refresh your memory. The email where you claimed that going out with me was a way for you to get me to write the songs for your album. An easy way to get on top of the social ladder. I thought you said that you wanted to write things for yourself? To make a name for yourself in the industry, why the hell did you use all the songs I fucking wrote for my bands album. I showed them to you in confidence and you stole from me. What the actual fuck, L/n” Hazel exclaimed letting go of her chin not wanting to hurt her due to the fact that she wasn;’t in control of her anger.

“I didn’t know you were going to read the emails. It was just my team a…” Hazel looked at her shocked, feeling her heart break at the choice of Y/n’s words not believing that this was the same girl she had fallen desperately in love with.

“You didn’t know that I was going to find out about the fact that you were fucking me over and leading me on these past months for a stupid album. Are you hearing yourself right now”

“No, Hazel. You don’t understand! You’ve always had everything I just wanted to see what it was like. You knew from the beginning that it was a pr thing really, but now I..”

“Honestly, I actually thought you were actually a good person. I felt like shit being around you, I didn’t think I was worthy of being next to you. But now, I guess it was the other way around. I really hope that using me for that damn album was worth it. Because right now you gave me inspiration to write a new one” Hazel turned away as tears started forming on Y/n eyes. As Hazel walked away Y/n could feel her only inspiration slipping away.

Hazel was gone and out of her life, like she always wanted, but why didn’t it feel good. Why did she want to see her face and the constant reminder that she was there? Hazel Callahan had an effect on her that she couldn’t lose but now it was too late, she was slipping away.

...

[previous part]

next part

Thank you for reading

#hazel callahan x you #hazel callahan imagine #hazel x reader #hazel callahan #hazel callahan x reader #kit tanthalos x reader #kit tanthalos #save willow #willow #ruby cruz #ruby cruz x reader #bottoms movie #Hazel Callahan reader insert #reader insert

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taintedcigs · 1 year ago

Text

GETAWAY CAR — rockstar!e.m. x f!reader

CHAPTER THREE: I’LL SWIM DOWN, WOULD YOU?

← prev chapter // next chapter →

✦ summary: in which eddie takes you for a trip down memory lane. (wc: 6.7k+)

✦ warnings — ANGSTANGSTANGST, fluff!, pining and slowburn, strong language!, mentions of alc*hol and drg use and a toxic/ab*sive relationship, reader is sad but also mad </3, mention of bruises from an ab*sive relationship (in the past)

✦ pairings — rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader, past billy hargrove x fem!reader

✦ authors note — im so glad you guys are liking this series !! feel free to chat with me in the asks and sorry for the cliffhanger >:( also not proof-read pls ignore mistakes!! and sorry for the twisted sister slander eddie said it not me!

series masterlist | series playlist

It was late, really fucking late. Something you missed noticing while you were taking your supposed one hour sobbing nap.

Your gaze gravitated toward the window, fingers fluttering to adjust the comfortable, frilly black dress you had casually slipped into moments earlier. But now, it made you feel stupid, like you were trying too hard, your mind was telling you that no matter which pretty dress you chose, he’d never want you.

He wanted her now.

Your attention diverted toward the glove compartment, fighting the urge to yank it open, wishing those The Cure tapes could fall on your lap now.

The uncomfortable silence between the two of you was starting to sink in now, accompanied by the Beastie Boys blasting through Eddie’s speakers. And you knew he was doing it on purpose because he knew you couldn’t resist, automatically making you hum along to it while he tapped his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel, the two of you perfectly in sync with the beat, and it shouldn’t bring such a silly smile to your face, but it does.

“So, uh…” He started off, eyes still on the road, he couldn’t afford to look at you, you looked breathtakingly pretty; the soft glow of the dashboard light highlighted your features, and with that goddamn black dress on you, Eddie was sure he was fully enamored by you.

“I’m–I’m sorry about the whole Chrissy thing,” He muttered, gaze avoiding yours. “It just kind of happened, but–she changed, she really changed.”

“She–she told me how sorry she was about the whole Billy thing,” You gulped physically at the name, biting your lips nervously.

It didn’t fucking matter how sorry she was now, Chrissy was supposed to be your friend. You already had a hard time trusting people but you gave Chrissy that chance, you opened your heart to her, and you let her in, but she decided to stomp on it and chewed your trust in the cruelest way possible.

“I would’ve never talked to her if she hadn’t.” He avoided your gaze again.

“Cool… and you gathered that in what? A week?” You muttered angrily.

Eddie fell silent at that, he didn’t know what to say next, he knew he was in the wrong, and he was desperate to fix it now.

“No, no I– just,” he sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this, Eddie,” you snapped, head turning towards the view of the window, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line in an attempt to hold the words you wanted to say.

You’re jealous—so incredibly jealous that it seeps through your skin. You wonder if he can tell, if he can see through you like he always did.

“We’re not together,” He muttered embarrassedly. Chrissy seemed nice, but Eddie knew that she wasn’t you. Sure, Chrissy was pretty, but her face couldn’t make the gloomiest person in the world grin like yours did. And she was funny, but she could never make him nearly choke on his drink the way you always did. And he knew she could never, ever make him feel in a way you did.

He was acutely aware of how awful that sounded, but he wasn’t trying to use her in any way; he was just trying to move on, but with you here, it was fucking impossible. You would always be his priority. No matter what happened between the two of you, if you even so much as glanced his way, he'd drop everything and come running. And that’s what scared him, that’s what made him act so unlike him toward you today because it was terrifying how much he truly wanted you.

You glared at him now, a second warning to shut him up, and he was quick to press his lips tight together.

He huffed. “Look, how about we just… start over?” You finally plucked up the courage to face him again. With the warm breeze of summer nights in Hawkins having its full effect as it rustled through the open car windows, you could see his hopeful eyes.

“Let’s just put it all behind us, you know… wipe the slate clean.” Your interest peaked with that; both of you had fucked up already, and if there was any way to survive the next five days with him and not be a burden to both Jonathan and Nancy, this was the perfect solution.

“Because I really don’t want us to have this weirdness over this whole wedding weekend- uhh… five day thing.” Shit. Was he actually reading your mind?

“Me neither.” You agreed in a mumble.

“Yeah?” Eddie asked with that pretty grin stuck on his lips. God, it was infectious, and his hopeful question fluttered your heart, you could feel yourself soften. Maybe this could work.

“So, uh- can we be… civil?” His voice was wavering, visibly nervous.

You could put the whole Chrissy thing behind you for now, couldn’t you? At least until your next inevitable encounter with her. Maybe that was selfish, but you wanted to spend time with him; you wanted him all for yourself, just for a few hours, without any third person meddling their way in, so you nodded furiously.

“Friends?” He offered, his hand extending to shake yours.

And even though that word fucking hurt, that’s all you could afford with him, too. You didn’t want to reopen the old wounds, at least not yet, and you were more than ready to settle for being friends with him for now. If it meant you could talk to him or be near him, you would do anything.

“Friends.” You agreed, hand harshly shaking his as you squinted your eyes jokingly.

“They talked some sense into you, didn’t they?” You squinted.

“Nancy?” You asked with a slight smirk.

“Dustin and Jonathan, actually.”

“Dustin told me I was in the wrong with the whole Chrissy thing,” Eddie muttered as he stole a glance at you before he focused on the road again. You fought hard to shrug off the smug smile on your lips; just the image of both Dustin and Jonathan telling Eddie off filled you with glee. “I swear that little shit is more mature than any of us.” You added.

“Don’t I know it?” He breathed, making you giggle.

“So, where exactly are we headed to? Because I’m tired of seeing trees everywhere, and I’m starting to think you’re going to kidnap me.” You muttered with a narrowed gaze, attempting to ease the tension.

“You can’t tell?” He huffed, a little smile tugging at his lips at your joke.

“Nuh-uh.”

“You’re getting rusty, sweetheart.” You scoffed at that, eyeing the road quickly so you could tell him off.

Once he passed by Mirkwood, you knew exactly where he was headed. A squeal escaped your lips childishly. “Oh my god!”

The community pool.

The two of you had snuck in at least a hundred times before. Even Chief Hopper had gotten tired of dragging both of your drunk asses off the pool.

He couldn’t help the way his lips fully etched into a grin now, he had missed that genuine smile on your face and that childish squeal.

“Eddie!” You squealed again when he finally neared, mouth stood agape.

“Are we going in?” You asked excitedly. It was boggling your mind how quickly he melted your defenses.

Before letting him nod, you spoke up again. “Ahh, shit! If I had known, I’d put on a bathing suit,” you huffed, causing Eddie to snort lightly.

Your eyes drifted toward his features now; he looked… so happy, and that goddamn grin on his lips—why did he have to be so pretty?

“What?” You muttered, feeling almost shy under his gaze now.

He used to look at you like that a lot, like you meant something to him, like you were the most important thing in his life. And it felt so good to have that back, to see those deep brown eyes glimmer again.

There was another deep pause, as if he were debating whether or not he should let you know how much it truly meant that you were here. How much he had missed you. How much he missed that graceful curve of your lips as it stretched to a sugary smile, missed the way your eyes sparkled childishly when something excited you.

“Nothing… uh- I just... I’m glad that-uhh you’re back,” he muttered, shaking his head, a strand of curly hair falling on his forehead.

He wanted nothing more than to feel just a graze of your touch, he had wanted to wrap his arms around your frame the whole day; he wanted you to sweep his curls off his forehead as you threw him a giggle, that angelic sound filling the space.

And oh, how he missed your presence. He missed the way you filled the space around him, filling him with warmth and making him feel alive. But his thoughts remained unspoken; instead, he settled for a simple, “I missed you.”

He held your gaze, tracing the contours of your face and memorizing every feature; he wanted each and every part of you etched into his brain, just because he didn’t know if you would leave again; he couldn’t handle forgetting your features, not again.

“I missed you, too,” you murmured, voice low when you could barely let the words out. There was a softness in his gaze, a vulnerability he only showed through it, and you returned it.

That impalpable silence was interrupted as he shook his head. “Let’s go, before you start getting in your head about getting in the pool with your clothes,” he teased, parking the car before he rushed off to your side.

“M’lady,” He bowed dramatically when he opened the door for you, extending his hand, you took it with a giggle. “Such a gentleman!” You exclaimed, hands shaky when his grazed against yours.

If Nancy and Jonathan could see the two of you now, their heads would probably explode, considering how both of you had been fluctuating between hot and cold the entire day.

“How are we even gonna get in?” You asked with a shrug, trying to keep up with him.

He looked at you like he took offense to your question. “The old way, duh.” He shrugged carelessly, before he led the way.

As you approached the silver metal fence, your heart skipped a beat, it had been so long since you had last done this, and when it loomed before you now, you had to physically gulp. “You scared or somethin’?” Eddie whispered in your ear with a sly grin, making you slightly jump. “N-no,” You muttered.

"Then, do you wanna do the honors, sweetheart?” He asked with a wink, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes. With a deep inhale you nodded, placing your hands on the cold, textured metal of the fence. Once you fully braced yourself, Eddie hoisted you with a strong push, you probably would’ve been more anxious if you weren’t distracted by the fact that Eddie’s calloused hands were grazing against your waist.

You cursed at the loss of touch when you made it to the top, and with a disappointed sigh, you swung your leg over the fence, carefully climbing down to the other side.

You watched him almost jump over it with no hesitation, and now you were concerned with how much this had turned you on. Shit, shit, shit. Why did he have to be so fucking attractive in everything he did?

“Jesus Christ, you’d think they would’ve made this more secure by now,” you muttered with a giggle in an attempt to shut up your dirty thoughts about him, hands stretching out to dust your dress off before you followed him toward the pool.

The poolside area was the first thing that caught your attention. Maybe it was the stupid deja-vu but you couldn’t help but be intrigued by everything. The pool lights created a cool ambiance that was kissed by the moonlight cascading on them. Each ripple of the water’s surface carried around the awful scent of sunscreen and chlorine; each sight of this goddamn place took you down memory lane.

“You want one?” Eddie’s voice caught your attention when he plopped into an empty lounge chair, his hand fishing out a poorly rolled joint—which was probably just squished from being in his pocket all day.

You nodded, mind still spiraling from the fact that you were here, with him. “Our spot, remember?” He muttered, hand signaling toward his side so you could sit down next to him.

You hummed in agreement, before you shyly sat down next to him. “Here, let me.” You muttered, pulling the dragon lighter from the pocket of your jacket.

His eyes almost widened again at the sight of that lighter, a tense silence overtook the space while you helped him light the joint sitting on his lips. “Uhh, t-thanks,” He muttered awkwardly.

The two of you basked in that uncomfortable silence before Eddie finally turned toward you. “Is it just me or does this feel fuckin’ awkward again?” He took another long drag from the joint, breathing out before he turned to pass it to you, a nervous look crossing his features.

And it makes you feel comfortable, that nervous breath you were holding in for so long finally slips out. “Thank god, because I thought I was goin’ crazy,” You murmured, happily accepting the joint as you placed it on your lips.

“I-I just… I know a lot of shit happened between us, and I know we can’t fully pretend it never happened, but, this… this feels so nice.” You admit, gaze avoiding him.

“It’s like, we used to have so much fun, we could do all this crazy shit and not give a single fuck. Do you even remember how many times Hopper escorted us out of here?” You asked with a slight smirk.

Eddie bit back on his tongue, he wanted to tell you that it was your fault. Wanted to remind you that the two of you could have been having fun all this time if you hadn’t just left him like that.

But a clean slate is what he promised you, even though it was so fucking hard not to be bitter when he knew how much it hurt, because you had no clue how much you leaving him did a number on him. He had to pick on his own wounds, just so he wouldn’t reopen yours, just so you would talk to him again.

He shook his head with a slight chuckle. “He really hated us, didn’t he?”

“Oh, totally,” You muttered, head falling more toward his direction with a giggle. “Do you remember that time he chased us around here?” You almost gasped at the memory.

“Shit!” He joined in on your laughter; his eyes met yours, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. “How could I fucking forget?” He coughed out the drag he was holding in.

"His stupid hat fell in the water," He recalled with a mischievous glint in his eyes, you giggled again leaning in closer, shoulders brushed against his, and both of your chuckles intertwined now. Once you finally caught your breath, you spoke up again "and he tried to get it. And then, oh my god..." You paused for dramatic effect, biting your lip to hold back more laughter.

"He slipped," he continued, with another chuckle, "face first into the pool!" Your laughter erupted louder as the memory replayed in your minds. And it felt so nice to have that genuine bond again. It gave you this sort of hope that whatever the two of you had, maybe it could withstand you leaving him; maybe it could withstand Chrissy, and the time and distance spent apart.

And you so wanted to believe it, because this had genuinely been the happiest the two of you had ever been in the last five years.

Once both of your laughter died off, you took a deep breath, hand reaching out for the joint as you tapped on his fingers to pass it to you. You sucked on it until it numbed your mind, causing you to break the comfortable silence with your train of thought. “I still can’t believe they are getting married,” You breathed.

“Hmmm?” Eddie responded carelessly.

"I mean, I know they're literally like soulmates," you continued, "and I always knew they'd eventually get married. But isn't it too soon? Aren't we still too young for all of this?"

Eddie turned his gaze toward you, looking at you with his brows pinched together. "Why wait?" He asked, curiosity took over his features as he studied your face.

“If you have met the ‘love of your life’ and all that bullshit, and you knew you’d want to spend the rest of your life with them…” You shifted your position, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him more closely. “Wouldn’t you want to do that as soon as possible?”

You considered his words for a moment before you spoke. “But how could anyone be… sure?” A hint of uncertainty was wavering in your tone.

“What if they wake up one day and decide they're not in love anymore? Or they suddenly want completely different things in life? Or, oh god, what if they betray each other?"

His brows pinched together. “Oh, Pinky…” He shook his head.

“What?” You asked, your voice laced with curiosity.

“You still do that?” Eddie asked disapprovingly.

“Do what?” You retorted, sounding slightly defensive.

“You don’t trust anyone or anything, just so you don't get hurt,” he muttered.

“You nitpick every single part of something good... always trying to sabotage it because you’d rather ruin it than lose it,” Eddie explained with a concerned look on his face, and you hated it. You hated that he knew you so well, that he knew you by heart.

“I do not do that!” You protested.

“Are you actually gonna tell me you never did that?” He gently prodded, tilting his head slightly as he regarded you with an all-knowing look.

You hesitated, your defenses crumbling just a bit. “Okay, maybe like one time, Munson,” you admitted with a reluctant squint of your eyes.

“You’re so afraid of losing something you love that you refuse to love anything,” He muttered, not realizing his concern had hit a nerve.

“But it doesn’t work like that. Love is not supposed to be that complicated.” He continued with a whisper, your gaze drifting away as you fiddled with your fingers, because he was right.

“Why do you assume being loved by someone would ever be so hard?” Eddie realized he had truly hit a nerve and immediately regretted it. He could see the pain flash in your eyes—that familiar hurt you carried with you. You shook it off—a defense mechanism you had perfected over the years.

You found it too difficult to believe that someone could ever truly love you. And he knew that; he hated that he couldn’t tell you how much he loved every fucking part of you and how much he loved you for being you. You didn’t need to try for him; you didn’t need to do anything. You could just exist, and he’d still love you. But he couldn’t tell you that, not when you had left him.

And he knew he couldn’t apologize for his words because you’d just brush it off, you’d just close off on him more and more, and he didn’t want to ruin this in any way.

Desperate to shift the mood, Eddie changed the subject, opting for a game of questions just so he could distract you. By the time the two of you had started passing around the second joint and had gotten over thousands of questions, you were seated near the pool now, knees grazing each other as your feet dangled into the water.

With a mischievous glint in your eye, you initiated the next question, “Favorite color?” You asked with a soft giggle.

Eddie responded with a playful tilt of his head, "That has to be the lamest question, ever," he quipped.

You gasped animatedly, pretending to be offended by his comment. "Oh, really?"

"Well then, Munson, do you have a better one up your sleeve?" Your eyes squinted in a playful challenge.

Eddie, puffed out his cheeks as he wrestled with his thoughts to come up with a question. After a moment, a mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes. “I’ve got one,” He muttered playfully.

“Saddest song you’ve ever heard?” Eddie inquired.

You let out a groan of mock exasperation, your shoulders slumping dramatically. "Oh, come on! How am I supposed to answer that?"

Eddie leaned back casually on his elbows. "Well, I already have mine," he shrugged.

“Really?” You huffed, “I need like an hour,” You muttered, causing Eddie to give you a look.

“Okay, fine, fine!” You sighed audibly, racking your brain.

“Oh, oh!” You shot up quickly, splashing your feet in the water, when you finally thought of something, “can I name two?” Eddie raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Two? Now you've got my attention, princess." He winked teasingly.

You leaned back on your elbows. "Uhhh… Here Comes a Regular or… Wango Tango."

Eddie couldn't help but snort at the unexpected combination. "What?" he chuckled. “I can understand Here Comes a Regular, but Wango Tango? Really?” He gave you that puzzled look again.

“Okay, okay, before you judge!” You squinted your eyes. “Hear me out, because it has a story.” You said.

“I don’t know if I should tell you this,” you admitted, noticing Eddie's raised eyebrows and intensified curiosity.

“What? Why?” He questioned. “Because I never told you about this before, and I feel like it’s just gonna drag our mood down,” you murmured, biting your lip nervously, as Eddie’s eagerness peaked further.

“Are you kidding? You absolutely have to tell me now!” Eddie demanded softly.

“I mean, are you sure? It’s just a stupid story, and I don’t even know if it matters now—” You began to waver, failing to notice the intensity of Eddie's interest.

“Pinky, please.” He interrupted with a tilt of his head, his voice filled with an urgency to know. You nodded hesitantly.

"So, uhh, you remember how he used to uhh- drove me and Max to school every week?" He nodded, his muscles tensing as he understood who you were referring to. “I think it was another tough week for him, and we had already been fighting a lot," you began, tone laced with a hint of exasperation.

"I think that’s why he was on the edge again, like he was ready to explode at any moment," you continued, gaze avoiding him and fixed on the shimmering water of the pool. "W-we were in the car, and you- you were driving like two cars in front of us.” Your eyes squinted as you recalled the details animatedly, and Eddie listened curiously, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of emotions.

“I think that like ticked him off or somethin’.” You shrugged, your voice wavering. “He started going on and on about you and he was already mad about us hanging out too much,” you stuttered and Eddie's jaw clenched as he listened, his eyes flashing with anger on your behalf.

“He threw me a look that I knew was nothing but trouble," you huffed with an ironic chuckle, but Eddie's expression remained stern, and you were starting to realize how dumb of a decision telling this story was, but it was too late now.

“So then he, uhh- he started laughing all weirdly and following you, and I could just feel my blood boil, you know?” You went on, your eyes narrowing at the memory.

"I was telling him to stop, uhh, repeatedly, but he just… he just ignored me and sang that stupid song, tapping along to the rhythm.” Your lips curled with disgust at the thought.

“And oh god, Max just sunk into her seat, and that just made me go absolutely insane, Eddie!”

“He was getting so close to you, like so close. And I-I knew you had no clue because I knew how loud you liked listening to your music in Aurora,” you muttered with a chuckle, attempting to lighten the mood, but Eddie didn’t focus on your joke; he could feel his insides burning with that familiar rage and the need to protect you.

“I don’t- I don’t even know what came over me, and I-I just drove the car off the road." You breathed. “And I know that’s… that’s horrible because Max was there too but I had no other idea and I was scared,” you admitted, biting your lips to hold all of your emotions inside of you as you took a deep breath.

“And I wanted to keep you safe,” you murmured, and Eddie’s heart almost stopped at that. The guilt of you being hurt because of him weighed in on him now. And he wanted nothing more than to go back in time and beat the shit out of that douchebag, again.

“And I just remember that look on Max’s face… that pure terror, and while all of that was happening… fucking Wango Tango was playing.” You couldn’t help the exasperated chuckle that left your lips.

You finally looked up at Eddie again, realizing how much you had unloaded on him. "What?" he asked, dumbfounded.

“H-he did what?” He stuttered in fury; you could see it in the way he scrunched his brows together.

“Shit… I don’t know what I was thinking; I really shouldn’t have told you this when we were having a good time-” You shook your head, sighing. “I just… right before I left Nancy’s, I-I saw that Camaro and that song has been stuck in my mind and it’s the first thing I could think of." You rambled quickly; you had never opened up this much about Billy before, and you were starting to regret it because you didn’t want him to pity you.

“God, I must sound so annoying but I swear I’m not saying any of this to make you pity me or anything-”

“No, no, that’s not it.” He interrupted with a shake of his head. “I would never think that, are you kidding?” His hand sat on your knee for reassurance.

“No… no, I just wish... Why didn’t you just tell me?” He spoke to you in a gentle tone, but you could see his jaw clench.

“I-I don’t know, I was scared, Eddie, and I didn’t want to drag you into my bullshit,” You murmured, gulping when you looked down at his fingertips gently caressing your skin. Your emotions were all over the place, his one touch just calmed you down, all of your worries vanishing in mere seconds.

“Are you kidding?” He asked softly. “I-If I had known, I would’ve done something a lot sooner, Pinky, I used to think he was just a shitty boyfriend, If I had known how he was-I swear, I swear, I would’ve never let him hurt you.” His voice was desperate as he leaned in closer, gaze never leaving yours.

“I should’ve fuckin’ known,” he mumbled under his breath, he wanted to punch himself for not seeing it quicker, not seeing him sucking the light out of you, the way you flinched around him, and, oh god, the random bruises.

He was stupid. So fucking stupid.

“Don’t say that!” You protested. “I was the one who kept it a secret, it’s not your fault, in any way,” you muttered, your thigh grazing against his.

“Eddie, you quite literally saved me,” you whispered, a graceful smile adorning your lips.

His eyes drifted toward you again, gaze locking with yours.

“Look, I don’t give a shit what happens between us, you can always, always tell me anything, okay? Any fucking thing.” Eddie reassured, with a soft tone.

You nodded, the smile that formed on your face was genuine, you really appreciated each of his words. Whatever happened between the two of you didn’t matter—Chrissy, you leaving him in LA, the fight at Nancy's—none of it fucking mattered. Eddie was still here for you, and you were going to do everything you could to make sure you wouldn’t lose him ever again.

"Anything?" you asked, seeking confirmation. Eddie didn't hesitate. He nodded in affirmation, his gaze soft and unwavering. "Anything."

“Oh, good! Because I’ve been dying to let you know how much of a dork you look like in your own band’s shirt,” you said with a slight smirk playing on your face.

Eddie raised his brows gleefully, and a grin overtook his features once again. "Oh, I'm so getting you for that one," he muttered, his fingers quick to graze against your sides. Once you realized what he was up to, you tried to get away, but it was too late.

He started tickling you relentlessly while you squirmed and wriggled under his touch, trying to catch your breath between giggles.

"Okay, wait—stop, stop!" You managed to speak, your voice coming out in gasps as you pleaded for a momentary break. Eddie finally relented, his fingers retreating as you caught your breath.

"You still haven't told me yours!" you exclaimed between your chuckles, trying to catch your breath and eager to distract him from tickling you again.

“Ahh shit,” he muttered with a chuckle. “Now I really don’t want to tell you mine, because it’s gonna sound so petty and childish.”

“Nuh-uh!” You protested. “You absolutely have to after all the shit I told you!” You encouraged.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Leader of the Pack by Twisted Sisters,” he huffed, his face souring.

“What? Why?” You asked with a baffled look.

“Because, I waited for that album for two years, and the moment I listened to that song, I wanted to die.” His hand daggered through his chest dramatically, making you huff.

“A bit dramatic, don't you think?” Your brows pinched together playfully.

“No, I'm serious Pinky. That album was pure garbage, I swear I got teary over it.” You giggled slightly.

“No, but I love that!” you exclaimed, your eyes lighting up immediately.

“Love what? That awful song?” He asked with a scoff.

“No, you dumbass,” you huffed, rolling your eyes dramatically at him.

“I love that a record can make you feel so many different emotions, you know?” you mused. “Anyone can listen to it, and they can have so many different stories, it’s super fascinating to me.”

Your gaze shifted toward the pool’s rippling water. “That’s one of the things I love about working in a record shop—people have so many different stories and feelings regarding music and it’s just..." You muttered. “I don’t know I think it’s great that just one thing can make everyone feel something different, it’s like a secret language that speaks uniquely to everyone, you know?”

Eddie nodded, leaning closer to you now. “That is kinda… inspiring,” Eddie hummed as he pondered for a minute, and that piqued your curiosity. “Hold on a second,” he said, holding up a finger as you watched him reach into his pocket.

A worn notebook was sprawled on his lap, and once you leaned closer, you realized it was the ‘promise’ notebook. Your eyes widened as you tried to catch a glimpse of what he was scribbling inside. "What are you doing?" you asked, a mischievous giggle escaping your lips, but he playfully blocked your view.

"That's going in the notebook!" he exclaimed, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

“Nuh-uh,” you disapproved. “That was so lame.” You shook your head embarrassedly.

"No, it was quite touching, actually," Eddie replied with his head still buried in the notebook.

“So you just write down everything like that?” You asked with your head tilted.

“Pretty much,” he shrugged. “I just scribble down anything that feels important to me.” A smile etched on your lips at that.

“And then sometimes, if I’m lucky, and I mean very very lucky, these thousand notes can turn into a song,” he hummed excitedly.

“Can I see them?” You asked with a hopeful look.

“No way!” He chuckled.

“What?” You exclaimed. “I should be like the only person who has access to that!” You huffed with your arms crossed across your chest.

“And why would that be, princess?” He pinched his brows together, teasing you.

“Uh, maybe because I gave you that notebook, asshole?” You retorted animatedly, teasing him back.

He contemplated for a moment before he spoke. “Okay, how about this…” He mocked a thinking face, piquing your curiosity. “You go in the water with me… and I’ll give you a note,” he offered.

Your gaze drifted toward the cold water. You always hated going to the pool without your bathing suit, and he knew that, but you so wanted those notes.

“Just one?” You squinted your gaze.

Eddie sighed dramatically. "Fine, I can give you one paper with notes on both sides," he conceded. You nodded frantically. “Deal!” You exclaimed, holding out your hand for him to shake it.

“But one more thing,” He spoke up again causing you to groan. “You can only read it once you get home,” he mute.

“Fine, is that all of your conditions, Munson?” you quipped, arching an eyebrow. He mocked a thinking face again. “Pretty much, yeah,” he replied with a sly smirk.

“Okay, okay. Then I’ll go in the pool with you.”

“You promise?”

“Yeah,” you muttered.

“Pinky promise?” He asked with a grin, and you rolled your eyes. Elbowing him playfully at his joke “Jerk,” you muttered under your breath.

“Close your eyes,” he said, his voice low. “What?” You inquired.

“Close your eyes so I can pick a note, and put it in your pocket.” He shrugged, and you obliged with a huff.

You could hear him whipping through the notes, cursing as he debated which one he wanted you to see.

“Your eyes still closed?” He asked, his voice still gentle. You nodded with a huff, trying to appear annoyed when your excitement was building with each passing second.

“‘Kay,” he mumbled, and you could feel his hands grazing you as he stuffed the note in the pocket of your jacket.

“You can open them,” he said as soon as he was finished.

“All done?” You muttered, cheeks still embarrassingly heating after you just felt a graze of his touch. He nodded with a grin.

“Now it’s your turn,” he teased, fingers pointing toward the pool.

Giving him an annoyed glare, you sucked in a shuddering breath. You glanced around at the pool again, the illuminating lights created a cosy atmosphere that truly warmed you, but you knew the chilly water would give you a rude awakening.

Your trembling fingers slid your coat off your shoulders, tossing it aside as your feet splashed around the water. It was cold, and you looked back at Eddie with a pout. “We’re going to catch a cold,” you whined.

Eddie huffed in mock annoyance, his impatience evident. "For the love of God, just go in," he exclaimed. You faced the pool again, feet still swishing around in the water. The more time you took, the closer you could feel Eddie’s silhouette behind you, and you knew if you didn’t go in soon, he was going to intervene.

Your fingers fiddled nervously with the hem of your dress as you contemplated your decision once again. But before you could make up your mind, a sudden and unexpected push from Eddie left you in shock. Without warning, you were propelled dramatically into the pool, the water enveloping you with a cold, exhilarating rush. You emerged almost as soon as you fell in, sputtering and laughing, your dress clinging to your body and your hair plastered to your face.

“You asshole! I knew you would do that,” you exclaimed with a chuckle.

You dived in once, fixing your hair after you emerged again. Your head tilting to see that sly smirk on his lips. “Jerk,” you muttered again.

“Oh, you’ll live,” he mocked.

You extended your hand toward him with a pout, and he had a baffled look on his face. “Help me up, please,” you whined, shaking your hand further to convince him, but he could see that mischievous glint in your eyes.

Eddie squinted at you playfully, his head cocked in mock suspicion. “You think I’m fallin’ for that?” Your scoff only elicited a roll of his eyes. “You pushed me in, dumbass! The least you could do is pull me up." You protested, your hand waving in the air, waiting for him to fall into your trap.

“Nah,” he shrugged nonchalantly, a smirk playing at his lips. You continued to whine, your hand still reaching out to him.

“Eddie, I’m serious, it’s super cold, and this dress is suffocating me!” You argued, the slight desperation in your voice making him feel for you. Eddie hesitated for a moment. That soft, innocent look in your eyes and the sweet pout on your lips were more than enough to convince him. If only he weren't as hopelessly infatuated with you, he might have resisted longer.

With a deep sigh, he extended his hand toward yours, taking it in a firm grip. “Fine, but if you try to pull me down, I swear to god-”

Before he could finish his threat, you swiftly pulled him toward you, yanking him off balance and into the water with a resounding splash.

Giggles erupted from your lips. “Too late!” you declared triumphantly, a wide grin adorning your face.

As you watched him resurface, he gave his head a good shake, water droplets flew around as his chuckles filled the air, and he couldn't help but praise you with a playful smirk. “You're good,” he admitted, the characteristic dimples on his cheeks making an appearance. You returned his compliment with a warm smile. “I know.”

Eddie felt dizzy; a flood of feelings hit him all at once when he looked at you again. He tried to divert his eyes away from you—from your smooth skin, from the sweet curve of your lips, from the way your brows pinched together when you giggled so sweetly. But he couldn’t.

Those innocent, big eyes that had a slight bit of mischievous glint in them—the way you fluttered your eyelashes at him whenever you teased him—it was all too fucking much for him.

Don’t look at her, Eddie. He tried to remind himself, but it was useless.

God, you really were beautiful.

He shouldn’t be any closer to you, but he couldn’t fucking help it.

When he swam closer, the laughter in the air had fully died down; there was only tension—so much tension that you could hear your own heart rate picking up.

The water around you seemed to shimmer the closer he got to you, caging you between him and the edge of the pool. You gulped physically when you felt the concrete hit your back; he had you cornered.

Each second stretched into hours now, and all the two of you did was gaze into each other's eyes, speaking a language without any words being spoken.

He couldn’t help it when his gaze drooped down to your glossy lips, they looked so kissable that Eddie was about to lose his mind. You opened your mouth to speak but it was of no use, no words dared to come out of it.

You watched in awe as his hands grazed against your cheek first, then he tucked that one strand of hair behind your ears. You could feel his breath fanning against your cheeks—that same speechless expression on his face that mirrored yours.

Eddie was sure you had this unexplainable, tight hold on his heart. He had never, ever felt so completely possessed by someone before. You completely invaded his mind in a way that he struggled to put into words.

His calloused hands hooked behind your back as he inched you a little bit closer. Your heart was pounding inside your ribcage, and your eyes were following his every movement. The second his forehead came to rest against yours, all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut.

“Look at me.” He whispered all huskily, and you were sure you had never heard him filled with this much desire.

You didn’t dare to open your eyes, standing still and even afraid to let out that gasp you’ve been holding on to for far too long.

Was this all real?

Was he actually going to kiss you?

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x y/n #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #stranger things fanfic #rockstar!eddie x reader #getaway car #getaway car series

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damiansgoodgirll · 8 months ago

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can you please write an Damian Priest X Fem Reader Fic,

Both are dating, and they are at Dom's Wedding and when they are sitting together at there table Damian takes her hand kissed her knuckles and said "next time I'm wearing a suit will be our wedding"

(no engagement just damian admitting he wants to spend the rest of his life with her)

love this request

damian priest x reader

in love with this pic

my forever

“they’re so beautiful…” you whispered watching with teary eyes marie and dom dancing together. deep down you always wanted something like that too. your happy ending, spending the rest of your life with your forever person.

you were almost sure that you found that person in damian.

almost.

you’ve been dating for the past three years and even in it wasn’t that long, you dreamed every night about being married to damian and having your own little family.

maybe with a dog, a few cats and a baby. that was your dream but you didn’t know if he felt the same. watching how buddy and rhea had been together for less than you two and they were next on the altar made you think that maybe damian wasn’t that kind of person. you thought that maybe having you by his side was enough for him.

but you couldn’t stop imagining yourself with a diamond ring and a white wedding dress, saying yes to the love of your life.

“yes…they are” he said watching proudly damian dancing with the beautiful bride.

“plus…look at the dress” you laughed “it’s amazing! it looks so good on her” and damian smiled agreeing with you.

“well…i kinda prefer the blue dress you’re wearing tonight…” he teased making you chuckle.

“you look pretty handsome tonight…” you teased back but before he could answer, austin called him cause they needed to take a few pictures with dom.

“i’ll be back” he said getting up from his chair, leaving you there, watching how everyone was approaching the bride, complimenting her, making her feel special.

you shouldn’t be upset so why were you? was it selfish wishing you would experience the same thing?

you smiled at her when she waved at you, not wanting you to feel excluded.

but you were dying to be in her shoes.

it took a good fifteen minutes to finish up with the photoshoot when you saw damian walking back at your table with a glass of champagne for you.

“for the most beautiful woman in the room” he whispered in your ear, making you laugh.

“you shouldn’t say things like this at someone’s wedding…the bride could hear you” you joked.

“can’t help it when you really are the most beautiful woman in this room…in the entire world” he said again, making you laugh even more.

maybe you didn’t need to marry him, you felt good about your relationship that maybe you didn’t need to have a wedding, in the end it’s you and him right?

while you were overthinking damian slowly grabbed your hand “what are you thinking about mi amor?” he asked seeing how you’ve been acting off the whole wedding ceremony.

“nothing important…it’s just an emotional day…weddings always make me cry and laugh at the same time, and then cry again…plus i can’t tear my eyes away from how good that suit looks good on you…” you teased again.

“next time i’m wearing a suit will be at our wedding” he said kissing your hand.

“what?”

“you heard me right…” he smiled.

you were speechless.

“you want to marry me? like…do you really want to get married? i thought-…” you couldn’t even speak.

“i know i know, the rockstar lifestyle thing” he joked “but i love you, i love you more than anything in the world…and i want to spend the rest of my life with you…so yes, if you want it…”

“of course…” you said not thinking about it twice.

“you’ll be the one in white…” he whispered into your ear.

“i’ll be the one in white…” you repeated, still shocked about what just happened.

you’ll be the one in white and you couldn’t wait for it to happen.

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seravphs · 1 year ago

Text

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — IDOL! GOJO x ROCKSTAR! FEM READER

Gojo loves the untouchable. You’re an off limits rockstar who thinks he’s an idiot. The only thing he can do is take that as a challenge, right?

wc — 6.8k

tags — non detailed mention of idol industry EDs, pride and prejudice type energy tbh, reader is a little superior about being in a rock band and not “selling out”, Gojo has an annoying habit of pointing out their hypocrisy, sneaking around because you’re public figures, nsfw jokes, minor nongraphic blood

Gojo’s not your usual type. He’s too pretty for that, with those long lashes like a doll’s. They’re stark against his pale skin when he flirts with you, peering alluringly at you through half closed eyes like the cheap tricks that get his fangirls to scream will work on you.

He’s too easy to break for your taste, but from what you hear on Twitter, that’s why people like him. There’s something charming about the gap in his image that draws people in. People are dying for a taste of vulnerability because he's so cocky, but it's easy to make him beg.

There’s a million clips all over the internet of the moments he’s caught off guard, carefully hoarded instances in his career where a genuine embarrassed flush comes over his cheekbones, made into gifs and Tik Toks and YouTube videos.

That’s not your thing.

You like people with tough hearts and tougher reputations. People who could take the beating of public opinion without a flinch, not some soft spoken idol who needs his management to hold his hand through an apology. You like your fans, but they know their limit with you.

It’s not love, not like with an idol. It would never be, you made sure of it. You’d quit before you ever issued an apology for dating someone.

You hate to be a stereotype almost as much as you hate the idea of becoming a pushover, but you’ve dated a string of bad boy exes who were all exactly what you would expect for the lead singer of a rock band. A little rough around the edges, dark and smoldering. Men who would wear your red lipstick marks like a badge of honor. People who had never even heard of something like an idol image.

Maybe that’s why no one saw it coming. You were safe, established. Gojo was out of your usual pitch.

It’s too bad for the fans that you’ve always been a bit of a daredevil. Trying new things has never scared you. You’ve always been willing to test your limits to find the gold in the muck. That’s how you grow.

That’s how you ended up here, sitting thigh to thigh with the boy wonder of the idol industry.

“Aren’t you playing a dangerous game here?” You ask as he nudges even closer to you, far beyond what you’re sure his fans will permit. You’ve heard horror stories about the lengths people will go to if they see their idols even look at someone of the opposite gender.

“Why, you scared?”

“You wish. You’re the idol here. It’s your reputation on the line.”

He smiles at you, saccharine sweet. “I don’t like letting other people control me.”

That earns your begrudging respect, even if his bony knee is knocking into yours. He’s so lanky it makes you a touch concerned. Shoko’s girlfriend is an idol, and she’s constantly sneaking her food under her manager’s notice.

That’s another reason why you could never be an idol. Letting someone else dictate your life like that sounds like hell. It was hard enough to convince you to be here in the first place.

Your band doesn’t do promotion, least of all you. It’s all homegrown talent and homegrown fans, but you’re in stasis. Your growth has plateaued. Like all artists, you’re beholden to bills to pay to keep the music going. You’re big enough to know when you have to make sacrifices.

It’s nothing personal. That’s just the industry, from pop stars to idols to bands like you. If nothing else, you all share the solidarity of giving anything for the music. You just think you have a harder limit for anything than idols do.

The host kicks off the segment before you have time to do further analysis.

“Welcome back to Hot or Not, the variety show where we pit your favorite internet heartthrobs against each other! Please welcome today’s guests - they may not be the duo you expect!”

The camera pans to you and Gojo. His smile is instant, soft and natural, as real as if he were genuinely overjoyed to be here. You have to give him props for that, at least. He’s good at his job.

As soon as the camera pans to you, his expression flickers and returns to bored disinterest. He yawns, his teeth pearly white. Veneers, maybe. His tongue flicks around the sharp tip of one canine, his smirk nearly fanged. There’s the feature he’s so famous for, the one that has him edited into cat reaction memes all across the internet. Kitty Gojo and his kitten fangs.

He’s a grown man. You think you’d jump off a building before you let your teenage girl fans put cat ears on you and coo at you.

To each their own, you guess. Gojo didn’t seem that perturbed by it. To be fair, he didn’t seem perturbed by anything.

“Let’s start with Gojo! Remember, if you don’t feel like answering a question, we’ll put you in a surprise challenge with your partner.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “I’m an open book.”

“Let’s start easy. What’s your favorite song off your new album, Blue Spring?”

Gojo makes a face. “Pass.”

“Sorry, maybe you didn’t understand the question-“

“No, I got it. That’s boring,” he says. “Give me the challenge.”

You’re amused despite yourself, and fighting not to let it show. There’s the troublesome personality you’ve heard so much about. He wouldn’t be half so popular if he wasn’t so pretty, but that attitude and that face made for a dangerous combination.

The host is trying to salvage the situation with an easygoing laugh. Backstage, you hear someone mutter, “Gojo is gojo-ing again.”

It’s all so funny until you realize he’s dragging you into his mess as they set up the challenge.

Your host explains the rules too quickly for you to catch in their entirety, but it’s something along the lines of a staring contest. You’re supposed to do everything in your power to make the other lose a straight face, with words or actions.

“Are you allowed to do this?” You joke as they start strapping the electrodes on you to measure your heart rate.

“What do you mean?” Gojo’s mussing his hair up so he looks more artistically roguish.

“You know, just being an idol and all. I figured you wouldn’t be able to do things like this without your fangirls jumping on you.”

“Ah,” he says, scooting his chair closer to you. You’re knee to knee as they finish the last details of fiddling with machine. “You’re one of those types?”

“And that means?”

“You think I’m an idiot because I’m an idol.”

“I didn’t say that,” you protest, watching the monitor to make sure your heart rate isn’t jumping with your words. It’s just a game, but you’re competitive.

“No, but you’re thinking it. What else? Maybe you think idols are also soulless grifters?”

You wince. It’s not that you think so terribly of idols, per se, you just understand and recognize their need to please their company. They’re products before they’re people.

“I got it right, huh?” He’s pleased with himself.

“Am I wrong?” You retort. “You’re really going to tell me you love singing your overproduced pop music for the tween girls who will buy anything you put out as long as you’re pretty enough?”

“Aren’t you here too? Lot of talk for someone who’s sitting right next to the sellout. You know what they say about birds of a feather…”

It’s all in a whisper, so no one else hears - or sees your startled reaction to find out the pampered show dog has a little bite in him. You could retaliate, but if you’re being honest?

This makes you respect him more.

He’s right, anyway. You did sell out by being on this show.

The machine beeps. He smiles, slow and sweet - or at least it would be if you didn’t already know there was an edge to it. “I win.”

“Wow!” You’ve never found the host more annoying. “That got heated at the end, didn’t it, folks? Do you mind sharing what Gojo said?”

You smile at the camera in a way that feels more like you’re beating your teeth. “It’s a secret.”

You’re not mad at him. If anything, you’re impressed. The person you’re really disappointed with is yourself.

So he’s not what he thought you were. So he challenged your biased preconceptions on idols. So what?

It doesn’t mean anything, but you can’t get him out of your head.

The rest of the show is an easy and welcome distraction from your inner turmoil over the possibility of maybe potentially tolerating an idol. Throwing out witty answers and being neck to neck with Gojo in winning mini games is much preferable to having to experience emotions. It’s only when it’s over that the problems start.

You watch as he gets up, biting your lip and debating to yourself. It’s only when he’s halfway out the door that you make your decision. You’ve always been a do or die kind of girl.

“Hey. Want to get dinner?”

You just want to make sure he’s eating. No other reason.

His manager frowns behind him.

“We’re in a weird spot,” he says. “The only thing around are convenience stores.”

“That’s fine,” you say. “We can get instant ramen.”

“I’ve never had instant noodles,” Gojo says.

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously,” he scoffs. “Just what kind of lives do you think we lead?”

“Deprived ones,” you toss over your shoulder as you lead him towards your monster of a customized car.

“Oh, no,” his manager is beginning, but Gojo is already sliding comfortably into the passenger seat. His poor manager looks nervously at you as you turn the keys. “Are you sure that thing is safe?”

“Don’t worry,” you tell him. “If this thing crashes, I’m in here too.”

You don’t think that reassures him, but your own manager will handle it. You pull out of the parking space and head for the road.

Gojo’s impatient. He tries the handle almost before you’re done parking. You’re like that too - always ready to move. This time, you’re one step ahead. You lock the door before he can leave. He gives you a startled look and glances outside again, clearly weighing his options.

“Relax,” you say. “I’m not a crazed fan. Put these on before we attract an actual stalker of yours.”

You toss him a hat, sunglasses, and a mask. You’ve started keeping them in your car ever since you’ve been hanging out with Shoko and her girlfriend, who was famous enough to get recognized in the street for her autograph. He wrinkles his nose but obediently puts them on.

It doesn’t do much to hide his overall air of Gojo-ness. He steps into the store like he owns it, which he very well could.

The steam rises from your bowls and coats Gojo’s sunglasses. You’re surprised he can see inside, but he has no trouble navigating. He tells you he has 20/20 vision.

One thing leads to another and suddenly he’s bragging about his perfect grades when he attended school. He’s a natural genius, which isn’t really a surprise.

“I thought you were supposed to be a bad boy,” you tease. His glasses are slipping down his nose. You reach out to push them back up before anyone notices. His eyes are rather remarkable, after all. Anyone would be able to tell who he was at a glance.

“Me?” He gives a choked laugh. It sounds nice. You’ve haven’t heard it before, not during the show. He was more polished then. The ways in which he rebels against being an idol show up unexpectedly. “Nah. That’s all Getou. He’s the one with a hidden face. You wouldn’t believe what he’s like when the cameras are off.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” you joke.

“I’m serious,” he whines. “I’m pretty sheltered. Grew up rich, you know?”

Who doesn’t know? The Gojo name is pretty famous. One of the biggest conglomerates in the entire world, it broke major news outlets when the heir chose to be an idol instead of the next president.

He’s always been in the public eye, but kept separate like art at a museum. You have a nasty tendency of wanting to ruin things that you’ve been purposefully warned away from. It’s sort of a thing of yours, a bad habit you haven’t put too much effort into breaking. The more impermissible something is, the more likely you are to try, like a cat knocking a glass of water off a table.

Corruptible isn’t the exact right word, but it’s what comes to mind. You want to mess him up a little. Put your grubby rockstar hands on him and leave smears behind so his fangirls see his tainted reputation. You don’t, of course. It’s just a passing thought that you wouldn’t risk actually jeopardizing his career for.

It would just be nice to see him live a little more freely.

The temptation clears with the last of your noodles disappearing into your mouth. There are things that are off limits for both of you. Those are just the sacrifices you’ve made for your dreams. That’s all there is to it.

It’s so good you sigh at the loss of it, mourning your empty bowl. Gojo’s almost done himself. The minute he finished his noodles, he lets out a breath to mirror yours, then laughs once he catches himself.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s get you home.”

You think that’s the end of it. There’s no reason to go any further. You met an idol and he obliterated your previously held prejudices. You’ll never meet again.

That’s not quite how it works out.

When your manager offers you another chance to see Gojo, it’s nonchalant. “Remember that idol you were partnered with on that variety show? I know you don’t like those types, but you seemed to tolerate him well enough. There’s another-“

A yes flies out of your mouth so quickly it’s embarrassing.

Your manager pauses. His eyes narrow. “Didn’t expect you to be so eager, but okay.”

Your face burns with embarrassment. This isn’t like you at all. Even with your exes, you had been cool and level headed. Always the prize, never the one to give chase.

He’s interesting, you try to rationalize it to yourself. You like interesting. Life was mind numbing without a kick, and he was the latest thrill. It didn’t mean anything more.

It’s another variety show. Apparently the two of you had been so popular as a pair that they wanted more.

Gojo’s in the makeup chair when you arrive. The artist is scolding him for blinking while she applies his mascara. He’s whining about his dry eyes.

“Don’t be a baby,” you say, dropping into the chair next to him.

“But that’s what I’m best at!”

“You’re so weird,” you laugh.

The makeup artist groans. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Only Gojo would take that as encouragement. He rolls his eyes and receives a light swat across the shoulder for his troubles. You play around on your phone while you wait for her to be free, but soon grow bored. Instead, you watch her swipe powder across Gojo’s face and dab cream onto the apples of his cheeks.

“Stop staring,” he says.

“How do you know I’m staring? Your eyes are closed.”

“I can feel it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“You’re such a bad liar,” he says, and you know he’s just messing around at this point because you’re an incredible liar. It’s your best quality.

Falling into banter with Gojo is as easy as breathing. It’s no trouble at all to replicate it on the show. From the shadow, your manager gives you a double thumbs up. Dork.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you’re doing this to drum up popularity for your tour. You’re not the only one having trouble. Gojo pulls you aside after filming wraps up to give you his personal number on the phone he’s not supposed to have.

At night, you get an alert that you’ve received something from Gojo. It’s not a message. It’s a notification that you can save three tickets to your digital wallet.

A speech bubble pops up.

Come to my concert, he says. I got you VIP seats.

Gojo’s impressed you, but you still don’t know about the rest of his band. You’re not sure you want to watch pretty men lip sync and grind on the stage for two hours, but when you tell Shoko, she offers to bring Utahime. That’s conveniently three, so you might as well.

VIP seats don’t include backstage, so you’re surprised when security comes to retrieve you. There’s no backstage pass for this concert, actually, confusing you all the more.

Shoko flaps her hand dismissively at you, encouraging you on. By her side, Utahime is trying to feed her snacks. Satisfied that they’re comfortable, you follow the guard to Gojo’s dressing room. He leaves you there without a word.

After five minutes of waiting for something to happen, you knock. Instantly, Gojo’s voice invites you in.

He’s sitting in front of the dresser, fiddling with his earrings. You’ve noticed seven piercings in total - three on his right lobe, two on his left, and one conch on either side. Before you knew him, you would’ve been surprised an idol would be allowed to get so many. Now you know he bends the rules whenever he’s able.

“Pass me that?” You hand him the disinfectant. “Thanks. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Then why’d you send me tickets?”

“Thought my roguish good looks and natural charm would win you over,” he says with a smile that says he’s only half joking.

“You’re insufferable,” you say as you bat his hands away from his ear. “Let me do that.”

His hair is soft as cygnet down as you brush it behind his ear. There’s something innocent about his expression like this, watching him from above. His eyes are closed, breaths soft and even as he waits for you.

The silver pools in your hand as you thread it through his ear, a waterfall released when it hooks on. He wears a lot of silver, you’ve noticed. His stylists favor colors that should wash him out but only make him look more angelic. Pale blue silk trims his form, encrusted with embellishments to make him look prince-like. There are sparkles in the inner corner of his eye, soft blush on his cheekbones to make him look sweet.

He’s anything but when his eyelids flutter open and he notices you watching. A smile almost cruel tugs at his lips. His hand reaches for you as if-

There’s a knock on his door for the last curtain call.

“That’s me.” He stands up, brushing his lap off without a trace of anything other than professionalism. He’ll leave you wondering what he was going to do. It’s terrible how good he is at this, though you suppose it’s his job to leave people wanting more. “Keep an eye out for me on stage, will you?”

It’s hard not to. Your eyes are polarized to him. Even when something else catches your attention, like fireworks or confetti, he pulls it back. Greedy, that one.

You’re not the only one. The crowd lives for him. There’s something electric about him on stage. He naturally draws attention with that height and attitude and face, but what happens when he’s performing is inexplicable. You’d call it a religious experience if you believed in a god.

Fate has never factored into your life, but now you’re starting to consider worship. Gojo performs like he was born to be an idol.

Keep an eye out for me, he says, as if you’d have any trouble. You’ll dream about him tonight. The way his mouth fits so sensuously over the words of a love song snags your thoughts like a fishhook. Sick desires run through your blood, each more depraved than the last.

You want to watch him shed his beautiful silk skin for you, become nothing more than man again. You must retract your prior confession. There’s no longing for the altar in you, only a love of sacrilege.

Gojo asks for coffee easily, as if you’re two normal people and not celebrities with a lot to lose if you were caught together. You can’t let him outdo you, so you agree. These are the reasons why your manager curses your recklessness. Shoko calls it bravery, when she’s feeling sweet on you.

The second message comes a second later.

Gojo Satoru 11:25 I only said it to see if you’d agree Here’s my address lol can’t believe you said yes Attachment

You think he gives his address out too freely for a man worth 30 million. The feeling only intensifies as you get out of your car and thank your driver. His gates are pearly instead of the standard matte black, a stark declaration of wealth. He’s practically asking for an incident to happen.

Security buzzes you in. Someone in a white dress - an honest to god maid - leads you to a mini kitchen where Gojo’s waiting. His hair is wet and dripping down his back where his powder blue shirt is darkened to a navy. You thought you had gotten used to overblown displays of money after your first three years in the music industry. Clearly, you were mistaken.

He looks up as you enter, reading a trashy tabloid as he stirs whipped cream into a tall glass of something that looks more like a sugary heart attack than coffee.

You’ve never seen his bare face, you realize. Even that moment when you had walked in on him and the makeup artist, he had been nearly done. He looks practically the same without makeup. People with genetic good looks like him only need to enhance their appearance the tiniest amount.

What really strikes you is how earnest he looks, soft and open-hearted, though that might be because you’ve caught him in his home. This is what you wanted - him without his skin on, naked and without pretense. He’s wearing cotton pajamas and white slippers.

“I thought you’d come later,” he says. “Sorry I got started without you. I was feeling something sweet.”

“I’m early, though?”

“I’m always late,” he says with a one shouldered shrug. “Thought you might be too. Guess you’re not my perfect girl after all, huh?”

You shove his arm off the armrest of his chair to perch on it, ignoring the perfectly good chair across from him. This is better, anyway, easier to talk to him. “Don’t be absurd. I’m everyone’s dream girl.”

Gojo chuckles. “I like confident women.”

There’s been a question on your mind for a while. You knew his group was popular, but all this? Maybe you should’ve become an idol after all.

“Where’s the rest of your band? I thought idols shared rooms.”

“Some do,” he says. “Not so much when you make it big. But this is my family home, so none of that applies.”

Gojo Satoru of the Gojo conglomerate. How had you forgotten? It shouldn’t be so easy to ignore something like that.

Gojo shifts the conversation easily, but you notice. So he doesn’t like the connection, then. “How was the concert?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you say, stealing a sip of his drink before it reaches his mouth. It’s too sweet for anyone’s standards. You spit it back into the cup. He takes it from you, eyes it consideringly, and takes a sip anyways.

Your mouth drops. “You’re so gross.”

“Only for you, baby,” he moans, humor like a teenage boy. “Call me names again.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“It’s fine, it’s just saliva. Now tell me the truth. You couldn’t take your eyes off me, could you?”

They’d probably sooner pop out of your head and roll away than leave the sight of him, but you can’t tell him that after all you’ve said about idols. Instead, you push off your seat to go rummage through his cabinets. He has a fully stocked coffee cart in this room and the very latest espresso machine, all to choose his diabetic monstrosity instead.

“You don’t need to respond,” he says cheerfully. “Your silence tells me everything I need to know.”

“Do you think you know me that well?” You shoot back. His fridge is so big you think you could fit into it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ve registered that he’s moved from his seat as well, and now stands just behind you.

“Of course I know you,” he says. “I understood you the moment we met.”

“You’re very confident,” you note.

You have a weakness for confident men.

“So you liked my concert. Can I come to yours?”

You imagine Gojo in a mosh pit for a second. It sends you into a laughing fit while he stands there, bemused. You can’t shake the incongruous picture of him, with his face like a carefully crafted porcelain doll, getting rowdy and wild with your fans. Ridiculous. Never in a million years.

“We don’t have VIP seats,” you warn him.

“So?”

“So it can get dangerous.”

“Aw, you do care about me.”

“I care about the fat lawsuit your company’s going to send me when their moneymaker breaks his leg at my concert. It’s not happening.”

“You scared?”

“No, but maybe you should be.”

“Come on,” he says. When had he gotten so close? It’s distracting. “I know you’ll take care of me.”

Gojo had invited you to his concert. It’s only right to return the favor. An idea starts forming in your head, though you’re not sure it’s a good one. You tell him anyway.

Usually when soundcheck is over, you have a little bit of downtime to relax backstage. You’re expecting someone tonight, however.

A rough knock on the door announces Satoru Gojo, spoken in your security guard’s rough voice. Well, he really introduces him as pretty boy idol, but you can guess who it is.

He looks discomfited, a rare occurrence, as he closes the door behind him.

“What’s with you?”

“You’ve got groupies,” he says, looking rattled.

You fight a smile.

“Don’t laugh,” he pouts. “They’re insane. One of them tried to chase me here.”

You can’t help yourself. A giggle bursts out of you. When he tries to leave, you pin his hand to the handle and coo reassurances at him so he won’t.

When you head out the door, he surprises you by grabbing your hand. It’s as nonchalant as anything he does, so you rise to the challenge he sets by refusing to react to it. You only separate once you reach the stairs; him to the spot you’ve made for him behind the barricade, you to the stage.

This is one of your favorite venues, moody and atmospheric. The lights are dimmed to your preferred setting, but your eyes adjust quickly. Your crowd is restless tonight, shifting on their feet as whispers follow raucous laughter through the crowd. Noise on noise, the way you like it.

The wood of the floor is a little sticky beneath your boots as you walk. That’s history gumming the soles of your shoes, generations of artists before you. You’re starting to feel it now, the electric thrum of pure joy in your blood.

Shoko is strumming light tunes on her guitar to warm up, her eyes closed. You hope she doesn’t take it too hard that Utahime couldn’t make it tonight, though you know if she’s upset, she’ll channel into her music.

The crowd settles as the hour draws closer. Shoko’s fingers are liquid now, running through chords effortlessly. You wrap the cord of the microphone around your hands, letting the tension build mindlessly. A stage is like home to you. The crowd plays in the palm of your hand, energy ebbing and flowing as you will it.

It starts with a guitar solo from Shoko. By then, the crowd is already burning with excitement. The first burst of sound from the speakers has them roaring, cheering even though there’s no lyrics to it. The smallest smile touches her lips as she plays to the crowd, showing off exactly why she’s lead guitar for the greatest band in the world right now.

You step in on her heels, your voice rising over the music. Back before you knew how this felt, you almost quit singing, annoyed by the sound you were forced into. This is more your tempo. The almost guttural curl to the ends of your words, the rasp of your hoarse voice - this is beautiful to you.

The crowd is yours. Anything that goes on is within your jurisdiction, higher than any judge or god. You notice everything in your realm.

People are starting to move now, their bodies falling victim to the music. Their mouthes form the vowels and consonants of the lyrics as their bodies shudder and jerk, chained to the rhythm. Bodies ricochet off each other, love taps of respect for your aggressive voice, soaring above it all.

In the corner, there’s a violent eye of a storm. You think it’s a particularly enthusiastic dancer - perhaps a circle is about to form - before you realize what’s actually going on.

A fight is breaking out. You catch a glimpse of snow white hair, realize it’s near the barricade, and your stomach drops.

It’s Gojo and another man, ignoring the security guard trying to separate them. You try to stay professional and play through it, but then you see red.

Gojo’s hand flies to his face, his nose dripping with crimson. He doesn’t look any more injured than that, but you’re angry enough to step in now. Shoko stops as soon as you hold your hand out, the music veering into a screeching crash.

“You, in the black tee!” You realize you should’ve been more specific when what looks like the entire crowd looks down at their equally black shirts. “No, the one that just punched Gojo Satoru. Yeah, you, asshole! No fighting at my gigs! Especially not my guests!”

He had the audacity to yell back. “I was just showing him a warm welcome!”

You climb off the stage. Gojo didn’t show any fear while he got hit, but there’s concern in his eyes now as you drop to the ground by him.

“Wait,” he says, “wait, wait. I don’t think you should-“

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, pushing him behind you until his back hits the stage. “Let me handle this.”

You get in the man’s face. His eyes are bloodshot - drunk, probably. “Who do you think you are, starting shit at my shows?”

“You’ve sold out,” he slurs. Definitely drunk. “He doesn’t belong here.”

“You don’t get to tell me who can or can’t come to my goddamn show,” you snarl, vicious and low. “Get out.”

“You can’t-“

“Get out before I make them drag you out.”

When he doesn’t move, you motion security over. “Does anyone else have any complaints?”

The crowd is eerily silent for something that was moving like a beast with one mouth before, singing in unison. You clamber back on stage, turning around to grab Gojo’s hand.

“What?” He says.

“Up. Now.” Your tone brooks no argument. You haul him up with you. He stands awkwardly as you drag him towards your mic stand, your arm slung around his shoulder. There’s still blood on his face.

“Gojo Satoru is a very dear friend of mine,” you announce into the mic. You see the confused looks in the crowd. Even Shoko seems wary. This wasn’t on the schedule. “If you're a real rock fan, you'd know that music is more than genre. I get it! I didn’t think idols were anything more than corporate shills either-“

“Harsh,” he whispers under his breath, unable to control himself even now.

“But he proved me wrong. He’s a real performer, just like I am, and I expect the same respect for him that you give to me.”

This is your crowd. They listen. Someone whistles.

You sit Gojo down, right by your feet. He gives you a bemused smile as the concert starts again, you moving around him like one of your props. He spends most of the concert lounging back, watching you through half lidded eyes.

It might’ve been enough excitement for one night, but you’ve always been the type to push your boundaries. When the idea springs into your head, you act on impulse, not giving yourself too much time to think about it as you pull Gojo to his feet.

You’re really manhandling him tonight, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s only a little startled as you pull the mic away from your face to get into his space.

You misjudged the distance. Your forehead knocks into his, just enough to sting, but not really hurt. “Do you want to try something?” Your voice is a whisper to not get picked up by the mic.

“Give it to me,” he says, and his smile is a bloody thing.

When you angle the mic towards him, you’re careful about not hitting him this time.

His voice works surprisingly well for rock. You weren’t sure he could pull off such a sound change, but he surprises you every time, matching you best for beat.

When he pulls back, your hand snakes into his hair and yanks him towards you and the mic again. He sings wholly at your command, being jerked around by your desires. It’s an inferno on stage, sweat pouring down both your faces. Behind you, the crowd is screaming so loudly it nearly deafens you.

Not a bad encore, you think as you towel off in your dressing room. Shoko left for a cool down with a bottle of ice water right before you, her post concert ritual, but the look she shot you says that you need to talk. You’ll deal with the consequences later.

For now, it’s enough to have Gojo shaking with leftover adrenaline against you as you sit him down in your chair. You press a bottle of ice against his face, watching him shiver. He’s still pretty with all the blood. Prettier, somehow, like some teenage wet dream of a vampire from a young adult novel.

You want to lick the sweat out of the hollow of his collar bones. Instead, you talk to him to rid yourself of your insane thoughts. It’s always a little crazy in your head after a good stage.

“Well?” You demand. “How was it?”

He tilts his head, considering. It makes you nervous. Now that you know how good of a performer he is, it almost feels like a test to receive his judgment.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he says, slowly.

“That good, huh?” You smile, trying to ignore the aching pressure behind your ribcage. You shouldn’t care so much what he thinks. Why does it matter?

“Yeah,” he says. “When are you free? I gotta plan our date.”

“Huh?”

“That was so sexy,” he says. “I was thinking about taking it slow, but I’m not going to last if I wait. I want to date you. I want to marry you.”

He’s starting to worry you. “Did you have a heat stroke or something? That’s really fast. Really, really fast, Gojo.”

“I’ve never been more clearheaded in my life,” he says. You only believe him when the medic clears him of any injuries, even the nose.

“We can talk about marriage later,” you say. “Why don’t you tell me about the date for now?”

Two weeks later, you’re Gojo’s plus one to his first movie premiere. It’s his debut as an actor, and it couldn’t be a better one. He escaped most of the negative pushback that usually comes with transitioning between those two industries, being naturally good at everything. Still, he had worked hard, and you’re proud of him.

It feels like you’re the only one, because the man himself doesn’t even care about his accomplishment. He’s too busy being delighted about hiding in plain sight. The cameras flash at you as you walk across the red carpet, arm in arm with Gojo. Your stylist had coordinated with his. It could almost pass for a couple’s outfits.

“You know,” he says conspiratorially. “When you defended me at the concert, I got hard.”

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“It was really hot.”

“You know there are people who can read lips, right?”

“I wish they would figure out what I’m saying.”

“Alright,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Let’s get inside.”

Dating Gojo is nothing like what you’d expected and everything like you’d expected. He keeps surprising you, doing wild things to get your attention that you never thought an idol would be willing to get their hands dirty with. He might be even more of a daredevil than you are, constantly pushing the boundaries of what you both can get away with before you’re found out.

In a way, it’s almost like you’re asking for it. You’re both straining at the bit to claim each other. It doesn’t come as a surprise when it does happen, then.

“Huh,” Gojo says over ramen. “We got papped.”

Utahime, understandably, freaks. “What? That’s not funny.”

“Oh yeah?” You say. “Are the pictures good at least?”

“You know we always look good. Could’ve gotten a better angle, but whatever.”

Utahime’s working herself into a minor tizzy in the corner. “Guys, I need you to be more serious about this. This is bad! This is so bad!”

Shoko looks up from her phone and chips on the couch, lying flat on her stomach. “Hate to agree, but she’s right. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “What’s the point? There’s nothing we can do about it. They have the evidence.”

It had been a good run. Two blissful months of peace and quiet. Sneaking around had been fun, giving you that thrill you loved every time someone failed to recognize you and Gojo behind your stupid sunglasses. Still, it was bound to fail at some point. You’re honestly surprised it lasted for as long as it had. You can’t be mad. Two months is more than you could’ve asked for.

“Well,” Gojo says. “Wee-llll.”

“Spit it out,” Utahime gripes at him.

You take another bite of ramen, content to let them argue without you.

“There is something we could do,” Gojo hedges.

“You’re so annoying,” Shoko says.

“No one thinks you’re funny,” Utahime chimes in.

“Hey! She thinks I’m funny!” Gojo frowns. “Tell them you think I’m funny.”

“Sorry, babe. I never lie to my girls.”

“Whatever,” Gojo sighs. “Guess you don’t want to hear my genius idea then.”

“Don’t be a brat,” you tease, knuckling his head. He loves it when you roughhouse with him.

“What if…” The hesitation is real this time. You can tell the difference between when he’s faking it or not. He’s a good showman, but you know him. You place an encouraging hand on his knee.

“What if we went public first?” He says it all in one breath.

You take a moment, turning the idea over in your head. It would wrest back control of the narrative to your team. Even if you might get backlash, it wouldn’t be at someone else’s hands, beholden to their mercy. You like it.

“Sure,” you say.

Gojo gapes at you. ‘That easy?’ His thoughts are written all over his face.

“Why not?” You offer him one of your easy smiles. “I’ve always wanted to say you were mine, anyway.”

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x reader

742 notes · View notes

6sakusa · 2 years ago

Text

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐉𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

Synopsis: In which you’re a dancer for the world renowned band Paradis’ tour & the leader and golden boy Eren Jaeger has taken quite a liking to you, he’s been waiting to get his hands on you, for months. It looks like today is his lucky day.

This is based on my rockstar!eren headcanons which you can also read here.

CW: Heavy smut, dry humping, oral, penetration, mentions of virginity loss, hints of infidelity, Eren being manipulative & toxic.

A/N: Take this as a thank you for 1000 followers!

“Y/n, Jaeger’s here for you again.” Nanaba, your dance couch for Paradis’ tour points behind her with a slack expression on her face. She’s clearly unimpressed by the brunette devil sporting a smirk on his lips, his beautifully deep teal eyes drag to yours in such amusement that you almost wish you could read his mind. His hair is tied back in his signature style of course — albeit the stray hairs that somehow frame his face perfectly and God you could talk about those eyelashes for days. If there was one thing you knew about the lead vocal for Paradis it was that he was beautiful and admittedly every time he got you out of dance practice it felt wrongly exciting.

“You know you can’t keep stealing my best dancer right? I kinda need her to know the choreography for your songs.” She turns to face him, there’s a dangerous smile lingering on his lips while his hands are pushed deeply into his pockets.

“Just this once.” He promises, it’s a lie and that shouldn’t surprise you.

“That’s what you say everytime.” Nanaba rolls her eyes, “What do you want her for anyway?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He lets out a breathy laugh while leaning against the wall behind him, something lights up in his eyes as you walk over though you and Nanaba share the same expression, unimpressed.

“She’s right.” You back the head choreographer for two reasons. 1) She’s extremely scary when she wants to be, the majority of that includes the next time she sees you after Eren pulls you away. 2) You’d already missed a countless amount of practices due to the boy anyway. Though it was hard to say no, not when he was the sole reason you were on this tour anyway. Besides, Nanaba knows what he says goes, he’s not necessarily her superior but the second Paradis’ star boy starts whining about how he doesn’t like her she’d be gone, that wasn’t something she could afford.

“You’re good at what you do.” He says, pushing himself off the wall. He’s so convinced you’ll come with him because he knows you, you’re friends at this point and that means you’re aware that he never takes no for an answer. “So you’ll have no problem catching up.”

“Come on Eren—“

“Please?” He interrupts, here he goes pulling out the big guns. As if on cue a dejected expression appears on his face, he pouts slightly while gazing down at you longingly. He grabs your arm, tugging you to come along with him.

“Why are you like this?” You sigh, giving Nanaba a sorry look but how could she blame you? You were in the same boat as her, neither of you had the power to say no to Eren Jaeger, and chances are he wouldn’t let you.

As usual the other girls in practice whisper amongst themselves, always speculating between the relationships you and Eren had. The most popular theory was that you were fucking of course but as they’d told you a million times it was nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, you should wear it on your forehead as a sign of pride but the simple fact was that it just wasn’t true. You were friends, and he only wanted to be friends, right?

“Can’t help it.” He murmurs, dipping down so that his lips are practically grazing your earlobe, “I’m lonely without you.”

“If you keep saying stuff like that people will get the wrong idea.” You hit him lightly on the shoulder, much to his amusement.

He cracks a grin, leaning forwards so only you could catch his words. “If you don’t come with me now then I’ll definitely give them the wrong idea.” It’s a threat that he intends to go through with, you know Eren which means you know it’s never a good idea to call his bluff.

You gulp, nodding with agreement. “Okay fine but this is the last time.”

He chuckles to himself, turning on his heel. He’s already eager to get out of here. Truthfully, the only time he has any interaction with Nanaba, or any of the dancers for that matter is when he comes to watch you. He won’t lie, he’s done some fucked up things to the sight of you dancing, so much so that if he told you he’s sure you’d run for the hills but he can’t help it. Sometimes he burns your movement into his memories so he can jerk off to it the same day, the thought of you moving against him like that was exciting. However, you’ve proven that it’s harder to get into your pants than he would’ve anticipated, no wonder you were a virgin. At times he thought it was more hassle than it was worth but the moment he saw your pretty face again he was sold. He knew he had to have you.

“I’ll practice it later, I swear.” You sport your coach one last bashful smile despite the annoyed look on her face before catching up with the reason for all your troubles. Like it wasn’t hard enough being away from home touring with Paradis, to make matters worse Eren was constantly putting the few bonds you did have here with people on the rocks.

“Where are we going?”

“My dressing room.” He replies like he’s been anticipating your question, he’s got a look on his face that reminds you of an angel but you know better than that, it’s a facade.

“And why’s that?”

“Got a new strand of weed, thought you might wanna try.” He glances down at you as you fall into step besides him. He thinks this position suits you, next to him. “Unless you stopped smoking — already?” His tone is challenging and it annoys you, it annoys you because of course you’d want to prove him wrong. He’s the one that got you hooked on this shit in the first place even though you told him it wasn’t a good idea for a dancer to smoke. You needed all the stamina you could get.

“You know I haven’t.” You say meekly, your gaze falling to the ground. He loved that, loved knowing how much he’s corrupted you. Is it filthy? Maybe. Did he care? Not one bit.

He laughs lightly as you make your way through the back rooms. You’re never at one venue long enough to actually get used to the place, let alone know where you’re going. It made you wonder how much Eren would be wondering around and why? He’s probably taken countless girls to his dressing room already in less than the week you’ve been here.

Make no mistake, you’d been to his dressing room countless times before too. The difference was nothing more than friendly interactions would take place there between the two of you. Still, you found it hard to believe that Eren was just maintaining platonic relationships with all the girls he spoke to. But then why you? You couldn’t put your finger on it. You also couldn’t help the lingering thought in the back of your mind that you were unattractive, maybe he just didn’t wanna fuck you.

“How do you know these corridors so well?” You blurt out your thoughts while taking another turn.

He laughs to himself, looking away. “I like to explore.” Another lie. You weren’t sure if Eren was comfortable with lying so much because he thought you wouldn’t catch on or because he knew you would but he also knew you wouldn’t challenge it. You had a feeling it was the second one. Maybe he liked the exert this twisted sense of power over you.

Eventually, his hand turns one of the door knobs and you step into his dressing room. It’s almost the same as all the rest, almost. It has a clothing rack with whatever his stylists have decided will be best for the three performances they have here, a leather couch against the wall with a coffee table just opposite it and a mounted TV purely for his entertainment. The only difference is that this one has a bed, now that caused your eyebrow to raise a little. You knew that some nights Eren would rather sleep in his dressing room than the rowdy tour bus. You supposed he got a bed added for that reason, you couldn’t see him and all his 6ft2 glory fitting on that couch anyway.

Though, much to your surprise Connie, Jean and Armin were here. You’d had interactions with them multiple times, particularly Jean who could only be described as a flirt though you weren’t sure you would consider them to be friends. Essentially, the entire band of Paradis sat in anticipation while Jean rolled one up, it was hard to feel like you weren’t intruding on something.

“Finally.” Armin collapses onto the bed, seeing the two of you walk through the door. “You’re back.”

“What took you so long?” Jean glances over at the two of you, him and Connie are situated on the couch leaving one empty spot at the very end.

Eren points behind him at you, “Nanaba was tryna be difficult with me.”

“You know you don’t have to ask for her permission right?” Connie quirks up an eyebrow, amused by your meek demeanour.

He places a hand on your back, he’s teasing you. “She likes it when I’m polite.”

Armin chuckles, “It’s nice seeing you again y/n.” The other two nod in agreement upon eyeing you head to toe. Sometimes you didn’t understand how surreal your situation was, touring with one of the biggest bands in the world, definitely the hottest members. Somehow even befriending one of them and now you were what? Going to casually light one up with Paradis?

“Yeah, real nice.” Jean is practically liking his lips. Curse you and those stupid shorts you wear for dance practice. Perhaps he ought to be more like Eren and pay you a visit or two. “Eren thinks about you too much.” Connie observes, “Pulled this out and the first thing he’s talking about is how he doesn’t want you to miss it.”

Eren takes a seat besides Jean, you stand there awkwardly not sure where you’re supposed to go.

“Come.” He taps his lap lightly while ignoring Connie’s comment, gesturing you to sit on it. Naturally your eyes widen and of course he finds it amusing. He smiles, looking at his other bandmates. “It’s not a big deal, right guys?” They nod routinely and you swallow whatever is stuck in your throat before slowly walking over and taking a seat. Eren has a satisfied grin as you try to situate yourself, you don’t expect him to place both his hands on your hips, holding you down.

“Who wants to go first?” Jean asks while Connie holds a lighter to the blunt. Across the room you see Armin close the window, they intend to hotbox, great. Looks like you wouldn’t be practicing later today after all.

“Ladies first.” Eren taps your thigh, Jean hands it over to you, they all watch intently as you take the first hit. “Look, she doesn’t even cough anymore.” Eren teases while rubbing your back, the others laugh while you blow out the smoke.

“Sorry.” You say shyly, “I think I got lipgloss on it.” They all wave you off hearing a string of it’s fine and it’s okays fill up the air. You hand it back to Jean and allow it to rotate around the room. It doesn’t take many hits for you all to get high, now you’re putty in Eren’s hands, all laughing and giggling while you run your fingertips down his chiselled chest talking about whatever nonsense the topic of discussion was.

You feel like you’re zoning in and out of reality leaning into the crook of Eren’s neck while he’s got an arm draped around your waist. Connie and Armin are engrossed in their own conversation while him and Jean talk amongst themselves. “Wanna share whats left?” Jean asks, but he’s not looking at the blunt, he looks between you and Eren. A devilish smile is on his lips and you can’t really discern what he means because there is nothing left to share.

You feel a chuckle reverberate against Eren’s chest, he shakes his head lightly. “Not this time, I’ve been dreaming about this one.”

“Oh I get it.” Jean grins, he places a hand on your thigh before speaking up once more, “It was nice seeing you y/n, you should come around more. Don’t wait for Eren to invite you.” He begins standing up, Connie and Armin glance at eachother, seemingly having some shared understanding as they stand too.

“Bye guys.” You wave, looking up at them through those pretty eyelashes of yours and for a second Jean almost considers saying fuck it to Eren but he doesn’t. They trail out slowly, all leaving some lingering touches on your body until it’s just you and Eren left.

You figure now is a good time to climb out of his lap but he holds your hips in place, “Where are you going? You don’t wanna keep me warm?” He asks, it’s a whisper against your neck and it sends all types of goosebumps crawling down your body.

You giggle, your brain is too fogged up to think straight. “Erenn.” You drag out his name while he flips you over so that you’re straddling him. Once he gets a look at your face he knows there’s no use trying to conceal the hard on in his pants.

“Hmm?” He hums, running his hand up and down your thigh. He’d been working on this for months, literal months. Now that he had you right where he wanted you there was no way he was letting you slip away. Today, it was now or never.

“What does this tattoo mean?” You snuggle your head in his chest, the weed is making you slightly tired.

“This one?” He glances between you and the art on his body. He smiles to himself, his eyes trailing off somewhere. “I’ll tell you another time.” Seeing how you were on the verge of literally falling asleep there was no time for him to waste talking about absolute nonsense. He needed you today, now.

“You always say that.” You whine, hitting him lightly. You can tell he’s amused from the airy laugh that escapes his nose. “I tell you everything about me but you never tell me about you.”

“Yeah?” His eyebrows quirk up, “You tell me everything like what? That you’re a virgin? You don’t drink? You were too scared to smoke?” He’s mocking you, you know that he is but he does it so sweetly while brushing some hair out of your face.

“You remember that?” You ask, of course he remembers. It’s all he thinks about when he sees you. That you’re untouched, pure, you probably don’t know how to make yourself feel good. He wants nothing more than to destroy you, corrupt you even. Whenever he sees you he gets hard, so hard. He knows that you feel it, the bulge prodding against your shorts but you haven’t said a word. You’d never sat on a mans lap before, you assumed it was normal and that drove him insane.

“I listen to the things you tell me.” He smiles, it’s so easy to think he cares, that he’s just a concerned friend and nothing more. “On the bright side that’s one down.”

“One down?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you’ve smoked now so what’s left? A couple drinks and losing your virginity? Seems easy enough.”

You look away, “I still haven’t found the right guy.”

“Oh yeah? What happened to your little boyfriend?”

“W-We’re on a break.” You mutter, embarrassed. Now it makes sense, you hadn’t mentioned him in a while and Eren wasn’t sure why considering when the two of you first met he was all you would talk about. He respected it though, he’d fucked enough girls with boyfriends that he thought it was rare to find someone like you.

“A break?” He chuckles, “So you’re not together anymore?” Everything was coming together perfectly.

“We are, I’m meeting him tomorrow to talk about it, we just had and argument.” Your voice trails off, it’s obvious you don’t want to talk about the situation between you and your boyfriend but of course Eren can’t help his curiosity.

“So you two have never—?”

“No.”

“Why not? He’s your boyfriend, isn’t that the right guy?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble.

“You poor thing.” He says, pushing you further down against his crotch. He was close, so close. “You don’t know what it’s like to feel good.”

“F-Feel good?”

“Yeah you know from sex, or are you afraid to talk about that too?” He teases, he’s about to have you right where he wants you and he can taste it.

“I’m not I just — I don’t know, maybe it’ll happen one day and I can feel good too.”

Bingo.

His eyes widen before he catches his composure. He’s got you now hook, line and sinker.

“You know.” He begins, “I bet I could make you feel good.”

“What?”

“Just a suggestion, you’re my friend of course I’d help you out where I can.” There’s a smirk on his lips. Damn him and his stupidly perfect features. And fuck the weed you’ve both consumed that’s clouding your senses.

“I-I don’t know.” You become nervous, retracting from him a little.

“Come on, I’ll be good to you, so good I promise.” He’s just able to hold back from bucking up into you but he’s not sure how long he’ll last.

“You will?”

“I swear.” He places a hand on his heart.

“But my boyfriend—“

“You guys are on a break, you’re not together. Think about him and all the girls he’s fucked, do you wanna be the only one with no experience?” He coos, rubbing your back. He was a starboy in two things, music and being a complete world class manipulator. Really this was getting him off even more, knowing he’d send your virgin pussy to your boyfriend tomorrow completely wrecked by him.

“What would we do?” You ask, becoming more receptive to the idea.

“Whatever you want, whatever makes you feel good.”

“I-I don’t know what I want to do.” You stammer, Gosh that makes him even harder. You really didn’t even know where to start in the sex department, he couldn’t believe it. A girl as beautiful as you, with those eyes and that dream body, how? How have you never been touched before?

“Want me to show you something?” He asks, you hesitate for a moment but end up nodding.

“Here.” He grabs your hips with both his hands, “Move against me, I’ll help you.” He rolls you against his crotch and throws his head backwards, he couldn’t take it. He needed to be inside you. It feels so good, you feel so good against him like this even with the fabric separating the two of you. You let out a whimper and his eyes shoot open to garner your expression.

“You like that?” He asks, grinding you against him harder.

“Y-Yes.” You position yourself directly above his bulge, your breath hitches with a moan as you feel it attempting to prod into you while you push against it. Your sounds are music to his ears and he can’t believe he’s actually enjoying dry humping, he feels like a virgin again.

He picks up the speed, looking up at you even though you’re seemingly lost in pleasure. “Wanna try moving by yourself baby?” He asks, he guides your arms around his neck so you can be in a secure position. You nod before picking up the pace again and he thinks he might lose his mind.

He glances down to see a dark patch forming against the crotch area of your grey shorts. Fuck you’re so wet for him and the two of you haven’t even had any skin to skin contact yet.

He lets out a moan which encourages you to go faster. “I-I feel like—“ You can hardly get the words out between your moans, there’s an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can’t quite put your fingers on.

“Come on, get on my thigh.” He repositions you because he knew if you kept going he’d cum in his pants and there was only one place he was aiming to nut tonight and that was inside of you.

“W-Why?”

“Just trust me.” He says, tapping against your hips as a sign to start moving again. You don’t have the bulge prodding against your entrance but quickly the feeling returns.

“Eren—“ You moan out his name, he thought he was already rock solid but now he was so hard that it was physically hurting him to be in these constraints. He needed you so bad.

“What is it baby?” He asks, watching you move against him, your shorts were practically drenched at this point.

“I think I’m gonna—“

“You’re gonna cum? Do it, for me.” Something snaps in your stomach at his words and euphoria washes over you, you’re seeing white while he continues to move your hips allowing you to ride out your high. You’re moaning uncontrollably before practically collapsing into his chest once you’re done.

“Fuck.” He says eyes wide while rubbing your back, “Think that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” You mutter against his shoulder blade, breathless.

“Yeah shit.” He glances down, pulling at the waistband of your shorts. “You’re drenched for me.”

“That felt good.” You say, pulling away from his chest so he can get a better look at your lower half.

“Yeah?” He finds it amusing, so much so that he let’s out a small chuckle. “I told you so, didn’t I?”

“What else can you do?” Fuck you were so eager for him, so eager for him to make you feel good he couldn’t believe it.

“You’re so greedy.” He says while picking you up before placing you down on the bed that Armin was on just minutes before. This all felt so wrong, so dirty but you wanted it all the same, wanted it so bad.

“I can show you something else.” He cages you underneath him, pressing his lips against your neck while be sucked on it. It didn’t even take a minute for him to find your sweet spot, to have you whimpering and squirming underneath him. “Do you want me to?” He whispers against your earlobe.

You nod eagerly but he doesn’t take it as an answer. “Need to hear you say it.”

“Yes Eren, I want you to.”

“Good.” He pulls away, burning the mental image of you sprawled out on the bed, peering up at him expectantly into his mind. Fuck he wishes he could take a picture and cherish this for ages, he’d jack off to it daily if he could.

Slowly, you watch as he tugs against your waistband, slowly pulling your shorts down until your lace panties are all that are in his way. “Look at you.” He whispers, he’s talking to himself more than he is to you. “So pretty, I knew it. Better than what I imagined.” He’s practically salivating as he moves your underwear to the side, faced with your bare pussy.

You hide your face out of nervousness, “You’ve been thinking about me?”

He pushes your hands to the side, wanting nothing more to see your face while he deals with you. “Do you want the truth?” He asks, his fingers dip down into your wetness, brushing over your clit. A light moan escapes your mouth before you nod. “I’ve been thinking about this for months, I wanted to fuck you ever since I laid eyes on you. Touched myself to you more times than you could know.”

Your breath hitched, the way he was speaking to you was so lewd you should almost be offended but it made you want him more. You wanted him so bad that you began to clench around nothing.

“Oh you like when I speak to you like that? Noted.” He brings your own slick up to your mouth, watching you suck his fingers before he removes it, putting it into his own mouth. He gives you almost no time to recover, desperate to be back against you once more. He kisses your thighs, giving you some time to ease into the feeling of him around you so intimately like this. The thought of getting head from him drove you almost insane with anticipation.

Eventually he pulls your hips closer to him on the edge of the bed, removing your panties completely. “If I fuck you good after this, will you let me keep these?” He holds them up in the air, it’s almost embarrassing how drenched they are but you nod anyway. Anything for him to get on with it.

"Shit baby." He mutters before putting his mouth on you, you moaned instantly, it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you, this time he didn't give you a moment to ease into it which made you close your legs around him.

"Open." He demands and you oblige, you couldn't even speak in response all you could do was moan at the way he was moving against you. He added a few fingers into the mix which made you go wild. If this is what sex was like it was a bummer you hadn’t done it sooner. On the bright side, you were doing it with Eren Jaeger of all people, the Eren Jaeger, and he wasn’t shy to show you how experienced he was. He grinned at how obedient you were, for some reason there wasn't a feeling in the world that he adored more. He could die right here and be the happiest man on earth.

He places your hands in his hair, guiding you to tug and pull on it. You guessed it was probably a kink of his but you enjoyed it anyway. The way he moaned against you when you pulled at him sent vibrations throughout your body. His hairband falls loose and you can’t help but think he looks like his absolute best like this, ravishing you while somehow lost in his own pleasure.

He's got both of your plump thighs in his hands, hooked under your legs. He's almost raising you off of the bed slightly, wanting to taste every last bit of you.

"I can't, I'm gonna—" You couldn't even finish your sentence, he was too much, having no mercy on you. Tears of pleasure begun to prick your eyes while he mocks you.

"You're gonna what? Use your words gorgeous." He looks up at you between your legs, your head is tilted back, eyes contorted in pleasure. He took a mental note of it, in all his years of living it was the best thing he'd ever seen.

"I'm gonna cum ‘Ren."

"Do it" Almost as if it was on command you came unravelled there, you were practically seeing stars. If it wasn't for you pulling him away by his hair he would've kept ravaging you, he couldn't help it, couldn't get enough of you.

He leaned in again to kiss you, he wanted you to taste yourself, to pay back the treat you'd given him, "Fuck." You said once you'd caught your breath, he chuckled at your disheveled state before sitting up slightly.

“What do you think your boyfriend would say if he could see you now?” He cocks his head to the side playfully. “Do you think you belong to him?”

You shake your head, “No.”

“Then who do you belong to?”

“You.”

The corner of his lips tug upwards. “Good girl, you’ve been so good for me.” He begins to unbuckle his belt as you watch intently. You could already see the his hard on through his black jeans but as soon as they were off you practically gasped. His print was evident through his boxers and to say he was massive was an understatement.

You watch as he begins palming himself through his boxers, as if he wasn’t already hard enough. “What do you say, you wanna touch?” You lean forward, running your hands up and down his clothed shaft and you hear him groan lowly.

“Fuck tell me you’re ready for me baby — been wanting this for ages.”

“I’m ready.” The moment the words come out of your mouth he pins you against the bed, once he pulls his boxers down his cock springs free and your eyes widen. It's even larger than you thought it would be. It's pretty, tanned just up until his tip which was pink. You could see the vein running along the side and genuinely asked, “Will that fit?”

“Gonna make it fit.” He throws his head back as he drags it through your folds, feeling your wetness warm him up makes him go crazy. You squirm underneath him, the base of his cock grazes over your clit more than once. “All the things I wanna do to you.” He whispers, “Gonna fuck you like crazy, I’ll be so good to you.”

“P-Please Eren, I want it, I want you.”

“Say it again.” He dips his head down so his ear is against your mouth, he wants to hear you crystal clear.

“I want you—“ You’re interrupted by the intrusive feeling of his head passing by your folds. It hurts, it hurts more than you can imagine as he pushes deeper inside of you. He’s moaning as he pushes into you you’re not sure why.

“Shit baby you’re so tight, too tight.” He groans, knitting his eyebrows together like he’s concentrating on not doing something.

“Ren it hurts.” You say, unintentionally clenching around him further.

“Wait don’t—“ Before he can finish his sentence you hear him whimper against your neck, something warm starts spilling inside of you and your eyes widen at his light moans. It takes an entire minute for him to realise whats just happened as he pulls away and out of you slowly.

“Did you just—“ You look down, seeing white seed spilling out of you.

His cheeks grow hot while he takes in the sight before him. Fuck another kink he didn’t even know he had, now he wants to breed you. “Why are you looking at me like that? It’s your fault.” He says with exasperation, “Why’d you grip me so hard?”

“What? I-I’m not, didn’t mean to.” You mumble, unsure of what he means. Was this supposed to happen? Considering this was your first time doing this you didn’t know how embarrassing this was for Eren and he was grateful for it. He’d never came just from entering a girl alone, then again he’d never fucked anyone as tight as you. This was going to be harder than he thought. You’d made him reach his high in record time and fuck did it feel good.

“It’s okay, I’ll forgive you this time.” He says, lining himself up against your entrance again, “Try to loosen up baby please, I wanna fuck you.” He begs, you’re not sure what he wants you to do. You’re as wet as you could be right now.

He pushes himself in once more though slower this time, his girth made it a little painful at first and he recognised that. He knows it hurts and he’s trying to give you the time to adjust but his patience is just running so thin. You hissed, your back arching against the bed while he coaxes you into calming down by pressing kisses against your face.

You winced a little causing him to rub your temple, "Just a little more okay? You can take it." You nodded as he pushed in a little further, a moan escaping from your lips. He settled for a moment after bottoming out, bringing his lips to yours to distract you from the pain once again. A tear escaped your eye and he places a kiss on it but you could feel his dick twitching inside of you. He liked seeing you cry.

“You can move.” You say, he wastes no time picking up the pace, fucking himself into you. He loved this, you were like his tight little fuck doll, he was putting everything into not cumming again. Eventually the pain subsides into pleasure for you and you can hardly form a coherent thought at the way he’s hitting all the right spots.

"You still need to loosen up for me." He says between moans, while thrusting into you like there was no tomorrow. He was so much more vocal than you would’ve expected but you loved it, you loved being fucked by Eren Jaeger.

"I-I have." Your sweet voice almost cracks between the pleasure. Squeezing him a little tighter as he talks to you. It wasn’t your fault, you weren’t doing it on purpose.

You can feel him laugh, muttering against your neck, "Think you might just be too tight, fucking virgin.” He mutters the last part but you still catch it.

"Think your dicks too big." You shoot back but he continues anyway. He begun experimenting with the angles, knowing he's found your G-spot with one particular moan from you.

"Shit, faster Eren." You asked causing him to grin to himself, your wish was his command. He was still cautious that he didn't want to hurt you but he was picking up the pace to the point where you wondered what kind of stamina this man had. If he'd asked you anything now there was no way you'd be able to formulate a single world, your head was in the clouds.

“You’re a fucking selfish bitch you know that?” He asks between the lewd sound of slapping filling the air. “Keeping this pussy from me for so long.” He slaps your clit and you’re so sure that the entire building could hear you at this point but he didn’t care, you were sure of it. “Shit you’re mine, all mine you hear me?”

You don’t respond, letting him fuck you into the clouds. “I’m talking to you.” He brings you back to earth, his hands surrounding themselves around your throat relentlessly.

“I-I’m yours.” You struggle to get the words out but do it eventually.

“Good girl, you gonna let me cum in this pussy again aren’t you? Gonna let me do it inside?” His tone is questioning but his words are a demand, he’s going to do it whether you like it or not.

“Yes ‘Ren.”

He hums with satisfaction before grabbing your hand and placing it on your clit while he continues to thrust into you, “Come, touch yourself.”

Your hands freeze and eyebrows knit together, you’ve got no clue what to do and that becomes painfully obvious to him. “Need some help?” He places your thumb on your clit while putting his own over it, moving them both in a circular motion.

“What? Too much?” You’re babbling incoherently and he’s beyond amused, you’re practically creaming on his dick and he knows that all the months of waiting was worth it. This was the best pussy he’s ever had.

The familiar knot is back in your stomach but you can’t bring yourself to warn him this time, he only knows it once you start clenching around him uncontrollably. “Oh fuck.” His moans slice through your own. Your high sends him into his own estacy, no amount of focus could stop this from happening when you were this tight around him. He came so hard, harder than he ever had before, squirts of cum filled you up and you could feel it continue to pile on even when you'd thought it had stopped. His deep moans resounded the room, he sounded amazing.

He played with your nipples while continuing to fuck the two of you into overstimulation, he didn’t care. He was drunk on this, “Can’t stop fuck I can’t stop.” He threw his head back, releasing another load into you. The next feeling was unfamiliar, you felt liquid gushing out of you and onto his bare V-line as his eyes widened. “Do it again.” He continues bucking into you, slapping his hands against your clit until you squirt some more.

Once he’d pushed himself to the absolute limit he finally slowed down, pulling out of you. Your body was shaking underneath him and you looked like you weren’t even present. “Didn’t know virgin pussy could do that.” He grins, taking in your fucked out state. Almost immediately the look on your face makes him hard again.

He attempts to line himself back up again but you’re still clenching around nothing and he knows he’s got no chance of getting back in there. “What? You need a little rest?” He perks up, he’s teasing you as usual. “Don’t care, this is my pussy now which means you’re gonna be good to me right, gonna let me go again?”

All you can do is whimper, jolting as he runs his hands over your body lightly.

“Gonna fuck you everyday from now on, you ready? This is just practice.”

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