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munsonsmixtapes · 22 days

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Helloooooo

I'm newer to your page ive been slowly reading your amazing stories.. are you still doing your prompt list stories?? I seen 3 that could work.. 40,42 and 43.. and it made me think or something possibly like this..

Eddie and (maybe plus sized) reader have been together for a while.. she sees a pretty girl/groupie flirting with him after the show (but she doesn't see him walking away from her or telling her that hes taken/not interested.. Reader just gets feral when they get home.. not realizing she's ovulating or something.. and just like gets her frustration out by begging Eddie to claim her fully or something..

sorry my brain has been all over the place.. I just can't get enough of him amd some stories have brought out some sides of me that i didnt know i had haha)

Hope that made sense.. I have a hard time getting what I have in my brain out.. which is why I don't write haha

Hello, lovely! Welcome! Thanks for the request!

Not proofread!

Eddie x fem!shy!plus size!reader

cw: MDNI 18+, smut (p in v), unprotected sex, fingering (f receiving) oral (f receiving), mention of pregnancy

Ever since you and Eddie had gotten together, he had made your relationship his entire personality. He would mention you every chance he got, letting everyone know that he was a taken man and that he was very lucky to have you. Whether it was in an interview, he talking about one of the many songs he had written about you, or introducing you to someone, it didn’t matter. He was so obsessed with you and had to let everyone know just how much he loved you.

Amongst his many nicknames for you, “my girl” was by far his favorite. He used it so often, so much love behind the words that it was clear to everyone that he was head over heels for you. He’d even go as far as singing the song to you while you made breakfast together, spinning you around the kitchen as the lyrics fell from his lips.

“This? Oh, my girl got it for me.”

“The next song is about my girl. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet my girl.”

You were his favorite topic of conversation to the point where it seemed that everyone knew that he was taken just by how much he brought you up in conversation, often unprompted. And anyone who didn’t know or did and flirted with him anyway, he would shut them down so quickly once he realized what was happening. He already had the best thing and wouldn’t have dreamed of ruining it.

You entered the concert venue as everyone was packing things up for the night. Corroded Coffin had just finished a show which you hadn’t been able to get to until after your shift at the bar down the street. You felt horrible for missing it even though Eddie had insisted that it was okay. He just appreciated that you were going to be there at all with your very busy schedule.

You were let in through the back doors and made your way down the hallway to find the all too familiar mop of hair. He was usually waiting right by the door for you, but he wasn’t there. You were starting to panic, but tried to calm yourself down, telling yourself that maybe he was in the bathroom or grabbing his belongings.

You looked all around the building until you spotted him outside his dressing room…talking to a girl. She was beautiful and she was making him laugh. She reached up and touched his hair and instead of stepping in like you knew you should have, you just turned on your heel to leave. You couldn’t watch another second.

What you hadn’t seen when you turned your back was Eddie removing the girls hand from his hair before dropping it. Now he understood what was happening. He took a step back from her until his back almost hit the door.

The thing about Eddie was that sometimes he wasn’t even aware that he was being flirted with. That was something that he still wasn’t used to after years in the industry because of the treatment he had received back home. He just thought they were being friendly until the touches came into play and that was always telltale sign. And then he’d let them down easy, not wanting to hurt their feelings, letting them know that his girl was waiting for him back home.

“Oh,” his eyes widened. “I’m so sorry. I have a girlfriend.” The girls face fell and she almost seemed disgusted by the fact that he was in a relationship.

“Oh,” she pouted. He always felt bad, letting the girls down, but he knew that one of his band mates would be happy to take them off his hands.

“But you know what? I heard that Gareth is looking for someone to take home, if you’re interested,” he winked and her face lit up again.

“Really?”

“Really,” Eddie nodded and opened the dressing room door where the other members of the band were hanging out. “Go get ‘em.”

The girl entered the room and Eddie let out a sigh of relief before turning to his left only to see you turning the corner. He didn’t know where you were going. You always waited for him so he didn’t understand why you were walking away.

He took off, racing after you so he could catch up. He almost tripped a few times, but he got to you, draping an arm over your shoulder as he fell into step with you.

“There’s my girl,” he let out a contented sigh before pressing a kiss to your temple. He tucked you into his side but couldn’t help but notice that you weren’t grabbing a hold of him like you usually did. You always had to be touching him so something was clearly off.

“Nothing to say, hm?” he asked, his lips still pressed to your skin. You weren’t usually talkative after work because you were usually overstimulated, but you would normally at last give him some sort of greeting.

Had he forgotten an important event? Maybe your birthday? No, that had already passed. Maybe your anniversary? No, that wasn’t until next month. Whatever it was, he definitely needed to apologize.

You and Eddie didn’t fight often, but when you did, it didn’t take very long for you both to make up. He was normally the first to apologize, hating to see the angry look on your face. He just wanted to make everything right so you could cuddle up in your bed. He just wanted you to be happy and hated when he was the one to be the cause of your unhappiness.

But he wanted to wait until you brought up what was bothering you. He never wanted to pry and hoped that you knew that he was willing to listen to whatever was going on in your head, no matter how ridiculous it seemed.

So, you spent the whole walk to his van and the whole ride home talking about your nights. He listened to you tell him about what happened at the bar and he told you how great the show went, not leaving out any detail.

It almost seemed like a normal night except for the obvious tension between the two of you. Neither one of you were going to be the first to bring it up, so it sat between you, like a jack in the box and you both were afraid to crank it first, not wanting to see the thing pop up.

Eddie rested his hand on your thigh like he normally did and even thought you were upset with him, you weren’t going to deny his affection. You loved the way his rough skin felt on yours and you felt like you needed him to show you just how much he wanted you.

You wanted him compliment you as he pounded into you, causing you to let out countless moans. You wanted to feel his lips everywhere. Your neck, your tits, your pussy. You just needed his head between your thighs so badly that you were getting wet just thinking about it.

Eddie pulled up to the house that you shared and was quick to help you out of the van, still keeping a hold of your hand as he opened the garage door. You pulled your hand out of his as soon as the door was open and headed inside.

He needed to beg if he wanted to get lucky. Not that it would take much for you to give in. You would have done anything he told you just by him flashing his million dollar smile, his dark brown eyes shining.

Eddie followed you into the house and up the stairs, noticing how loudly you were stomping as you took each step. He usually liked pissing you off just to get the reaction he liked, but never to this level. He had really fucked up and he didn’t even know what he had done.

You got to your shared room and slammed the door once you were inside. Eddie winced at the sound and decided that he finally had enough. He had to get to the bottom of the problem.

“Alright.” He opened the door, not even bothering to close it. He couldn’t go any longer without knowing why you were so pissed at him. “What’s on your mind?”

How could he not know? He was laughing with another girl then acted like it was nothing? Maybe he wasn’t into you as much as you thought. Maybe what you had wasn’t as special as you had assumed. Maybe this was just the beginning of the end.

“Nothing, Eddie. Let’s just go to bed.” You really weren’t in the mood to start another fight with him.

“No, we’re gonna talk about this.” He put his hands on his hips. Wayne always told him to never go to bed angry and he intended on sticking to that advice.

“Fine, you wanna know what’s wrong?” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“Tell me, angel,” he stepped forward. “Please.”

“I saw you with her.” His eyebrows furrowed, trying to figure out who you could have been talking about.

“With who?” He had no idea what you were referring to and just wanted you to come out and say it.

“The groupie outside your dressing room.” Oh. He had completely forgotten about her as soon as she entered the dressing room. He couldn’t believe you were jealous of her. You were always the only girl on his mind.

“You’re jealous,” he chuckled and you just scoffed. You couldn’t believe that he was laughing at your pain.

“So what if am?” He wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily, but he appreciated the honesty.

“There’s no need to be jealous, honey,” he rested his hands on your shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “You’re the one I love, remember?”

He had always said the word so easily, so matter-of-fact, as if he was telling you the weather forecast.

“You love me.” You crossed your arms over your chest, needing a little more than that to be convinced.

“Of course I do.” He gave your shoulders another squeeze before sliding his hands down to yours, holding them.

“Prove it.” You raised an eyebrow, challenging him. You wanted proof, needed it in fact.

“What?” He let out a scoff at your words. It wasn’t like you to have so much confidence in your words. You were usually so shy and quiet, but he liked seeing this new side of you.

“Prove it,” you repeated and he just let out another chuckle.

“How am I supposed to do that?” He stopped laughing once he saw you weren’t joking. You meant what you said, but he was going to do whatever you asked. He just wanted you to not be upset with him anymore. He needed to see your pretty smile.

“Beg.” Your eyes darkened as you spoke and Eddie’s widened at how authoritative you had become. You were so hot like this.

“Beg?”

“Beg,” you removed one of your hands from his and pointed to the floor. “On your knees.” He didn’t know why he was finding your bossy behavior so hot, but his dick was definitely hardening.

Eddie lowered himself to the floor, your hands still in his. He looked up at you and you loved seeing him from that point of view. He looked so small unlike his usual tall stature.

“I love you so much, angel,” he said, bringing your hands up to his lips. “So so much. You’re my girl and I’d never even think about cheating on you. You have no reason to be jealous, I swear.”

He grabbed a hold of your waist, burying his face into your stomach. Your hands found their way into his hair, giving his scalp a scratch. You figured he had suffered enough, but just needed one more thing.

“I’m so sorry. I wish you had told me how you were feeling sooner so I could reassure you.”

“I know how you could reassure me.” You were trying to sound flirty, but weren’t sure if you were doing it right. Flirting was always Eddie’s thing.

“How?” He asked, pulling back to look up at you.

“I need you.” Eddie was quick to stand up, trying to understand what you mean.

“I’m right here, honey.” He pulled you into his arms, giving you a tight hug. His hand rubbed your back in a comforting manner and normally, you would have taken that, but not tonight. You needed more. You needed to feel his skin against yours. His cock inside you.

“No, Eddie. I need you.” Your eyes darkened again and he was finally catching on to what you were meaning.

“Oh,” he let out a laugh. “That was all you had to say.” He hands wrapped around your waist and he pulled you into a kiss, capturing your bottom lip between his two. He took no time to lick into your mouth while his hands reached for the bottom of your shirt. He pulled it up over your head and let it fall to the floor.

You unbuttoned his shirt and threw it behind you before attaching your lips to his, taking no time to plunge your tongue into his mouth. You backed him up to the bed and pushed him down onto it before straddling his waist.

“You’re so hot,” he breathed as your lips moved down to his neck, giving it a suck before moving back up to his mouth.

“You’re hotter.” Eddie quickly flipped you over so you were the one on the mattress and you let out a gasp at the sudden movement. He straddled your waist and pinned your wrists to the bed before going straight for your shoulder.

“No, baby. You’re the hottest. Your body is fucking killer.” Eddie loved your body. You weren’t skinny by any means, but that just gave him more love on. He loved pressing kisses to every inch of skin he could find, loving to give special attention to your stretch marks. He thought they were cute and that they made you unique.

“You think so?”

“I know so, honey,” he pulled back to look at you. “Want me to show you?” His face lit up as he said the words and it made you even more wet knowing that he was so happy to show you just how much he liked your body.

“Please,” you whined and he kissed his way down to your chest, pressing a kiss right in the center of it, right above the middle of your bra. “Take it off,” you commanded.

He pressed another kiss to the skin and moved his hands behind your back, unhooking it as slowly as he possibly could. He could hear your sighs of frustration and tried to hold back his chuckle. He very slowly undid each hook and removed the bra completely, letting it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Eddie then pinned you back down to the mattress and looked down at you with a devilish grin. He was always such a fucking tease.

“You’re even hotter than I remember,” he complimented as he stared down at your tits.

“I got hotter just from last night?”

“Sure did. Now hush, honey. I’m about to do my best work.” He moved one of his hands to your nipple, massaging it with the pad of his thumb, just enough for to make it hard before he brought his mouth to it. He licked a stripe across it before giving it a suck.

“Oh,” you let out a moan and he took that as an invitation to bring it between his teeth giving it a little nibble. “Oh, Eddie.”

He did the exact same thing to the other nipple, eliciting more pretty sounds from you and he was eating it up. He loved that only he could get that reaction from you.

Eddie kissed his way down your stomach and stopped once he got to your waist. He pressed a featherlight peck to each of your stretch marks before looking up at you.

“Can I remove-“

“Yes,” you cut him off, getting desperate for him to get it over with.

“Needy,” he chuckled.

“And you’re a tease. I need your mouth on my clit.” You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Whatever the princess wants, the princess gets.” He unbuttoned your pants and pulled them off of you in one quick more before letting them fall to the floor in a messy pile behind him. He then reached for your underwear and slid them off before tossing them behind him. He lowered himself onto his knees then spread your legs and let out a whistle as he got a look at your pussy.

“Already wet for me, hm?” His fingers lightly grazed your cunt and you gave him that look that he knew all too well. You hated when he messed with you like this, but he did it just to see that angry look in your eyes. It never failed to make him hard.

“I think we both know the answer to that.” Eddie liked you best when you were like that, all angry and bothered.

“Wow, doll,” his fingers stayed where they are, moving back and forth so you got a little sensation but not the full thing. Eddie liked it when you begged. “That just might be a record.”

“Stop fucking around.” You usually liked the little games he liked to play, but not tonight.

“Someone’s eager,” he teased with a smirk and you were honestly on the verge of pleasuring yourself since he was taking too long. This was always how it went so you didn’t know why you ever expected anything different.

“Of course I’m eager, I’m-” your words were cut off when Eddie thrusted his fingers into your pussy. “Oh.”

“That’s right, doll.” His fingers pumped in and out, causing you to let out a moan.

“Eddie,” you whined and he just smirked.

“Say my name, honey.” He continued, thrusting them harder and faster as you let out another moan, grasping as the bedding underneath you, needing something to grab onto.

“Need your mouth, Eds,” you mewled and he removed his fingers before draping your legs over his shoulders. He pressed a kiss to each thigh before diving into your pussy and you let out a gasp. He licked a stripe from your slit to your clit before shoving it into your pussy, swirling it around as your hands dug further into the bedding.

You let out a loud moan and Eddie only buried his face further into your cunt, grazing the thing with his teeth and that drove you wild. You almost screamed at the sensation and Eddie did it once more to hear the sound again. Your thighs tightened at the feeling, causing them the press against the side of his head and he spread them, removing himself from your cunt.

You let out a whine at his absence and he ripped off his pants, desperate to be inside you. He moved to his bedside table and reached for his box of condoms, only to find that it was empty.

“I’m okay with it if you are,” you told him, seeing what the issue was. And you were okay with it. You suddenly liked the idea of feeling his bare cock inside of you.

“You’re sure? What about-“

“If I get pregnant, I get pregnant,” you shrugged. The two of you had talked about having a baby and even discussed trying, but he didn’t think it would be so soon. He couldn’t have been more happy, though. He loved the idea of having a baby that was a product of the two of you making love to each other.

“You want to have a baby with me?” His face lit up. Sure, being a rockstar was cool, but he was convinced that being a father and husband were the roles he was convinced he was put on this earth for.

“I’d be honored to have a baby with you, Eds.” You didn’t know why he was asking since you had talked about it at length.

“Well, there’s no time like the present,” he smiled, ripping off his underwear. He lined himself up with your pussy and slowly slid his dick into you. You let out a small noise as the sensation. You never had unprotected sex before so it felt a little odd at first, but you had to admit that you liked the way it felt, that there was no barrier between his cock and your pussy.

Eddie slowly thrusted into you, wanting it to be nice and sweet for once. He wanted this to be a sweet moment between the two of you. Something you’d remember for the rest of your lives.

His hands gripped your hips as he pumped in and out, paying you compliment after compliment, showering you with the sweetest words as he thrusted inside you, assuring you of his love for you.

You let out moan after moan as he pumped into you and you grabbed onto him, pressing your face into his neck. His thrusted a little harder and your fingers dug into his back, but not enough to actually hurt him.

“Taking me so well, honey,” he said, pumping a little faster and harder. He was just testing the waters to see what you liked without the condom.

“Eddie,” was all you were able to say, your words getting slurred as your head leaned back.

“I know, princess,” he brushed some sweaty hair out of your face. “Got one more for me, hon?”

“One more,” you repeated. He gave a couple more thrusts, these ones harder and faster than before and you let out the most pretty moans he had ever heard come from your mouth. He hadn’t thought you’d liked it rough, but he supposed his was wrong.

He pulled out and lowered you to the mattress before cleaning you up and getting you some fresh pajamas from the drawer you had them tucked away in. He helped you change into them then got into his own before getting you both under the covers.

You turned over to face him and you wrapped your arms around each other, tangling your legs together as you did so. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he looked at you, the love of his life. God, he was so fucking lucky.

“I love you,” he smiled, bringing one of his hands up to your face and you smiled as well.

“I love you too.” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips in response.

“You’re going to be a great mom.” His thumb rubbed back and forth along your cheek and you closed your eyes, loving the way it felt. You could tell he meant the words, not only because he never said anything he didn’t mean, but also because of the way he looked when he said it, his eyes all soft and sweet.

“And you’re going to be a great dad.” He felt himself tearing up at your words and yours teared up too. He pulled you in for another kiss and the two of you drifted off to sleep, thinking of nothing but cribs and high chairs and the extra bedroom you had that would have made a perfect nursery. Maybe if things went right, you’d actually be parents.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x plus size reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x shy!reader

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jaybirddreads · 6 months

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Trolls Band Together: "You just call on me, brother" (John Dory and Floyd)

Floyd’s letter is wrong.

When it first appeared, stuck to John Dory’s door, his heart overtook his head. Floyd was reaching out to him. Floyd– Floyd wrote him. John Dory’s heart sank as fast as it had risen when his eyes skimmed the contents of the letter. Immediately, the handwriting wasn’t Floyd. Or, it wasn’t the Floyd that John Dory remembered. Floyd’s scrawl was barely legible half the time back then. John Dory would spend hours deciphering his sheet music and lyrics and re-writing them in neat printed letters so they could actually practice instead of triggering aneurysms trying to read Floyd’s handwriting. John Dory had been jealous of Branch back then, because he didn’t know how to read. The handwriting in the letter that John Dory had received was big and clunky golden cursive with strokes a lot bolder than his shy little brother.

The contents of the letter itself worried John Dory as he read it over and over again.

Dear John Dory, (Floyd– if he had written this letter– would have addressed him as John or JD.) I’m being held against my will by superstars Velvet and Veneer. Come to Mount Rageous at once and bring our brothers. Love, Floyd, the sensitive one. (Floyd would never sign off as ‘the sensitive one’.) The message itself, apart from the strange greeting and ending of the letter, was weird. John Dory didn’t know in what world his stubborn, sarcastic little brother would refer to his kidnappers as ‘superstars’.

Floyd would also never want to risk putting any of his brothers, especially Branch, in danger. It would make no sense for him to tell John Dory to bring their brothers or even contact him– as concerning as it sounds now that he thinks about it. John Dory is positive that his brother did not write this letter. John Dory’s reasons to come to this conclusion are; 1. He claims to be being held captive. 2. It’s just not something that Floyd would do. 3. How would he even get the letter to John Dory if he’s all the way in Mount Rageous? 4. How the hell would Floyd have ever found John Dory in the first place? He lives in the middle of nowhere.

John Dory has no idea who Velvet and Veneer are, but if there is a chance that they are hurting his brother, he will do anything in his power to put a stop to that. John Dory is not going to abandon his brother again. A few years ago, he head trekked back home with his tail between his legs in search of forgiveness from at least his Gran and youngest brother only to find his grandmother’s pod abandoned, overgrown with weeds, and infected with dozens of insects. All that was left in the pod was Gran’s dirty furniture and a couple of dusty framed pictures still hung on the walls. John Dory had collected those as carefully as he could and cleaned them. They’re put away in a cupboard somewhere around his living space. He has no idea if Gran and Branch are okay, but he hopes they are. If Floyd needs his help now, John Dory is going to provide, like he should have for all four of his younger brothers years ago.

He closes the letter– that is most likely bait– and grabs one of his many maps.

Mount Rageous is a far trip from where he is right now. If he and Rhonda hurry, they can cut the trip down to a day and a half. He’s not the biggest fan of hustling, but if that's what it takes to get to Floyd before anything really bad happens, so be it. Luckily, Rhonda loves hustling. She purrs, shaking excitedly when John Dory hovers his finger over the red-orange button.

John Dory hits the ground hard after they slow down. His elbows and knees ache. They’re still hours from Mount Rageous, but that’s good. It gives him time to come up with a plan. He knows he wants to get to Mount Rageous, find Floyd, and get him out, but that’s a wishlist, not a plan. John Dory’s radio hisses and he reaches up to turn the dial. He skips through stations, trying to find something quiet since Rhonda hates when he turns the radio off. He passes a station and pauses, turning the dial backward. We now return to superstar sensations, Velvet and Veneer’s latest hit single– music bleeds through the radio, a catchy beat that John Dory can instantly recognize as the type of rhythm that made him and his brothers famous in the first place. A girl and a boy begin to sing, the sounds of their voices are unreal. It eerily reminds him of Floyd’s singing. The people who might have hurt his brother are popstars? Ironic. Creepy, maybe. Stalkerish, probably.

The radio provides him with nearly everything he needs. It gives him the date of their next concert, the location, and the duration. Later tonight, when he arrives at Mount Rageous, he will have to find the Boom Box before 9pm where he will have an hour to find Floyd and break him out. It’s not much better than his wishlist, but it definitely has more properties of a plan. John Dory was almost glad that it was rageons that had Floyd. They were definitely easier on the eyes than bergens, and not as strong. The moment Rhonda crossed the threshold between the Troll Kingdom and Mount Rageous, the difference was clear as night and day. Everything was big, shiny, and neon. Even the people.

Rhonda went unnoticed, tiny among the gigantic vehicles of the rageons.

It didn’t take as long as John Dory had imagined to find Boom Box. The crowds pouring out the door were a clear indication of what it was. It reminded John Dory of his days of selling out venues. Rhonda jumps from the main road and digs into the tail-end of the crowd, weaving through dancing rageons left and right. John Dory steers her into a dark corner, under a lonely bench that all the party-goers are ignoring. The music thrums through the air and Velvet and Veneer’s voices are much louder and much clearer than they were over the radio. They’re singing a song that feels so much like Floyd that it’s messing with John Dory’s head. The lyrics swim around his head, as if he’s a teenager again, sneaking Floyd’s journal out from under his bed to see what was going on in his little brother’s head. He and Spruce used to giggle at Floyd’s unnecessarily deep ramblings about whatever it was that got him in a tizzy. Yes, it was wrong of him to invade Floyd’s privacy like that, but in his defense, Floyd was the heaviest sleeper he had ever met (and John Dory would be lying if he said that Floyd didn’t have a talent of lyrical genius– some of their best hits were thanks to Floyd and his sad, sad journal).

John Dory rolled out of the way of several pairs of heavy black boots as a brood of angsty rageons dragged their feet to get to the snack bar. He ducks through several long pairs of legs until he reaches the nearest wall. John Dory watches as the shiny giants dance and laugh and cheer. He slides against the wall until he reaches a vent, just out of sight from most of the rageons. If Floyd is here, John Dory will search every single nook and cranny until he finds his brother. John Dory runs down every vent, turning corners sharply. He peers through every grate he finds. He sees bathrooms, dressing rooms, offices, and storage closets.

He feels almost hopeless until he comes across the final vent opening in the west half of the building. John Dory peered in through the thin grate blinds. It was an empty purple dressing room. Make up, wigs, and costumes were strewn about haphazardly. John Dory was about to turn away and look in another part of Boom Box when his eyes caught a glimmer of something. He saw a large ornate purple perfume bottle. John Dory’s eyes widened when he noticed something move inside the semi-transparent bottle. A spark of magenta had John Dory propelling down into the dressing room without a second thought. He hit the surface of the vanity, face first, with a resounding thunk. John Dory groans, peels his face from the vanity, and shouts Floyd’s name.

Floyd– his sweet, shy, sensitive brother– gasps and presses his hands against the glass of the perfume bottle, “John Dory!” he gasps, his voice trembling with strained emotion. It’s so strange to see Floyd now, after nearly twenty years. His little brother is a man now. A man trapped in a giant glass bottle. Yeah, John Dory was right. There was no way that Floyd had written that number. “I never thought I’d see any of my brothers again.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” John Dory says, pressing his hand against the glasses where Floyd’s hand was. “I’ll get you out.”

“You can’t,” Floyd’s eyes were wide with fear, “it’s a trap, JD. Velvet and Veneer are pop obsessed succubi and they’ve been stealing my talent to get famous!”

“I know it’s a trap. I’m not leaving you here. Not my brother.” John Dory shook his head. He looks around the dressing room, searching for something he can use to break the glass and get his brother out of that suffocating bottle. John Dory attempts to break the glass, but it’s no use. He kicks at it, punches at it, throws the heaviest things he can carry at it.

Floyd drops his head against the glass with a soft thump, “It’s no use, JD. The bottle is made of diamond…”

“Diamond,” John Dory repeats the word. It rolls off the tip of his tongue like a dry, dusty heap. There is only one thing that can shatter diamond. John Dory feels helpless once more. Floyd’s eyes droop as he stares at his feet. “There’s only one thing that can shatter diamond…”

“Yeah,” Floyd laughs miserably. Laughter and loud foot falls cause his head to shoot up, “John, you have to leave. They’re coming back. If they catch you—”

“Floyd, I won’t abandon you.” John Dory argues.

Floyd slams his fist against the glass, “No, just save yourself, please. Do it for me.”

“Floyd–”

“I don’t want to see my big brother trapped in a jar.” Floyd says.

The door knob jiggles and the click of a key echoes. John Dory looks at Floyd, his chest swelling with determination. He shoots his trusty grappling hook up, and it latches onto the vent. “I’ll be back for you, bro. Count on it.” John Dory’s pulled back up into the vent as the door opens and two near-identical rageons enter the dressing room. The last thing that John Dory sees before he begrudgingly makes his escape is one of the rageons picking Floyd’s bottle up and shaking him cruelly.

#trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #john dory #floyd #brozone #branch #clay #spruce

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whatwouldsylwrite · 1 year

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Sine waves

Summary: Abby meets you at the party and guess what? She wants you. You seem to want her too, but unfortunately, the key word here is seem.

Tags: player!abby x trust issues!reader. Drinking (concerning amount), swearing. Abby's pov only. One shot, no smut, angst with happy ending. Abby is kinda pathetic and sad, reader smokes and has issues. It's messy and basically is meant to be like little notes/snippets.

I wanted to do another band notes for Abby with Arctic Monkeys but this what actually happened, because Alex Turner's lyrics just hit me differently. I even made a collage thingy for it! There's ton of references to AM album outside used lyrics, if you find them tell me <3

In case you haven't heard Arctic Monkeys before I recommend listening to AM album before reading this.

-/-/-/-

Abby gulps her whiskey and looks across the room. She's had her eyes on you for a while now: something about you made her want you, but not in a way she usually wants her girls. Is that your eyes are just a little colder, a little more serious, a little more piercing than it is comfortable?

Abby's girls are sweet and gentle and smell of flowers, and she likes them this way.

You look like you smell of wet smoke, and Abby can't help herself when she sees you going to the balcony on the fire exit.

She follows you, holding a brand new glass of whiskey in her hand, curious to death and with an ache in her lower stomach.

You are leaning on the wall as you take a deep breath, and Abby comes closer, making you look at her.

"Nice night, right?" Abby asks as she leans on the railing, standing opposite of you.

You chuckle and Abby recognises that chuckle: it's a chuckle girls have when they know who she is.

"Yeah. I'm (y/n)." You smile and reach out for a handshake.

"Abby." Abby shakes your hand gently, making her touch linger. Your hand is a little cold.

"I've heard about you." You chuckle again, and Abby feels her stomach getting hot. You look so fucking good with this little smirk that she wants to press you into the wall right this second.

"Good things, I hope?" Abby smirks back and steps closer, reading your reaction, but you are relaxed and enjoying her attention, not trying to move away from her.

"I just wish people would be more grateful." You murmur and look her in the eyes with that piercing stare that makes her feel undressed.

That makes Abby blink.

"What?"

"You make them cum pro bono and they brag about it like if it was your duty to make them feel good. Not cool." You take out a pack of cigarettes and light one up, exhaling to the side.

Abby stares at you, trying to decipher your words. Was it an insult or a compliment?

"That was too deep." Abby laughs quietly.

"I know." You shrug. "At least there are still people who sing songs about your skills."

"Yeah?" Abby smirks again and now her hand is on the wall, right next to your hip. "Wanna check if they're right?"

You laugh at this, but it's not mean or an attempt to play hard to get, no. You laugh like Abby said something cute.

"I believe them." Your free hand is on her shoulder.

Abby smirks and takes away your cigarette before leaning down to kiss you.

You taste awful after smoking but she doesn't mind the bitterness, she doesn't care she'll taste like cigarettes after, because you kiss back like you're dangerous, and Abby gets thrills.

Your hands are moving down to her waist and you knead her sides to get her closer like you are in charge here. Abby likes it.

She likes the way you take what you want from her, the way you pull her hips and move her jaw.

Even more, she likes when you turn you both around and press her into the wall, slotting your knee between her thighs. Abby pulls you closer by your hair, biting down on your bottom lip as you sink your nails into her sides. Oh, it feels good.

She can't wait to take you apart.

"Wanna get out of here?" Abby asks as she moves her lips along your neck, biting gently. You're breathing heavily and she basks in it.

"No, sweets." You say and Abby stops to look at you, surprised by your answer and your pet name. "I'm not going further than making out."

"Why?" The question is dumb, Abby knows it. People have different reasons and she is not an asshole to try and talk someone into it after hearing no, but she is surprised.

"I don't do one night stands." You move away a little. "This is as far as you can get."

"Then I want it all." Abby sighs and kisses you again, not caring she'll spend her night just like this.

Abby doesn't understand how fucked she is until much later. Not after three other parties that she spends making out with you and keeping her hands on your waist. She doesn't care you're not fucking, you're so addictive one touch feels better than orgasm.

She still has a lot of girls looking at her, wanting her, but she only sees you.

"Wanna go on a date with me?" Abby asks as you try to even out your breath, your lips red and swollen.

You tense in her arms.

"No." That hurts.

"Why?"

"You do understand you're asking this because you want to have sex with me?"

"How do you know that?" Abby is irritated. You don't get to tell her how she feels. You don’t get to put your insecurities back on her.

"We're not doing this." You cut her with a cold glance and she knows this is the end.

You stop coming to the parties if Abby is there.

Abby gets drunk. She is at home and hasn't eaten today and the whiskey hits her way too fast. She opens her Instagram and finds your account.

I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week

She is left on read.

She calls you and you don't pick up.

It's three am and Abby hops from the bar to the bar with her friends, and she is having fun. She sees you in the crowd, she blinks, and it isn't you.

thought I saw you just now

are you out ?

I want to see you

Are you drunk?

Does it matter

She is left on read again. She finds a pretty girl who doesn't smell of cigarettes and fucks the living lights out of her that night.

Come tomorrow

I'm not going to ask you out again

I promise

"Fuck." Abby sighs as she presses you against her with such force she is probably hurting you. She missed you. She missed you too much.

"You really need to get fucked, sweets." You chuckle and kiss her neck.

I'm too busy being yours, she thinks, but doesn't say shit to you: she knows you won’t believe her.

"I do, don't I?" Abby smirks and she pushes her hands under your shirt just to taste the waters.

"No." Your stare is cold and piercing and Abby puts her hands away.

"Are you going to ever tell me the fuck is up with you?"

"What, you haven't figured it out yet?" Your smirk doesn't reach your cold eyes and Abby stops for a second to really look at you.

"Was I supposed to?" She knows. She knows what is up with you. She figured it out the first time you said no, but she wants to see if you're brave enough to say it.

"Trust issues." You say it with such ease as if it isn’t a big fucking problem.

The push and pull is annoying. Having her hands and lips on you just to be put in her place is annoying. Everything is annoying. The girl under her smells like Gucci and she hates it.

I can handle it

Why do you only text me when you're drunk?

Is Abby drunk again? Yes. Are you avoiding her again? Yes. Did she try to ask you out again? Yes. Is she crying? Big fucking yes.

"Abby, what the fuck? Do you think you might have a problem with alcohol?" You sound sleepy and Abby smiles anyway, just happy to hear your voice.

"Maybe I do." She says quietly and you're silent for a second.

"Where are you?"

It catches Abby off guard.

"Why do you care?"

"Because you're drunk and you're crying. Where are you?"

Abby sits in your car and you're smoking, your window is rolled down as you shake off the ash. It smells disgusting but Abby loves it because it's you.

"What happened?" You ask as you turn the steering wheel and it's so sexy Abby just stares. She is a fucking mess isn't she?

"You happened." She says, hurt.

"You were crying because of me?" You ask as if it's a surprise.

"No, because my favourite basketball team lost, of course because of you." Abby spits, angry. "I'm so sick of it, (y/n)."

"Of what exactly?" You ask as if Abby is an unreasonable child and you're tired of it.

"Stop it, you're not stupid. I'm in fucking love with you. I wanna be your fucking hair brush if it means I'll be yours, you understand?" Abby doesn’t wait for your answer. “But you think you know better, and you fucking don’t. Your fucking problems are your problems, don’t fucking project them onto me, you hear me?”

You don’t say anything in return and Abby continues.

“Just fucking.. Snap out of it.” Abby huffs.

“How many girls have you slept with since we’ve met, Abby?” Your voice is tight and your question just makes Abby more angry.

“Two. Two. And I fucking hated it. How many people have you made out with since we’ve met?” And Abby knows the number is not zero, because she saw. “I don’t ask you to trust me, I’m just asking for a chance.” The tears are sliding down Abby’s cheeks and you pull over.

“Can we talk about it in the morning?” Your voice is uncharacteristically gentle and Abby can’t say a word as you wipe her tears. She gives up and nods, knowing it won’t go anywhere anyway.

It’s not exactly morning when Abby wakes up, it’s way past afternoon and she is not at her home. She is somewhere else and memories are not coming back anytime soon, but she doesn't need her memories, because she can smell you. It's faint, but it's there: cigarettes and mint. And the shirt you usually wear to parties, and pictures she's never seen are on the walls. It makes her sick.

You're cooking in the kitchen and Abby doesn't know what to do or what to say. Why did you even bring her here?

"Are you okay?" You ask in your stupid cold impersonal manner and Abby frowns.

"Yeah. Why am I here?"

"You don't remember?"

"I don't understand. I thought you didn't want me anywhere near you, (y/n)."

"You wanna do this now or after you have breakfast?"

Abby sighs and goes to wash her face in your bathroom.

"I'm sorry." You say and your eyes are not cold for once.

Abby feels like she is hit by a fucking train.

"Listen. I know you have issues, okay?" Abby sighs. She doesn't need you apologies because there is nothing to forgive.

"I didn't want to hurt you." You look to the side and Abby knows you're upset. She knows you didn't believe her before and she knows you weren't being an asshole on purpose.

"You didn't." Abby takes your hand in hers and she knows it's pathetic that she is crawling back to you every fucking time, but she won't stop herself. "One chance is all I want. You call the shots."

Abby sees it. She sees how your cold eyes melt and water, and you blink to hide it, but she catches it with her thumbs by the corners of your eyes.

"I just wanna be yours." You whisper and Abby stops breathing for a second before her hand guides you into a kiss.

The kiss leaves Abby breathless, like if she is suffocating in space, but she loves it as long she hears you saying are you mine to answer with baby, I'm yours until the end of time.

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #abby tlou #abby anderson

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ariesmusingz · 1 month

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૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ╱ saves the world sentence starters pt 2 ( created using lyrics from muna's saves the world album. feel free to adjust to fit your muse. )

so i let it happen again

i loved someone who's indifferent

that's why i can't sleep at night

that's why i keep sleeping in

so i started over again

i got back onto that medicine

i don't like when dreaming ends

there's a pink light in my apartment

it comes mid-morning as a reminder

at the right time, in the right surroundings, i will be lovely

i can't help thinking that maybe if you stayed for an hour or two

maybe if you'd seen the soft pink light i wouldn't be alone tonight

i'm living inside my mind

i keep retracting that storyline

thinking if i start again, i can change the way it ends

maybe i will always keep a little piece of this belief

if it isn't you who sees then there isn't any pink light in my apartment

waited a minute till you went in

we talked and then we stopped talking

put on a song and we listened

i know that i make you nervous

i do it half on purpose

you know i think you're precious

i think you're a good person

so why do i wanna blow up your life?

i'll be a very good girl

i won't even think about it

i'm just feeling like i can't help it

i know you said you had a girlfriend

i just want it if it's taken

dad left when i was 11

mom said it was cause he couldn't keep from tocuhing other women

some things have a way of sticking

now i'm standing in your kitchen

you said you told her you were leaving

i can't help thinking i hate you 'cause you're just like him

so why did i have to blow up your life?

i just thought that if i could take you from her, maybe then it would prove that i'm worth something

now i'm alone and i'm hurt

wishing i'd taken you at your word when you said you were taken

i know you said it

i just want it

i see you

it's been some time since i've seen you last

you know the night

i bet you know the night

i'm here

you're here

it's in the air like a firefly

it's june and july

i know you're bad for me

when you say you want me again

i can feel you up on me

it hits me all of the sudden

you can't touch

get your hands off me

there's no reason

i'm free

i get so high every time

happens every time

a damn idea

i focus then i hold that feeling inside

got this feeling inside

i want you

come closer

i feel like i've been here before

you want the power

you tell me it's now or never

you think i'm playing hard to get

this must be hard to get

you've got to get your hands off

you think i'm playing with your head

do you need me to do the chorus again?

i must be some great feeler

i must be really deep

i had a major crisis

when you stopped calling me i saw a psychic healer

she just turned 17

all that she said was to do what i want

like i'm supposed to know what that means

i'm gonna figure it out

i'm already here and i won't leave now

put a pot of coffee on

i'm just having a time

the good news is, if you don't like life, they say it doesn't last long

i was sad in the kitchen

tearing myself apart

trying to search for the piece that i'm missing

i didn't know where to start

i went to an art exhibit

there wasn't any art

all that there was, was a sink and some dishes

be where you are

i know it's not just me who thinks it is just me

got a bee sting on the way back from your house

it was crawing up my leg inside my car

something 'bout the way i had to pull it out

never healed quite right and now i've got a scar

i'm glad it left a mark

remind me what it was like seem i forget

when i'm drinking or i'm thinking with my heart

baby this is what you get when you're reckless and you're playing in the dark

you're gonna move to new york and experiment with communism

go down on a girl after reading her some frantz fanon

you'll go out of your way trying to find some place you can hide and get high

you're gonna call your mom

you're gonna cut off your hair with dull scissors from the desk in your dorm room

learn by trial and error that threesomes are more sad than fun

you're gonna move to la

guess you're running away from the patterns you have and the decisions you've made

yeah you're gonna sit in the sun

it's gonna be okay

you're gonna smoke cigarettes on the ground beside the pool at stardust

you're gonna get obsessed with a boy who's hooked on heroin

you'll have some all-time nights dancing outside with lcd on the speaker

you're drinking dark pink wine

you're gonna lose those friends

you're gonna fall in love with a girl which you were not expecting

you're gonna start a band

it's just her, another friend and you

then you get freaked out

you say something about how you just can't commit

you move into your aunt's house and all your dreams come true

you're going to come to depend on the sec of a sadistic stranger

you're gonna learn to pretend

you lie about it to save face

the morning you awake in the deepest of pain that you've ever been in

you admit you've got to quit him

you're gonna learn to pray

you're gonna start to call friends

you're gonna start to call yourself an addict

you finally read zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance

you're gonna clean out your drawers

you're gonna feel much more like god is a mystery and jesus is a metaphor

you're gonna tell your reflection

#rp sentence prompts #rp promts #rp sentence meme #rp sentence starters #memes: mine #roleplay memes #rp memes #rp #rpt #rpc #rph

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spinningwebsandtales · 1 year

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Imagine Drunken Kisses With Connor and Murphy MacManus

Rating: T+

Warnings: Mentions of drinking, bars, fluffy and steamy drunk kisses

(A/N:) Happy St. Patrick’s Day! It’s been soooo long, honestly too long since I’ve written these two cuties! But I’m back and this was just self indulgence on my part! XD So hopefully my fellow MacManus fangirls will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Also I am terrible at writing Irish talk so forgive me and overlook it! *hides face* Until next time happy reading! ~Countess

Connor MacManus X FemReader

Connor had promised early that morning that he wasn’t going to be home until late. He had begged for weeks for you to be able to take off and enjoy St. Patrick’s Day with him, but with two employees quitting and an understaffed crew there was no way for you to get the day off. His tradition of bar hopping had to go on without you. So while you worked the day away, Connor tried to enjoy time with his twin brother. Before you had come along, Murphy had always been enough to enjoy the annual festivities but now they both had grown so attached to you, it just wasn’t the same without you. Especially when they knew that you were stuck working and had no chances to leave until the work day was over.

With one last push you finished your day and started home. It was too late to meet up with Connor so you stopped by the local restaurant close to your home to grab something to eat. Though you probably wouldn’t see him, you were glad that Connor was out there enjoying himself. You could make do with something tasty for supper and a good movie on the TV. You watched the city bustle as you continued on your walk home, humming a cheery tune as the streetlamps began to illuminate the streets one by one. This was always your favorite time of the day, everything seemed so peaceful as employees from all over were making their ways home and restaurants were lively with customers after a hard day at the office. It made you feel a part of the festivities when you sung a little bit of an Irish tune that was playing from the speakers of one of the local bars. Connor had taught you a few songs, though you had to cringe every time you tried as you butchered the lyrics. He would always just laugh and encourage you onwards before rewarding your attempts with little kisses.

You didn’t worry about him or think about him cheating on you, cause Connor never gave you a reason to think about such things. So you were able to enjoy the peace and quiet of your house before it was time for bed. You could still hear the lively streets outside as you laid there in the dark. It made you giggle at the thought of how many people would be calling in to work in the morning due to horrible hangovers. Connor and Murphy were definitely going to be two of them in the hoard of hungover celebrators. Exhaustion from your long day made sleep easy to find and as soon as your head hit the pillow you were out like a light.

You didn’t know what time it was when you felt the bed dip down, your heart jumped in your chest as you feared that someone had broke in. That wasn’t far from the truth as Connor’s drunken humming filled the room. You hadn’t given him a key to your apartment just yet but if he wanted inside bad enough he would find a way.

“Connor,” you yawned.

“Aye,” he grunted while pulling off his boots.

“Why are you here? I have to work in the morning.”

“Murph gettin’ on m’ nerv’s I needed a place t’ stay f’r th’ night,” Connor slurred a little bit before he finally got his last boot tugged off. He chucked it across the room in frustration as if it had offended his heritage.

“Not so loud,” you gave him a gentle whack on the shoulder.

“S’rry.”

Once he settled down you started to drift off asleep again. You groaned in protest when an arm encircled your waist pulling you into Connor’s chest. You liked your room dark when it came to sleeping so you couldn’t even see the hand in front of your face if you wanted to. So you couldn’t see Connor as he nuzzled into the back of your neck, his presence becoming more intoxicating by the second. He lazily pushed your hair out of his way to expose your skin. He began to kiss slowly, his five o’ clock shadow brushing against you causing you to shiver. He moved upwards going to the side of your neck, before moving to the bottom of your jaw, and then your cheek.

“Connor,” you squeaked.

“Mmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Kissin’ ya,” he purred moving your face towards him. You still couldn’t see him and besides hearing the hammering of your heart you could hear a drunk man singing in the streets. You wanted to sleep and get ready for your day tomorrow but now all you could think about was Connor when his lips covered yours. He still tasted of the booze he had consumed all day and it was making him a little sloppy as he moved slowly against you. You could easily keep up despite being exhausted, as you were sober. You found yourself becoming quickly intoxicated by him though as the kiss seemed never ending. Finally Connor pulled away stroking your cheek before he finally passed out. You snorted as his snores now filled the room as your heart still hammered violently against your chest.

Murphy MacManus X FemReader

As St. Patrick’s Day loomed over the horizon, you and the other bartenders employed at the local establishment had used all week to prepare. Everyone was expecting large numbers of people that were going to be out to celebrate the holiday. The MacManus brothers were definitely going to be two in that crowd of people as they had warned you as such. You had been dating Murphy for some time but you both really didn’t get to do a lot together as majority of the time you were working. And despite him wanting to enjoy celebrating with you on the other side of the bar, it was just too much to ask to take the day off as your boss wanted to be prepared for the large number of customers. Booze littered every part of the backroom and behind the bar as you and the other tenders were loaded and prepared for the rush.

You were losing track of time as you filled glass after glass of whatever your customers wanted. You were certain you had removed a record of bottle caps in just this night alone. You had spotted Connor and Murphy come through the door but you couldn’t manage more than a wave towards them, which they returned but you didn’t see as another order took your attention away. You were losing stamina as the night continued on and on with no break in sight. You were given small breaks but they weren’t long enough as everyone was getting overwhelmed with keeping up without you. So tirelessly you worked and worked wanting to make this as fun as you could for all the celebrators.

One celebrator was not very happy at all as he sat at a table with his older brother, nursing another beer that he didn’t know the number of at this point. Empty shot glasses littered around him but still he glared at the bar and the many men surrounding you.

“Wha’s th’ look f’r Murph,” Connor slurred a little wobbly in his seat.

“Not’in’,” Murphy growled still glaring holes in the bar. But most of his wrath was towards the man talking to you and making you laugh.

“Sure don’ look like not’in’ t’ me.”

“Min’ ya bus’ness,” he warned. Connor shook his head while chuckling into his beer.

Finally the rush hour died down and you were able to finally get a break that you needed all night. You wiped your hands on the apron tied around your waist and wiped the sweat from your brow. You didn’t realize how many people wanted the excuse to drink in abundance this night. You didn’t even have a chance to talk to the twins, other than the few times you were able to fill their glasses or hand them another bottle. You were sure Murphy would be in a bad mood by the lack of attention, but it wasn’t like you had done it on purpose. You decided to go find them if they were even still around and appease him. You had just pushed yourself from the wall to go find them when a hand grabbed your arm and pushed you back into the wall. You opened your mouth, ready to give the person in front of you a piece of your mind when Murphy’s face came into your vision. You snapped your mouth closed as you took in his bleary eyes and staggering body.

“Sorry Murph,” you apologized, “it’s been so busy tonight I really wanted to see you and Connor more.”

You didn’t get to say anything else before Murphy took your lips, kissing you roughly, his tongue entering your mouth as you could do nothing but stand there in shock. You tried kissing him back but he was so messy and drunk that you couldn’t find a rhyme or reason in the rhythm of his movements.

“Don’ t’lk about m’ bro’her,” he grunted finally releasing you and leaving you breathless.

You laughed cupping his cheek, “Sorry.”

You kissed him softly, hoping to show him that you still loved him. You wish you could have enjoyed the night drinking with him but instead you were making other’s nights enjoyable while Murphy had sat around and pouted. You wanted to make it up to him and Connor as you moved them up to the bar and entertained them the rest of the night with all the tricks you had learned just for this occasion. You also knew if you got Murphy drunk enough he wouldn’t be so cranky. Despite the holiday being crazy there’s no part of you that hated St. Patrick’s Day as it brought your two favorite people in your life into the little bar you worked at and stay for hours. No complaints would be uttered on your lips as you cracked open two more bottles and set them before the MacManus brothers ready to continue on no matter what came.

#Connor MacManus X Reader #Connor MacManus / Reader #Murphy MacManus X Reader #Murphy MacManus / Reader #The Boondock Saints #Connor MacManus #Murphy Macmanus #The Boondock Saints Imagine #Imagine #Not My Gif #My Writing

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padfootagain · 8 months

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Your Song

Hello! Today we’re answering a request sent by an anon: “Heeey! I got this idea last night for a Ben imagine and it’s so cute that I know you’re gonna kill it. Listen, what about a singer reader writing a love song for Ben??? Like, you are working on your new album and Ben keeps asking you to show him a glimpse of it. He’s just super excited (we love a supportive boyfriend) and you keep telling him to wait, so it’s the single release day and at 12am (that’s the time music release on spotify, right?) he grabs his phone and he listen to the song and he’s just so emotional that you wrote the song about him!!! Like, there’s a specific moment when the lyrics just hit him and he’s like “is this about me?“ JUST IMAGINE. Honestly, I think that writing a love song to someone it’s one of the greatest gestures of love if you are a musician. I’m just a hopeless romantic 💗💗”

Thank you so much for the request! I hope you like what I’ve written for you!

Also, apologizing for the bad poetry of the lyrics…

I hope you all enjoy this cute fic! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Ben Barnes x reader

Warnings: Extreme fluffiness

Summary: You’re a singer, and your new album is about to come out. As he listens to the first single for the first time, Ben suddenly realizes who your songs are about.

Word Count: 2048

Ben Barnes’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Ben was overexcited, to say the least.

Perhaps it was a little ridiculous to get so excited at his age about something as mundane as a song, but then again, he enjoyed simple pleasures in life. And he also had a more important reason to be excited about this piece of art: you were its creator.

A new song coming out was always a bitter-sweet experience. There was the excitement of the release, the relief of the abandonment of something you had worked so hard on. But there was the apprehension of reactions as well, the worry that it might turn out to be a terrible fiasco.

This time around though, you seemed happier than usual about the release, your team had noticed the changes with ease. They all thought it was because of your relationship with Ben, about the fact that it was the first time some of your music was coming out while he was by your side, encouraging you and looking at you with all the pride in the world held in his gaze.

And it was true that his kind words and his support towards you were the main reason behind your calm behaviour. But there was also excitement and tenderness this time around, because of the meaning behind your single.

After all, this song was about Ben.

You had refused to let him hear it before it would come out. You were strict on this decision, no matter how many times he had pouted at you and given you his most adorable puppy eyes. No matter what he tried to convince you, your answer remained the same:

“Not yet. You’ll listen to it when the world does.”

But tonight was the night. Ben was struggling not to fall asleep before the clock would strike midnight.

You laughed at him as he yawned once more.

“You should go to sleep, darling,” you admonished, but Ben shook his head, blinking his tiredness away as he focused again on the page of his book.

You were both lying in bed, your backs resting against the bedpost and your comfortable pillows, side by side under the warm covers, both of you reading.

“I want to listen to your song as soon as it comes out. Do you know for how long I’ve been waiting for this? And you over there… being all secretive…”

“Me?” you answered, summoning your most innocent tone, which made him merely roll his eyes.

“Yes, you. You’re lucky you’re unbearably gorgeous, or I would be very upset about all this.”

“Oh, but my natural charm gets me out of trouble, then?”

“Obviously. What else could it be?”

“At least it makes things even between us, as I find you too charming to ever be mad at you for more than five minutes.”

He grinned at that, rewarding you with a peck on the lips.

He glanced at the time again.

Ten minutes left. He heaved a sigh and put away his book. Instead of reading, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer, and you easily yielded, melting against him.

“I’m so proud of you for releasing your music,” he mumbled against your temple. “I’m so happy for you, darling.”

“You haven’t even heard the song yet. Perhaps it’s terrible.”

“Not a chance! I know how talented you are. I have no doubts it will be wonderful.

You grinned up at him, your smile unbelievably tender.

“Thank you, for believing in me this way.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for, love.”

You let his hand wander under your t-shirt, rest against the warmth of your skin, right across your ribs, his thumb tracing circles there.

“If you hate the song though, you need to tell me,” you ordered, but Ben merely rolled his eyes.

“I will most definitely not hate it.”

“You need to promise!”

He heaved a sigh, but promised anyway.

“You are being absolutely ridiculous.”

“Perhaps. Still, I want you to be honest with me.”

You were surprised by Ben’s tone when he spoke again. The coldness in it didn’t match the tenderness of his embrace.

“Well, you didn’t tell me why I couldn’t listen to it earlier so…”

“It wasn’t ready! And I want to be here. And… I wasn’t ready. It’s difficult to release a song. You know how it feels, you’ve done it too. It’s unnerving, in a good way, but it’s still difficult. You’re letting a little piece of yourself go, show the world something you’ve made out of your own heart… it’s tough, to be vulnerable like that.”

“I know, love. I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

He kissed your forehead to make amends, and forgiving him was so easy… as easy as breathing.

You cuddled and stole kisses for a while, until Ben’s phone rang, an alarm blearing across the quiet room.

“MIDNIGHT!” he cried, overexcited as he reached for his phone.

You laughed fondly at him.

He hurried through Spotify, finding your page with ease. You both lied down to listen to the song, sharing some earpods, staring at each other with your cheeks smudged against your pillows. You reached for his hand before he would play the song for the first time.

“Ready?” he asked, and you nodded, a shy smile on your lips.

He pressed play, the small triangle turning green and with it the first notes of a love song ringing through your ears.

He was grinning already, pride shining in his dark eyes as he stared at you, listening closely to the intro.

And then your voice was there. Airy, flying high as if to reach for stars, a warm sound perfectly fitted to the lyrics, to the rhythm, to the words you spoke. And he loved it, every second of it.

And it was a love song, it was easy to guess. He listened to the first verses with a smile on his lips, without thinking too much of it. But then, the chorus came, and he frowned hard. Or rather, he was too taken aback to think or breathe and slow down the racing pace of his heartbeat.

Cause there you were by the beach on a summer breeze

Dark eyes darker than the night and

Laughing so much we couldn’t breathe

So that’s what being happy means, holding your hand?

You and the waves and the remnants of cheap beer

You blushing under a streetlight like

You’re afraid I don’t want you near

But you’re everything I’ve ever wished to be mine

You and your accent and the way you pull on

All my heartstrings and now all I can sing is your song

He stared at you, the light of your bedroom shy and quiet, like the night outside. From a proud smile, his expression turned into one of confusion, although it was tainted with hope.

Because the first night he told you he loved you, you were in Malibu, after buying beers at a small bar by the sea.

And for a moment he pushed the thought away. Of course; he loved you, and he knew you loved him but this… you couldn’t be writing about him…

But then the song went on, your voice was back, and details piled up, reminiscence of times shared together, and there was no more doubt to have by the end of the next verse.

I was afraid when you flew across the globe

I was too used to be the one

Running off and letting things die

I was almost surprised when you called the first time

Midnight and lights everywhere and your voice

Rambling about a day wearing someone else’s life

You could have forgotten all about our night

It was strange to be someone else’s choice

Even if it took us three tries

To connect the screens and our lives

You in a green hotel room

Me alone in my bedroom

By then, Ben had tears in his eyes. Because that was you and him. When he left to work on a project in Canada a few months into your relationship. You had confessed that you thought he wouldn’t fight for you, but he did. And that night, when he called, there was such a terrible wi-fi in his hotel room, it took him three tries and fifteen minutes to finally be able to hear and see you.

The chorus played again, and Ben reached for your face, palm spread across your cheek so he could draw patterns on your cheekbone. He let his first tear fall at the beginning of the bridge.

I apologized because I wasn’t used to this

Being treated right and falling asleep

In arms that didn’t hurt when they held me

Not sure how to handle this but I’m trying honey

Writing real love songs are never easy

Still if it’s yours I guess I’ll make it

Turn it in my mouth until it sounds sweet

Like your voice in the morning

The way I love you too much to speak properly of it

One last chorus and then the guitar and piano grew quiet. There was no beat anymore, and Ben didn’t let another song start. Instead, he turned the music off, reached to take off the earpods and put them away. Not a word passed his lips. He dried his wet cheeks on his sleeve, lying down again, in the same position, on his side so he could face you.

“Do you like the song?” you asked in a shy whisper, and Ben laughed, shaking his head as if this was the most ridiculous question you had ever asked.

Still, even if he knew the answer already, it was hard to believe it. So, he asked, just to be certain.

“Is the song about me? About us?”

Slowly, you nodded.

“You wrote a love song about me?” he asked, voice shaking with emotion, and it was your time to shake your head at him as if he was silly for asking such question.

“Of course, I did. Who else could I write about?”

“I don’t know.”

But before you could reply, Ben was leaning closer, holding onto your cheek once more so he could pull you to him and kiss you until none of you could bear the lack of oxygen and the pounding of your hearts.

“I love you,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes still closed. “I love you so much, Y/N. And I’ll always love you. I’ll always be here.”

“I love you too. And well… I take it that you liked your song.”

He laughed at that, holding you close, so close it should have hurt but it didn’t. It never did with him.

“I loved it. Thank you, it was perfect. You’re perfect.”

*********************

Taglist : @sergeantbuckybarnes @reg-arcturus-black @wolfmoonmusic

#ben barnes #ben barnes x reader #ben barnes x you #ben barnes x y/n #ben barnes fanfiction #ben barnes oneshot #ben barnes fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #writing

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redahlia-writes · 2 years

Text

suck the rot right out of my bloodstream. | javier peña

Abstract: He’s Javi. He’s long nights and laughter and dancing too close, he’s a reassuring hand on your shoulder during work and an extra pair of eyes while out on a job, he’s ruffled hair first thing in the morning when you get to the office and a stolen kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen but then happened again and again.

He’s Javi - he couldn’t hurt you if he tried.

Words: 5K

Content: f!reader; aftermath of SA (the scene isn't explicit, but constantly referred to), nightmares, (temporary) aversion to touch, general neglect of oneself, not eating, wounds (bruises, a black eye), javi washes reader’s hair, non-sexual nakedness, hurt/comfort, they have a Thing but it’s not exactly a relationship, there’s some fluff sprinkled in, soft javi, an overuse of “cariño”

A/N: this fic is ridiculously personal to me and putting it out in the world is terrifying. spanish nor english are my first languages and this is unedited so please be kind on that. if sexual assault is a topic that may trigger you in any way, please do not read this - i wrote it mainly for me.

the title is a lyrics from the song we’ll never have sex by leith ross

once again, thank you @lcvenderblues for bearing with me

also on AO3 - masterlist

feedback is always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

Each night ends with a scream.

Every time you close your eyes, sleep creeping up on you unwelcomed, the images replay themselves in your head over and over again. The dreams - the nightmares - are always the same. The same ceiling from inside La Catedral, the same hard table pushing against your back, the same rough hands grabbing and hitting and moving you around, the same burning, painful feeling splitting you -

You sit up with a cry, a ringing in your ears as the blood rushes in your body, covers clinging to your damp skin - and, in the distance, your name being called, a door slamming, heavy, quick steps along the corridor, the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. You feel your whole body seize, freeze, unable to do anything, not even breathe, and then -

“What happened?” familiarity settles in your bones, vision clearing as the faint light from outside renders visible the face in the shadows. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Peña,” his name is an exhale - maybe relief, maybe even in response to the ache in your lungs after holding your breath for so long. It’s a different type of pain, one that clears your head rather than clouding it furthermore. “What are you doing here?”

Your mouth feels parched - you can’t remember the last time you drank.

“What -” he’s stepping inside the room blindly, the only light being on your nightstand, untouched. “You haven’t been answering my calls, you didn’t show up to work,” he reaches the side of the bed and, at his closeness, you find yourself curling up, occupying as little space as possible. “It’s been almost a week.”

“I gave my report and took some sick days, so what?” you’re faintly aware of your voice cracking, words quivering as they leave your mouth. Javier stands so close to the edge of the bed you can feel the heat radiating off his body, hugging your legs closer as if to shield from it, no matter how inviting and alluring it may feel.

“You don’t take sick days,” he points out with a huff, and you can hear the frown forming on his face, that pout bending his lips as always when something leaves him perplexed. “You came to work two and a half hours after getting shot, so what -” he leans down a little towards the nightstand, arm outstretched in the direction of the lamp switch.

Your hand shoots out of the covers, grabbing his wrist harshly - the feeling of his skin under yours stings your palm, your breath hiccuping at the contact, quick bursts of air being pushed out of your lungs as panic mounts within you all over again.

“Don’t,” a whisper, a trembling plea, fingers wrapped so tightly around his wrist it’s most likely hurting him - but it’s the panic in your voice that makes his pulse jump under your touch. Just two minutes earlier he’s heard you scream, and this -

He pushes forward, your fingers digging into his arm as he reaches for the switch and turns it on. You groan at the light hitting your already sensitive eyes, letting go of him to shield yourself - so you don’t see his expression falling, only hear the sharp intake of breath as he looks at you at last.

“Hostia puta,” he curses under his breath, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “What happened?”

You feel him looking at you, know what he’s seeing - bruises and scratches, a black eye, the imprint of someone’s hands around your neck; your hair left unbrushed for days, whatever remnants of make-up from that day you haven’t been able to wash off of yourself. At the very least, he can’t see the feeling of those hands all over you, still burning, still clinging to every cell of your skin.

He brushes your arm, a tender gesture, something he’s done before countless times, the tip of his fingers running from your shoulder half-way down towards your elbow - and you jerk back, away from his touch, away from him, eyes open wide as your stomach turns and you move to the opposite side of the bed.

“Don’t touch me,” a hiss. A warning. Another plea. You cannot look at him, so you lower your gaze to his hand instead, left hanging in the space between the two of you.

“Cariño,” he pulls back, gives you space. His hand falls to the mattress, your eyes remain glued on it - it’s familiar, comforting from afar. You’ve held that hand, slapped it playfully, taken glasses and cigarettes from it - you’ve had it through your hair, on your back, caressing your skin, falling between your thighs. You recoil, shaking your head. “What happened?” he repeats, softer.

He knows what happened - he’s read the report, heard the others talk about you not coming in. And he can see it, all over you, in your reactions, in your lowered gaze. You’ve always bounced back, and it’s terrifying seeing you like this.

You know he knows - it’s in his voice, his gaze firm on you.

“Vale, me lo dijiste,” it’s a mutter as you bow down your head, still refusing to look at him. “But I got what we needed, I did my report, it’s done.” “I’m not here to say I told you so,” he could sound offended, but he does not. The gentleness in his voice is agonizing. It makes it all more real. “I’m here to check up on you.”

“You did - now you can go,” you know Javier, you know he’s as stubborn as you are. So it doesn’t surprise you when he scoffs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and you feel yourself deflate, hiding your head between your knees. “I’ll call Connie, she can -” “She’s seen me already,” you cut him off, harsher than you mean to. “I went to her that night. I’m -” you can’t say it.

You want to say it, but you can’t. I’m fine. Physically, you’re fine - the bruises are healing, and while your muscles are still sore from lying down all day since you got back home, there’s nothing broken. But then Javi lifts his hand, as if reaching for you, and you flinch again, lowering your gaze again.

“Mirame, cariño,” he speaks softly, lowering himself onto the mattress to look up towards your bowed head, eyes searching across your face. You blink your eyes open slowly, a shuddering breath leaving you the moment you meet his gaze - it’s warm, familiar, reassuring. “No voy a lastimarte.”

“I know,” you haven’t cried once since it happened, the pressure behind your eyes ever present but never manifesting in actual tears. As you speak with Javi, it builds up in your throat, burning at the corner of your eyes. “I know that.”

“Can I move closer?” he asks then, making sure you see his hands resting on the bed, away from you. “I won’t touch you.”

You hesitate - despise the fact that you hesitate. He’s Javi. He’s long nights and laughter and dancing too close, he’s a reassuring hand on your shoulder during work and an extra pair of eyes while out on a job, he’s ruffled hair first thing in the morning when you get to the office and a stolen kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen but then happened again and again.

He’s Javi - he couldn’t hurt you if he tried. And still you hesitate before nodding slowly, fingers pushing into the flesh of your thighs. The pain makes it almost bearable, easier to not think about it. For a few instants of dull ache, everything else vanishes - it’s just him shifting closer, his eyes not leaving you before he settles at your side.

He leans back against the pillows, legs up on the bed, careful to keep his shoes off the covers - there’s enough space between the two of you for a pillow or two, and he rests his hand in that empty space. It’s not an invitation, just a reassurance. You turn your head to look at him, knowing he’s doing the same already.

“Have you eaten anything?” he looks at you worrying your bottom lip, his eyebrows arching carefully - he knows it’s your tell. He knows you’d be lying if it wasn’t him asking the question. But he can read you so easily it feels pointless to even try.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you murmur instead.

“Have you?” he repeats, head tilted to the side, that attentive and knowing look of his making his eyes shimmer in the warm light of the room. Your lips quiver as you shake your head - you can’t remember the last thing you ate, the thought of standing in front of the stove to cook something unbearable during the past days, the idea of going out to get something even worse. “I’ll go make you something.”

“Javi -” you try to argue, but he’s shaking his head as he slides off the bed, his shoes softly thudding against the floor as he stands. He’s moving slowly, you notice, careful not to make any sudden movement.

“No es tema de discusión,” he warns, already walking towards the door. He stops before vanishing in the corridor, hand lingering against the doorframe, head turning to look at you again; his lips are parted, as if to say something else, eyes running up and down your curled up body - then he clears his throat and walks out, a light knock against the wood of the frame as he passes by.

Javier Peña is a surprisingly good cook.

Though you weren’t hungry before, whatever it is he’s managed to put together with the scraps around your kitchen has an inviting smell that wakes up a vague appetite. You’re not sure what it is he’s doing, curled up on the couch you dragged yourself to, a way too large cardigan engulfing you.

He knows how to move around your house, has been here enough times he doesn’t have to linger and think about where is what - he fits in, and the image hangs onto something deeply buried within you, a type of yearning you haven’t felt in a while.

But then he steps closer to you to hand you the plate, and you feel your body tense, muscles so taut the pain springs up again - he seems to notice, of course he does, and rests the plate on the coffee table in front of you, then takes a step back, hands sliding into his back pockets.

“It’s Hoppin’ John - well, arroz con frijoles,” he clears his throat, tilting his head a little to point at the plate. “My mother made it all the time - learned it by being in the kitchen too much.”

An involuntary smirk catches on your lips - the image of a young Javi looking up at his mother, those dark, lovely eyes following the movements of her hands as she cooked so closely he now knows how to replicate the dish. Now he’s offering it to you, that distant piece of himself he still finds comfort in, and you find yourself sinking in the warmth of it.

You sit back with the plate balanced on your knee, looking down at the food.

“Thank you,” a murmur to which he replies with a dismissive noise, shrugging as he steps back towards the kitchen aisle. “You can -” again you hesitate, then meet his eyes. Dark, lovely eyes, where you constantly expect to find pity but don’t. There’s worry, but no different than the time you got shot in the arm, no different than when you drink too much and wobble around him. He looks at you and sees the same person he’s always seen - not the rotten thing you feel building in you. “You can stay on the couch, it’s okay.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re sure, just walks around the other side of the coffee table and settles at the opposite end of the couch with a mock weary sigh.

“You really need new chairs,” he says instead - he’s complained about the chairs in your apartment from the first morning he spent in it, the way they creak and sway when he sits down, as if threatening to give out in a moment. Every time he spends the night, he says it, a part of this odd routine you’ve created with each other.

“Yeah, I know,” you repeat each time with a scoff - this once, the further familiarity catches a semi-smile on your lips. “I will.” “I heard that one before,” he grins, then tips his chin up. “Go on, eat up.”

It’s a silent, odd meal where you realize how long you’ve actually gone without eating, your hand trembling slightly as you bring the fork to your mouth. He tries to not make it obvious he’s watching you at the corner of his eye, knee bouncing in an almost imperceptible way - but you’d do the same, you know that. Every time he’s gotten hurt, you’ve doted on him a little more - he’s merely returning the favor.

At some point - how long has he been here already? You can’t tell if it’s three hours or thirty minutes, but certainly the middle of the night - Javier stops pretending he’s not looking at you. He’s sitting with his shoulder against the backrest of the couch, one leg curled up on the cushion, and he lets his gaze wander across your figure huddled in the opposite corner.

Your legs ache for being bent so long, ankles and knees popping whenever you shift a little, and the bruises on your hips do not welcome the hunched position - it’s been like this for the past days, the pain keeping you awake until you couldn’t anymore. Then the nightmares would come back, and it would start all over again.

Your face scrunches up and you bow your head, forehead falling to your knees.

“You okay?” his voice is soft and husky, as it always gets late at night.

“It’s just a headache,” though it isn’t exactly true, it’s easier to start there. You lift one hand to the back of your head, hovering over the knot of hair you ignored for the whole time, as he has - it hasn’t been brushed in days, and it’s starting to feel heavy and giving you a headache now that you’re not lying down in the dark. “I think I should start to try and save this.”

“Do you -” his eyes flicker towards your head resting on the tangle at the nape of your neck, lips parting with a sharp inhale as he hesitates, his hands dancing closer to his body. “Can I help you?” he says in the end.

“That bad, huh?” you scoff, attempting a line of humor as you move your fingers from the hair mass. “It’s alright, Javi, I’ll manage.”

“Déjame ayudarte, por favor,” he whispers, his gaze softening as he curls his hand over his knee - the rawness of feelings in his voice hits you square in the chest, leaving you slightly out of breath.

It’s like he knows - that you’ve walked into the bathroom always with the lights off to avoid looking at your reflection, that any time you thought about brushing your hair, it wasn’t your hand you felt on your head but someone else’s, and it made your skin crawl, that even though you tried you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You cannot care for yourself, not right now.

“Okay,” a tentative whisper, a nod. “Okay,” he repeats, softer, and stands from the couch.

He moves to your end of it and, standing at arm’s distance, offers you his hand - he waits for you to initiate it, for you to touch him or ignore him. Ever so slowly, you let your hand slide into his, holding your breath when his fingers curl around it gently. It’s warm and familiar - its weight, the softness of his palms compared to his calloused fingers, and still he waits as you exhale and get up, bones creaking through the movement.

Javier walks ahead, his fingers threading through yours, slow steps along the dark corridor until you reach the bathroom - when he switches on the light, you turn your gaze away from the mirror, free hand clenching at your side.

“Wait, I’ll go get the stool so you can sit by the tub,” he loosens his hold on your hand - in response, you tighten yours, and his gaze flickers up towards your face.

“I’ll just get in the tub, it’s okay,” maybe it’s yourself you’re reassuring as he rubs your knuckles with his thumbs. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before already, anyway, is it?”

He chuckles, easing the slight tension and, with a gentle squeeze of your hand he lets go, stepping towards the tub and starts filling it up, then begins to roll up his sleeves - and once again, you feel frozen. You know he’s watching you from the corner of his eye as you fiddle with the hem of the cardigan, but says nothing while checking the water’s temperature.

You can’t do it - past shrugging the cardigan off of your shoulders, you can’t do it. Looking up, you meet his gaze, and by now you’re way past hiding the silent plea in your eyes. Not with him, not when he’s looking at you with such gentleness.

“I can still go call Connie,” he offers, stepping closer. You’re shaking your head already as he speaks, lowering your gaze. He sighs, carefully extending his hands - instead of reaching for your shirt, he takes hold of your wrist, leading your hand on his shoulder. “If you want me to stop, just squeeze, alright?” You nod only, holding your breath when he lowers his hands. “Mírame, cariño.”

So you hold his gaze as he peels off the layers around you - the old t-shirt goes first, then he’s undoing the knot of the sweats and pushing them down, careful to not touch too much of your skin. His eyes flicker to your sides, and you don’t have to look down to know your hips are bruised - your lower back too, most likely.

Javi sinks to his knees and you lean a little more of your weight on him as he helps you step out of your pants and, with them, your socks - for a moment it’s a knot of fabric and arms, slipping balance and cold tiles in contrast with the warmth of his hand around your ankle. He looks up and grins - a little awkward, a little bashful, and your heart warms all over again.

He reaches up again once he knows you’re stable, hooks his fingers in the sides of your underwear - you squeeze his shoulder then, hard, unable to help the sharp inhale at the feeling of his hands brushing your thighs, vision flashing white as panic settles in. He stops himself, pulls his hands back and rests them against the floor by you.

“Alright,” he coos, voice low as he pushes himself up carefully. “It’s okay - solo soy yo,” he whispers, meeting your hazy gaze. “Just me. Sigue mirándome.”

You nod with a whimper, squeezing his shoulder again as he comes back into vision - he’s still not touching you, hands held at his sides, but slowly starts rocking from one side to the other, bringing you with him in a sort of half-hazarded, soothing dance.

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask, a little breathlessly - he shrugs, muscles shifting under your hand and, at his slight pout, you cannot help flashing a quivering smile. “I thought we’ve never danced together, have we?” you scoff at his question, shaking your head. “You’ll have to teach me, though.”

“You’re not doing so bad,” you concede, carefully letting your hand shift down his upper arm. He gives you a loop-sided smile, and you let your hand fall to his elbow, giving it a gentle nudge. “Thank you,” it’s a whisper, but there’s no sound in the room besides your breathing, and his gaze softens on you. “I got it,” you say then, stepping out of the last piece of fabric covering you.

You’ve never realized how comforting Javi’s presence is, the length he goes to so that you’re not uneasy - it dawns on you as he helps you step into the tepid water, his hold firm yet gentle on your hands, getting on his knees again as you sink under the surface up to your chest.

For a while he doesn’t speak, there’s just the splashing of water as it ripples and settles around your still form, the scraping of your hair oil bottle as he reaches to grab it from the shelf, him clearing his throat after pouring a few drops on his palm. Before reaching for your head though, with his clean hand, he takes yours and places it on his forearm, giving you a pointed look.

“Whatever it is, you squeeze,” he repeats as you bring your legs up to your chest, water sloshing with the movement again. Bottom lip trapped between your teeth, you nod, and only then his gaze leaves your face.

He’s so gentle with you - you’ve known before that Javier is capable of this softness, this delicacy, and it does not come as a surprise when he starts to apply the oil to your hair from the tips, his touch so light you can barely feel it. It feels overwhelming, after isolating yourself for the past few days, it’s this touch that makes you crumble at last.

A shuddering inhale, he works the oil through the knots, beginning to brush through it with his fingers first - lock by lock, tangle by tangle, humming soft praises under his breath.

By the time he’s done with this first passage, the pressure built up at the corners of your eyes has been released, hot tears falling down your cheeks having escaped your control. Still, you hold onto his arm, listen to his gentle voice, the noise of the water behind your back as he washes as much of the oil off his skin as he can.

“Do you want me to stop, cariño?” your vision is blurry, but you see him with his arms resting on the edge of the tub, leaning in a little. It takes you a moment to clear your sight and make him out fully - only then do you ease back into the comfort of his presence and shake your head.

“I’m okay,” still, you can’t help the tears as they keep falling, sniffling as you let go of his arm to rub at your face - your black eye hurts when you brush against it. “Just - keep going.” “Vas muy bien,” he whispers, lifting his hands from the water. “Here, can I?”

Your lips tremble as you nod, and his touch on your face sends shivers down your spine - it’s not unpleasant, but for a moment your heartbeat quickens and a hiccuping breath leaves you. He’s far more gentle than you, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, and you ever so slowly sink into the feeling, leaning into his touch as more tears flow through his you’re okay, you’re okay.

“Lean back a little for me,” he calls then, one hand shifting until he’s cupping the nape of your neck for support. “We need to wash your hair, water’s getting cold.”

“It’s fine,” you retort, while leaning back into his hand, blinking rapidly to clear away the tears and look at him once more. His nose is lightly scrunched up, eyes trained to the top of your head - when he notices your gaze on him, he meets your eye.

“It’s getting cold,” he repeats, and guides you until the crown of your head is under the water. A shudder runs down your spine, eyes fluttering shut and open, shut and open with a puff of air leaving your lips. Javi says nothing, but a little smirk catches the corner of his mouth.

He squeezes some shampoo directly onto your head with his free hand, and you almost want to point out that’s not the way he’s supposed to do it as your lips bend in a sheepish smile - he’s still supporting your head up, his thumb tracing soothing, small circles right behind your ear. He’s not even trying - it’s a gesture he’s done before, his quiet way of saying I’m here, it’s alright.

When he lets go, it’s to lather the shampoo on your scalp - you look at him as he does it, eyelashes heavy with tears and water, his lips slightly parted, brows knit with focus, his forearm covered in tiny drops of water that are trickling down towards his rolled sleeve.

“Back,” he instructs again, and you oblige. “Mind your eyes,” he adds then and, hand coming out of the water to hold onto his wrist, your eyes fluttering shut when he rinses your hair, still gentle, still careful. For the first time in almost a week, you don’t see figures behind closed lids - it’s just nothingness, the echo of the light, the shadow of Javi’s frame, and his pulse is rhythmic under your hand, a constant reminder that he’s there, that it’s him.

It’s over with him murmuring a there as he squeezes the water out of your hair, the clear sound of drops falling behind your back, some trickling down your neck, your shoulders, your chest. His touch vanishes when he reaches to remove the stopper and the tub starts emptying.

As the water lowers around you, you look up to see him standing by the tub - he has the towel draped over his shoulder, his hands extended towards you in offering. With his help, you lift yourself up, muscles aching again through the movement - up and out on slightly unsteady legs and, from above his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

This time you don’t avert your gaze: the black eye blinks back at you, but the bruise around your neck looks better now in the harsh lights - with a step aside, out of Javier’s frame, the shadow of vanishing scratches on your shoulder comes into view, further down the bruises on your hips, shaped like the grip of different hands, still tender to the touch, unlike the numbness on your inner thighs that reveals itself to be a stain meeting where the flesh of each leg touches. You reach for that spot, that blotch of mismatched color that, when you push a finger into it, feels like nothing - a distant soreness, perhaps, the barest hint of discomfort.

Javi says your name - soft, gentle, a hand hovering your back where you know there’s another mark, another stark reminder of what’s been done to you - and your breath catches in your throat. He’s watching you, too, and the moment your nostrils flare he’s placed himself in front of the mirror again, standing between the two of you as a shield, the towel open.

You step into it, into him, bowing your head towards his shoulder without actually resting against him, only breathing in his perfume, as rooting as his touch has been. Slowly, you turn your head and let your eyes fall shut - it’s still him, it’s still his perfume, his breath against your face - and lean into him, forehead touching his cheek as you exhale.

“I’m okay,” from now on, it’ll be a mantra, a reminder as you go on through the days, the weeks, the months. You’re okay. You’re out. You’re going on. You haven’t been broken. You’re okay. But in this moment, it’s for him only - for his hesitant touch, to relieve his heart as the corner of his mouth ghosts your temple. “Sujétame, Javi.”

Javier has never been shy about his touches - he’s never cared, really, holding you against his chest, on his lap while out for a drink with the others, or leaving a kiss on the top of your head first thing in the morning when he gets to the office, or after a job, pulling you into a quick, reassuring hug.

No matter the unspoken rule that makes sure what you have is not a relationship, it’s just because - you cannot afford to be actually together anyway, because what would happen if the other got seriously hurt or worse, with the way your work is?

It doesn’t feel like a valid rule anymore, his arms slithering around you and holding you with a newfound tenderness - for a moment, it seems like he’s terrified of breaking you, should his touch be too much. But then he tightens one arm around you, almost painful, drawing a hiccuping breath out of you as his other hand moves up to pillow your head and hold you against him.

The rule does not hold up anymore, and you melt against him at the kiss he leaves against your brow, the aching tension leaving your body at the light scratch of his mustache on your skin - that too is familiar, welcomed. Javi, your Javi, holding you up even when your knees start to buckle, a soothing reassurance falling from his lips while he rubs your back.

“Alright? You okay?” he asks all the while, and you that, were you to show the mere hint of discomfort, he’d let you go right away. So instead you wrap your own arms around him, press yourself into him ignoring the coil of dread building in your chest.

He’s Javi. Your Javi. There’s no safer place than the circle of his arms.

“Can you stay?” it almost surprises you, how the request of keeping distance between the two of you turns into a plea for him to be close, to just keep holding you. “Please,” a whisper into the curve of his neck, his perfume flooding your senses, rooting you furthermore.

“‘Course, cariño,” he’s running his fingers through your hair, as if still detangling it - he’ll keep up the gesture all night long, even after you’ve fallen asleep, even in the hazy state he falls in as dawn breaks. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x ofc #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #javier pena #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena x oc #javier pena x female reader #javier pena x f!reader #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x fem!reader #javier peña x y/n #pedro pascal characters

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bealtesharrisonmacca · 2 months

Text

When I’m up against the wall Paul, you’ll find I’m at my best

McLennon

Setting: get back sessions/recording of the Let it be album

Paul McCartney x John Lennon

Word count: 1276

Warnings: smut!, slight swearing, mclennon smut

It’s been a tense couple of days. The group is having a hard time coping with all their feuds. John and Paul are constantly bickering at each other while George and Ringo are left unseen.

Paul seems to be the one attempting to take charge so that they can make their album.

John is pretty frustrated, considering he and Paul haven’t been even remotely close enough lately. Of course with Yoko around all the time it’s not easy getting some time for just the two of them.

Although, Yoko isn’t the only reason they haven’t been engaging in anything special, but Paul sure thinks so.

He’s been growing out his beard recently, and he knows how good he looks. Wearing black turtlenecks and suits to match his "grown up" look. He looks amazing and not only does he know it, he knows that John knows it too.

Paul has caught John eyeing him a few times when he thought he wasn’t looking.

One day John and Paul are just playfully talking about what to do with the album and such. They often have talks like this but this time there is something unspoken between them.

Then suddenly John says “When I’m up against the wall Paul, you’ll find I’m at my best.”

The words hung in the air.

Paul is surprised at Johns remark but he scoffs it off considering they’re not only in front of a lot of people, they are also on camera. But he wanted to push John against the wall right there and then.

John can tell he hit a spark for Paul by saying something so risky yet so innocent for everyone else.

Johns comment from earlier stayed with Paul throughout the day.

The idea of having John up against a wall really spoke to him. He felt his pants tighten around his crotch as his bulge grew bigger. He wasn’t visibly turned on but his mind was racing with unholy thoughts.

He was constantly looking over at John when they were playing, attempting to assure himself that John was on the same page he was.

It had been such a long time for them both.

John felt Paul’s eyes on him as he was strumming the guitar. He thought that maybe, Paul wanted him as much as he wanted Paul. He knew he couldn’t resist that sexy beard of his.

Imagining them kissing and Paul’s beard itches against Johns cheeks. Oh how bad John wanted to jump up from his chair and take Paul in his arms and kiss him passionately.

All throughout the rest of the day the pair of them were making eye contact every few seconds. The tension grew larger between them. It used to be an aggravated tension but it was soon turning very seksual.

Paul sat playing the piano while John was packing up his guitar.

George and Ringo and the rest of the crew had left only a few minutes earlier. Yoko was the only one still there.

“That damn Yoko” Paul thought to himself. Maybe he had read too much into the situation. Maybe John was just slow at gathering his things and maybe he was just going to leave with Yoko.

But before Paul could spiral further down that path he heard John tell Yoko to leave because he wanted to go over a few lyrics and ideas with Paul.

Yoko left soon after and then there they were. John and Paul, finally alone.

Paul got up from the piano and began walking towards John, whose back was turned to him. John heard Paul’s footsteps getting closer, and the knot in his stomach tightening with suspense.

Then, John felt Paul’s hands lightly tough his back. Stroking carefully as John turned to face him.

“Care to tell me what that comment you made earlier meant, love?” Paul asked with a smirk across his face. And before John could muster up a response Paul pushed him harshly against the wall behind him. “Because I think you wanted something like this didn’t you eh?”

Paul’s hand travelling up to Johns chin while the other held him in place.

John let out a slight groan as Paul pushed his lips against his. Ramming Johns body even harder into the wall.

The bulge in Paul’s pants pressed into Johns as their kiss grew more passionate. Moans escaping them both as their clothed cocks rubbed against each other.

As foreseen by John, Paul’s beard felt incredibly good to tough and feel.

Their lips parted for a few seconds, giving them time to look into each other eyes and admire the closeness they had.

It didn’t take long before Paul started pulling off Johns shirt. The chilly room making his nipples hard. Paul then went on to remove his own shit and trousers, leaving him in his boxers.

John started unbuckling his belt as Paul watches eagerly. They were both hard as fuck and it showed.

Paul slid a hand to the brim of Johns boxers and pulled them down in a swift motion. Removing his own soon after.

“Let’s see how good you really are against this wall then love, turn around for me yeh”

John turned his back to Paul again, exposing his ass to him. Paul leaned forward and his hand went around Johns neck and into his mouth.

“Suck” Paul exclaimed. “Don’t want yer asshole hurtin too bad now do we?”

And so he did, he sucked Pauls fingers until they were plenty wet with John’s spit.

Paul drew back his hand but stopping right at John lower back. He bent John even further towards a 90 degree angle, but not fully.

Without warning Paul pushed a finger inside him. John let out a loud moan at the sharp pain. Although it quickly turned into pleasure as Paul’s finger moved more rapidly.

He suddenly added another finger and started stretching John out.

John let out moan after moan, the feeling he had been yearning for so long was finally coming to him. He felt Paul getting impatient to fuck him.

“Please Paul, Please fuck me!” John was practically shouting. And before John could muster out anything else Paul slammed into him. His hard cock thrusting deep inside of him.

John’s face was being pushed harshly into the wall and it caused him to shout even louder, but he loved every second of it. They both did.

One of Paul’s hands went to John’s hair tugging roughly, the other went to John dick as he starter jerking him off.

John’s senses were flying and the overstimulation was almost too much to bear.

Paul’s picked up his pace slamming even faster and harder into John now that he had adjusted properly. All the while still jerking off John.

They were letting out loud moans as they both felt their orgasms approaching.

Paul pulled John’s hair ruthlessly as he started coming undone. His cum shooting into John. That was the final straw for John as he came in Paul’s grip.

They were now moaning messes, attempting to gather themselves. John turned to Paul and their lips intertwined once again.

“Yer so fucking good at that Paulie”

“Well you weren’t half bad either John, I reckon we could do this again” Paul smirked.

Paul started getting dress when John grabbed him and pushed him to the wall.

“Next time we’ll se how good you do” John let the words hang as he left the studio, leaving Paul very horny yet again.

Hope this was enjoyable, I wrote this when I was half asleep😅

#paul mccartney #john lennon #the beatles #mclennon #paul mcbeardy #get back #macca #smut #fluff #let it be #george harrison #ringo starr #Mclennon smut #paul McCartney x John Lennon

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takecareluv · 1 year

Text

no place like home || jack harlow x reader

a.n. hi <3 i know the timeline technically isn’t correct, but for this pretend his louisville show was right after the european part of his tour and not a month later. please and thank you. happy reading 💌

…..

you had been by jack’s side since the early days. supported him through every step of his career, from the humbling nights performing to only a handful of people at local bars to climbing the charts with his biggest hits known to date.

although it was amazing watching the love of your life accomplish everything he ever dreamed of, it came with its difficulties. as jack’s fanbase grew worldwide and his tours starting getting bigger, and longer for that matter, you couldn’t always be there to cheer him on from backstage.

it was a hard adjustment for jack. you had been there for his very first performance and practically every one since. he considered you his good luck charm, and saving grace when the nerves started to kick in. but now here he was, flying from country to country, performing to sold out crowds like he’d manifested for so long, and you couldn’t be there to celebrate with him.

of course you made the occasional trips to surprise him, but you could never stay long - having to be back to work by eight a.m. monday morning.

it was just as hard on you. coming home to a quiet house every day was something you weren’t accustomed to. for the prior months, it was filled with jack and his team coming in and out of the newly built home studio, various beats blaring through the walls with unreleased lyrics here and there. although if you were honest, ever since your boyfriend had been away you’d taken to playing his music from every speaker in the house - finding it to feel a little less lonely when you heard his voice, even in a song.

and your least favorite part about when jack was gone: trying to sleep alone in a bed that felt a lot bigger without your giant of a boyfriend cuddled up to your side, filling your body with endless amounts of warmth. jack of course knew about your struggle and would set a reminder to facetime you every night around your usual bed time. but more often than not he would still be on stage until the late hours of the night, the alarm forgotten about, leaving you to fall asleep to the faint whispers coming from the television you left on.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏˚♡˚﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

after traveling across the u.s. for over a month and flying over seas for the european leg of his come home the kids miss you tour, jack was finally set to make his way back to louisville, kentucky for one last performance. one he couldn’t be more thrilled about.

he hadn’t seen you yet like he hoped to before the show, sad he wouldn’t be getting his good luck kiss like he’d been so patiently waiting for the last three months. but he knew he would have plenty of kisses to look forward to following the performance, motivating him to get on stage.

it wasn’t until about half way through that he noticed you in your usual spot along the side of the stage, dancing and singing along to every word as you always did.

his smile could have lit up the whole arena in that moment. so happy to be back with not only his muse and good luck charm, but the love of his life.

while he wasn't meant to sing this particular song until later in the show, he couldn't help but begin humming the lyrics to your song.

the audience was quiet, confused by the change of tempo. and with the band not having started the music, the only sound echoing throughout the arena was jack softly singing into the microphone - to no one else but you.

girl, you're poison, poison, poison, poison

but the good kind

its crazy how you're on my mind

kind of crazy how you’re on my mind

jack finished the verse before the band began playing, starting the song from the top.

his eyes never left yours as he continued to sing, making his way over to were you stood hidden from the crowd. his arm reached out to grab your own, pulling you towards center stage with him. he could tell you were nervous but squeezed your hand in reassurance, his way of silently saying i love you.

don't be anxious, i got you

as he twirled you around and danced with you close in his arms, it felt like you were the only two people in the world, completely forgetting about the several thousand people you were currently in front of.

you didn’t care about how many eyes were on you, let alone the amount of cameras recording, they didn’t matter in this moment. the only thing you cared about was the man standing in front of you whom you loved so much - the man who had become your whole world, and who you knew was your soulmate for life.

as the song finished and the lights went dark, jack pulled you into a kiss. a kiss you’d been waiting too many months for. a kiss that said i’m home and i'm not going anywhere.

#jack harlow #jack harlow x y/n #jack harlow x you #jack harlow blurb #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow fluff #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow fic

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herrlindemann · 1 year

Photo

Musik Express - September 1997, Interview with Till and Richard

Thanks to Ramjohn for the scans!

Opinions are divided on this band - demonized by some, loved by many as passionately as the fire on their stage. An interview by Peter von Stahl.

In the press, adjectives such as 'controversial', 'fascistoid' or 'glorifying violence' can still be read in Rammstein stories. Is life good with this image?

Richard: We only depict violence in our shows and address it in our lyrics. We strictly reject using or propagating violence. Every kind of music serves a cliché in the mind of a journalist. Rammstein has this heaviness, these metal guitars. The right clichés immediately pop up in your head: long hair, short pants, American metal. And then comes a band that doesn't serve all of that anymore, that has a completely different, very own appearance - and then they need a new drawer. And it probably says 'controversial' on it.

Every artist says that in an interview — no one wants to fit into a drawer. Your music isn't that revolutionary.

Richard: But bands like Krupps or Front 242 are different. Rammstein is just unique. There is no band that sounds like Rammstein.

Till: I just have to listen to our neighboring rehearsal rooms: on the left it sounds like Pearl Jam, on the right like something else that you've known for a long time. You try to make it easy for yourself.

Richard: Maybe they just never got the hang of it because they only ever wanted to serve one market. Even more extreme in the West than here in the East. There was no market to serve.

Till: After the reunification, I drove over to the west and used my mountain greeting money to stuff my stomach with rubber animals, yoghurt and all that stuff. But that's about it. It was the same with music: there was so much. But soon it was noticed that the water is not boiled any hotter there than it is here. We used to look forward to a concert for weeks, today you can see 30 to 40 things in Berlin every evening.

The German media have a hard time with hard, German-sounding music. Record buyers and concert goers don't seem to have a problem with you.

Till: The media's problem with us also has something to do with a lack of musical tradition and history, because we don't want anything to do with understandable German history either. After the war, Americans and the English brought rock, and apart from German hits, there was never anything that had its roots here.

This is also a question of phonetics. Till rolls the 'R' deeply and evocatively - and everyone thinks of the sound of an original shellac with Göbbels speeches.

Till: The rolling 'R' didn't even come about on purpose. It came naturally because in that low pitch you sing like that automatically. I'm not actually a musician. I have absolutely no knowledge of the instruments. But I can give good support to our music with my voice and the lyrics. It's a matter of illustration, tone color, phonetics. We didn't want to create a fascist attitude, for God's sake. Only later, when we were asked about it in interviews, did we have to deal with it.

And yet it is certainly no coincidence that you provide music for David Lynch and not for Walt Disney. Because of his preference for the narrow bridge between 'reason and instinct' (from the Rammstein song 'Du riechst so gut'), Lynch films were basically never anything other than filmed Rammstein subjects - only he just makes films and no music.

Richard: First of all, he's an American. We couldn't have a Lynch. The only one I can think of is Werner Herzog — I sometimes see Rammstein pictures there.

Till: The Germans only have a problem with things in Germany. As soon as a thing finds international recognition, it also becomes socially acceptable here in Germany. We noticed that through the David Lynch film: German cars, German soccer, German tennis, Formula One — no problem at all. But as long as it stays in the country, there will be unlikely friction.

'Bravo' has no problems with you - there you operate as a 'heavy band with Feuerteufel as a singer'.

Till: That was great for me. My daughter is only twelve years old and she has never understood why I travel so often, drive away so often. Now she can finally read the reason why in her newspaper.

Does your daughter listen to Rammstein or rather boy bands?

Till: No, she listen to something else. She doesn't like boy bands that much, she prefers electronic stuff with a melody.

As a single father, how do you balance work and family?

Till: It wasn't that bad before, I played drums in a punk band and we practically had our rehearsal room in the house where I lived. I had them alone for seven years, but now I share parenthood with my daughter's mother again, because I'm on the road with the band half the year.

How does your daughter actually react to the hard Rammstein texts?

Till: She always giggles. She doesn't understand the extreme things yet.

Children watch movies and TV news on these topics without understanding them. The younger fans will feel the same about your lyrics.

Till: We never intended to make music for 13 or 14 year olds. This has only recently developed through 'Bravo', 'Viva' and so on. But when I see what's on the afternoon TV program, in the news, what's in the newspaper - they have to deal with that too. With their idols Tic Tac Toe they have to deal with prostitution, with drugs. Or with tampon ads on TV, where they see small, hidden gestures at dinner - how are we supposed to leave children disturbed?

After all, the menstrual fluid is kept in a friendly light blue in the advertising. With you, blood is still blood—deep red.

Till: First and foremost we make our music for ourselves. And the images it projects in people are very different. For some, the lyrics are totally incomprehensible, but they might like the music and just let it flow. On the other hand, a girl recently told me that she walked in a performance as the hooker that appears in our song 'Seemann' — the hooker who stands by the lantern.

Which of course is never mentioned in the text...

Till: Shall I explain that it's not about a whore, but about this and that? It's her picture, her story about the song.

When you sing about SM phenomena in songs like 'Bück dich' or 'Betraf mich' on the new record, the images are more clearly defined.

Richard: Just yesterday we were with some friends and discussed Rammstein. There was also a young evangelical pastor who was terribly upset about Rammstein and especially about the text of 'Bück dich'. He complained that more and more people in his youth community were listening to Rammstein and were therefore taking the wrong path. The evening grew longer and longer, they drank more and more - and at some point it turned out that the pastor himself was the only one in the group who really lived this 'bend over' sex and that he had a different woman almost every night drives in this way.

The church, especially the Catholic one, has enough internal institutions that deal intensively with Rammstein topics: incest, sin and punishment, the devil. In contrast, the anti-authoritarian educational models of the post-1968ers, the evangelical discussion groups, seem to have failed, also because of the denial of the existence of evil. How do you feel about raising your own children?

Till: One has absolutely nothing to do with the other. I try to separate Rammstein and my private life as much as possible. That's exactly how it is with the fire effects on our stage. I'm not a pyromaniac. I never light a cigarette privately. Just as Richard procures state-of-the-art musical equipment, it's my job to take care of the pyro effects for the show. We're a band that just does its job. Anyone who knows us privately cannot believe that we are so nice. We are quite normal, we do our job like fishermen who leave their hut in the morning, kiss their children, go out to sea, fetch the fish with the nets from the depths and return to the hut in the evening. Their children go out with them from time to time, and our children sometimes go to concerts too. But when they watch their father kill fish and gut them, they quickly realize that this is father's job. If they grow up with that, they're fine with that because they keep the two things separate.

In any case better than hiding from the child that the schnitzel on the plate was once a live pig that was slaughtered.

Richard: Just like the child of a sex performer or actress might at some point see their mother in a sex scene on TV and wonder where dad is. You will learn how to deal with that.

If every artist would live their madness of whatever kind in private, then there would almost certainly only be sick people in the charts. But: Do your lyrics at least help in your private fight against your very own, hidden demons?

Till: That happens. For me, solitude always gives me a creative boost — you have another glass of wine and you feel even more shitty. Art cannot do without suffering. Art is also there to compensate for suffering.

As one of the most successful metal acts in Germany, you will probably soon suffer too little to be able to continue to nurture your art.

Richard: Above all, we have no time to suffer. Except in the lonely hours after the concerts.

Till: It makes you feel like shit. You play a concert in Berlin in front of 16,000 people, then you cycle home from the rehearsal room because the after-show parties might not be the real thing either, you sit alone in your booth and have to come down again. It's like a hangover.

At this moment, your single father support group seems to be failing you.

Richard: If you sit on each other constantly for two years, you know the whole whining by heart.

Hartmut Engler from Pur says he still wants to put the whole feeling into his lyrics at the 67th gig.

Till: Sure — he always cries. Nonsense! Everybody is saying it! Maybe at the beginning, at the first two concerts. At some point it will become operational blindness. When 'Seemann' was still very fresh, I often felt a shiver. Later on, you tend to make sure that the intonation is right.

In many of your songs you can hear borrowings from the soundtracks of old spaghetti westerns. Who is actually the inveterate Ennio Morricone fan with you?

Richard: That's me.

Till: He's a fan of old cowboy music and movies.

In this sense, Rammstein is like Karl May - you don't have to murder, desecrate and humiliate yourself to be able to write lyrics about mauling, child abuse and incest.

Till: But that's exactly the point: you're talking about 'tearing, child abuse and incest'. I wish people would approach such topics much more sensitively. My daughter is at an age when something like this could really happen to her — maybe the day after tomorrow. And so I take it upon myself to imagine what that would be like. If it were about my daughter, I would probably want to cut off an egg from a perpetrator like that, shoot him or something. On the other hand, I can also sit in a dark corner and think about what drives him to do it. And about what drives me to be able to understand such a drive. Those are the two sides of this thing: On the one hand, reason, morality, my completely normal life — for me there's no question about that. But then I sit down, close my eyes and think about how, for example, the day before yesterday I felt such a longing for this grown woman — why shouldn't someone have such a longing too, who can't even help it, because he may have been abused himself in the past. And maybe he can't appreciate what it means to transfer that desire to a child. Where do you put the value, how do you want to judge?

It's shocking how many people were abused in their childhood. On the other hand, you are accused of the fact that your texts deal less with illness and morality than with the problem of overcoming the conflict between reason and instinct.

Till: No, no. Sick is sick, there is no discussion. And if it wasn't sick by normal standards, we wouldn't need mental hospitals anymore. But more important is the question of why and how it happens. Otherwise, this is only of interest to the lawyers who dig into their clients' childhood so that they can plead insanity. I've lived in the country for quite a long time and saw a horse molester almost lynched on the village street - I really felt sorry for him.

The line between everyday life and madness is known to be fluid. After all, the worst things happen every day in most cities behind every fifth window.

Till: If that's enough. Probably behind every third. And that's why I find it sad that lyrics about things that actually happen every day can kick up so much dust. For example, we had a listening session in Malta with Petra Husemann and Tim Renner from our record company. And when he heard the line 'Couple with your own flesh and blood' from the song 'Tier', Renner immediately dismissed it - a case for the index, which in Germany includes everything about sex with animals, incest, sibling love and so on acts. I don't understand that — you can even read about the relevant extras in the 'Bild' newspaper. And yet some act as if none of this exists.

And then? What have you done? Did you soften the text at the end?

Till: Nope. We aim for it.

I was never really interested in Rammstein myself until my wife put your record on again and again. On the other hand, feminists accuse you of the worst sexism.

Richard: We keep hearing that it was women who brought their men to Rammstein. Petra Husemann, the wife of Timm Renner (Rammstein's record boss/ed.), the girlfriend of our manager Emu, many wives and girlfriends of journalists. Men seem to have more of a problem with us than women.

Maybe that's because you're a lot better looking and have a lot more muscles than most media men.

Richard: It has more to do with head and gut. Rammstein frightens many men because they recognize qualities or character traits in our texts that they carry within themselves, but which they have suppressed.

So you mean you hold something like a mirror in front of the men's faces. A mirror in which they can suddenly and suddenly see the animal in them?

Richard: The animal, sure. A lot of things. A kind of machoness when we sing about the 'Wilder im Revier'.

Till: For us, the sexism that we are accused of is more about protecting women.

I'm really sorry, but now I can't follow. I do not understand that.

Till: For us, it's about understanding the woman's feelings and then showing them as extreme as they actually are. Yesterday a journalist asked us why we don't write love songs. Love, this is just this one brief moment. But after that, that's when the work begins. The constant misery: finding each other, falling in love, sticking it out for a while, then sticking it out, and then it all starts all over again.

Do you think you know more about women than men?

Till: No, not at all.

Perhaps for this reason you cannot imagine that husband and wife can be happy together in the long term.

Till: I don't know of any intact relationships. One or two maybe, but the circumstances aren't normal there — they don't see each other very often. I'm talking about this thing: getting out of the house in the morning and putting the kids to bed at night. Where are the theater visits, who still brings flowers? Being in love, bringing flowers to your loved ones — eventually it always ends.

That's why the resolute 'no' to the female marriage wish on your new single 'Du hast'?

Till: 'until death do you part...' — that's just as unnatural as a tattoo on your arm. It won't go out for the rest of my life. At some point, as a pensioner, I’ll sit with my grandson on my lap and he’ll ask what kind of silly thing I have on my upper arm.

However, Rammstein does not seem to want to live entirely without women. After all, you've now recorded a hymn to the primary female sex organ. What do you say in the rehearsal room when you want to play this song?

Till: Sometimes we say, 'Now let's play cunt!' Isn't that what you wanted to hear?

The song title 'Kiss me, Fellfrosch' sounds a lot more tender.

Till: Fellfrosch — the word alone is a homage to this part of the body. That's a nice, childish way of looking at things: fur stands for small, furry little animals. Hamsters, guinea pigs and such. And frog or snail takes care of the second part. Fascination and disgust, both play a role.

Perhaps the disgust at the bitter aftertaste is really just a problem of overly careless personal hygiene?

Richard: Tastes change too. Much of what seemed too bitter to us in childhood tastes good to us today. On the other hand, we usually find the sweets from the past too sweet. Every fur frog tastes different. Pure question of taste. There is no judgment in the text. We're not saying it stinks.

Feminists will not see the 'fur frog' in such a differentiated way. This will cause trouble.

Till: Hopefully! That's the same topic as before: It's about something that is completely self-evident and that everyone knows. That's the most normal thing in the world. Exaggerated feminism, on the other hand, is an indictment. And when they get upset about it, that's ultimately just proof to me that they don't have a sense of humor. Just the other day someone told me a joke about a forty-centimetre cock. It was a woman.

#Rammstein #Till Lindemann #Richard Kruspe #1997 #interview #translation #*scans #*#great in depth interview with Till mostly

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luckyyluka · 1 year

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Empty

Steve Harrington x gn!reader

Summary: Reader is at their limit but Steve interrupts their plans for the end. (hurt/comfort fic)

Disclaimer: Technically this is an OC because reader is Dustin's older sibling, but it is intended as a reader insert fic, so I am going to keep it listed as such. However, if you feel like being related to Dustin does not accurately fit you, you are free to interpret this however you'd like. Reader could be adopted, or maybe has a different father. Maybe reader isn't even related, but Dustin's mother kind of took them in when something happened in the past. Reader doesn't have to have the same genetics to be family with Dustin.

Notes: Reader is Dustin's older sibling. Reader uses they/them pronouns. NO use of y/n. I can't even tell you how long this has been in my drafts bro

Credits: gif from @appocalipse , dividers by @cafekitsune

Trigger Warnings: no specific mental illness is mentioned but in a general sense, SEVERE depression is heavily implied. Detailed depictions of depression, self harm, suicidal thoughts, almost attempted suicide using pills (all from reader).

This fic has a fairly detailed moment where reader is cutting themselves. I wrote this originally only for myself as a form of comfort. Please THINK before you decide to read this. The most important thing here is for you to stay safe. The sole purpose of me posting this fic is for readers who are similar to myself that might find comfort in this, but not everybody will get the same thing out of this fic, so please please please do NOT read if this will trigger you in any way.

Empty. The room feels empty. Your heart feels empty. Your hope feels empty. The emptiness pierced through your chest like an arrow, cold and sharp and leaving you breathless. Your tears fall from your face like a flood as you sit on the ever-so-slightly scratchy carpet underneath you, one hand brushing over the fabric, the other playing with the necklace you wore around your neck. The necklace with the guitar pick. Eddie's guitar pick.

Eddie Munson was your best friend since the first grade. He meant the world to you. He helped you through your darkest times, the times when depression would hit too hard, the times you'd feel like you were wasted space in the world around you, the times you got too sick to function, the times you relapsed. He stayed there with you until his last dying breath, a breath that shouldn't have come. It wasn't at all fair that he died saving a town that only ever judged him, outcast him, berated him. It wasn't at all fair that he was gone.

He took that last dying breath only days after he witnessed the gruesome death of Chrissy Cunningham, framed for murder, and tragically stuck in the middle of the most cursed parts of Hawkins, Indiana. You'd been there before. Three times. Starting when your little brother's best friend, Will, disappeared. Dustin snuck around in secret at first, but you knew him well. You knew him better than anyone did, aside from maybe himself, so you figured it all out pretty quickly. And that's the thing about the trust between you two - it made it easy for him to tell you everything when you asked. To trust you to hold him in your arms on the most difficult nights, softly singing the lyrics to Heroes by David Bowie to help soothe him as he would slowly but surely fall asleep. Just like you did when you were younger.

Those three times had left you to mourn the loss of your friend, Barb, your little cat, Mews, and the man that made Joyce Byers smile for the first time in over a year, Bob. And as much as you hated Billy Hargrove - the man that abused his sister, Max Mayfield, made racist remarks about Lucas Sinclair, verbally spat in the faces of anybody he spoke to, and beat Steve Harrington to a pulp - even he had died tragically. Though you were sure it wouldn't have effected you near as much if it weren't for the shattered heart of Max Mayfield - a heart that you and your friends desperately tried to help piece back together - it still left your own heart heavy.

The fourth time around was different, though. As your best friend, you had done everything in your power to protect Eddie from the things you've had the misfortune of witnessing before, even if it created a barrier in the middle of your relationship. But the Upside Down had other plans when a monster named Vecna gave Eddie the burden of witnessing Chrissy shake in a trance, eyes rolling to the back of her head, floating, limbs folding and crunching, eyes sucked into her body. He had no choice but to be a part of it all. Vecna gave him no choice.

The monster got into the minds of anybody who was suffering. He fed off of defeat, distress, heartache... it made him stronger. He tried taking Max, and he almost got her, but Eleven brought her heart back. That didn't change the fact that she did die, though, even if only for a moment. It still gave Vecna that little ounce of power that he needed. The power to open up the rift to the Upside Down, a rift that split Hawkins into quarters... the great "earthquake" of Hawkins, Indiana.

You grieved the loss of Eddie Munson, Chrissy Cunningham, and even basketball player Jason Carver, all while praying desperately to anybody above who would listen that Max would wake up from a coma, miraculously escaping death. You all visited her every single day, none of you dared to leave her alone. Her hospital room, despite being arid and lifeless, was unofficially deemed the spot, all of you gathered there to hang out almost every day as she recovered. You covered the room in posters and knickknacks, left behind toys and board games that you could have simply brought back the next time you came, just to mask the bleak atmosphere. It took half a year, but your prayers were answered, and she did miraculously escape death.

Two years later and her body grows closer and closer to fully healing everyday. Her sight came back faster than her smiles, but eventually, she got those back too.

But the reason for your tears as you sit on the floor in a dark, empty room at this very moment, gripping onto the pick that hung around your neck, wasn't to mourn your best friend Eddie Munson. The pick only helped to nudge a few breaths back into you, reminding you about all of the times Eddie held you in his arms and begged you to keep going, to stay alive, trying desperately to convince you of the truth - that everyone around you loved and needed you here, that you couldn't die, not even if it was at your own hand.

The reason was your mind. The way your thoughts were able to make your heart ache, your body shake, your lungs desperately scratch for air. You felt like you were drowning, and to make things worse, you had no one reason why. It was a mix of everything. Everybody you had mourned in your life, every intrusive thought that had you second guessing reality, every time your mind would flash back to every trauma you've experienced.

You turned on music, started watching tv, writing, dancing, anything to help you to slow your thoughts, make them more bearable. But it didn't work. They just wouldn't stop.

You've coped with this burden for as long as you can remember, Eddie, Dustin and your mother being there for you every step of the way as you were in and out of hospitals, therapy, relapses. When everything with the Upside Down kick-started, you thanked whatever higher being out there that your meds were working like they needed to be. It helped to grow close to the new people around you - Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, Joyce... Hell, even the little ones, Will, Lucas, Mike, Eleven, and Max. Your support system was strong. You weren't alone. And while it undeniably helped, nothing was cured.

You made it through every time, and you thought that should have helped, that it should have put everything into perspective. You're alive, most of your loved ones are alive, you've got a long list of people surrounding you who understand exactly what you've been through... yet it only made your stomach churn with guilt. Guilt that you had no right to be depressed over anything, not when things like the Upside Down existed, not when there were worse things out there. But you couldn't help it. You didn't understand how you couldn't even bring yourself to get out of bed a lot of times, but your friends were getting out of bed, getting dressed, showering, existing every single day...

You wondered why you couldn't do that. You wondered why your mind worked so hard against you every second you were awake. You wondered why you were still alive and not Eddie. Not Barb. Not Bob. If you can barely exist, so weak, so cowardly, so ungrateful, but they were giving their all every single day, then why were you the one who made it out alive?

It was eating you from the inside out. The guilt. The survivors guilt. The guilt of just simply feeling. The fleeting guilt of hurting your loved ones if you were to die, though it was quickly washed away by the knowledge that it wouldn't matter, that they would be better off without you, that you didn't matter enough for anybody to be effected by your death.

You hadn't talked about how you were feeling in two years. Since Max almost died, that guilt had gotten so severe that you just couldn't bring yourself to let anything out anymore. So you held it in. You held it in until you were about to burst at the seams. And even then, you couldn't seem to allow yourself to let it out.

But now here you were, alone in the empty room you sat in, the spare bedroom of your house. The only room that had a lock on the door. Usually, your mom, Dustin, and you were respectful of knocking, respectful of each other's privacy... but you couldn't risk it. Not right now. On the floor beside you was a Coke can - the classic, not the new kind - next to a bottle of pills, a note you had carefully hand-written, and your pocket knife. You had this planned for weeks now, and you finally reached your limit. It was time to set the plan into action.

Your grip on Eddie's guitar pick tightened, if that were even possible. Your forearm wiped away at your tears, which deemed to be useless when the tears fell far too quickly. The emptiness you had once felt moments ago was suddenly gone, replaced with the weight of a burden much too heavy for you to bear. A burden of existing with a mind so relentless. Reluctantly, you let go of the pick around your neck and grabbed your knife, popping the blade out and sucking in as much of a breath as you could take.

Without thinking, you pushed down. The cold sting on your wrist made you shudder, eyes closing in relief. Feeling the blood trickling down your wrist had urged you to open your eyes, to take in the sight of every emotion you endured being put on display. The breath you held finally escaped your lungs, and for the first time in days, you noticed your breathing begin to even out. As if you weren't drowning anymore, yet simply floating at the surface of the water you were once drowning in only moments ago.

You continue your actions, the crushing heaviness you felt in your lungs lessening with each cut. When you felt satisfied with your work, you let the blood trickle down and make a mess. That was the most satisfying part of it all. The visible mess and what it represented; hey, this pain is real, it's not all in your head.

You sighed, your tears lessened just a bit as your breathing evened out and you felt more at ease. Your shakey hands slowly but surely untwisted the cap of the bottle of pills, fumbling a bit more than you should have - damned safety cap. Nevertheless, you popped it open and poured about a dozen pills into your hand, but before you could wrap your other hand around the coke can next to you, you heard the front door open. Fuck.

"I just need to grab my bag! It has all the walkie talkies."

Dustin.

"Dude is that really necessary?"

Mike.

"Can you two shut up and hurry? We've got places to be!"

Steve, ending his sentence with a clap. He must have been the last to enter because you heard the front door shut shortly after.

You winced at the sound. The sound of your little brother talking, not knowing you were about to end your life in the next room. The sound of your friends, Mike and Steve, mostly unaware of your mental struggles and completely clueless to your current state.

You heard shuffling footsteps and indistinctive murmuring between the three boys. Dustin shut his door and you let out a short breath knowing they were finally about to leave - except they didn't.

"Wait, Dustin, where's your sibling?"

Your breath caught in your throat as you tried to hold back from sobbing at the mention of you. The tears were hard enough to control as it was.

"I don't know, probably with Robin," Dustin shrugged it off and you hoped it'd end with that, but it didn't.

"But their car is still in the driveway," Steve speculated, "plus, Robin's working."

You heard the footsteps growing closer to you, and the door to your room opened. "They're not in here," Dustin said with worry. He called out your name, but of course he didn't get a response. He knew you were at an all time low right now, he saw it every day, so of course his first response would be to worry.

The door knob on the spare room that you were in wiggled. "The spare bedroom is locked!" Dustin called out, frantically fumbling with it.

Little did you know, Dustin had been updating everyone of your struggles. He couldn't bear the weight of it all alone. Plus, they all cared for you. They wanted you to be okay. They missed you. They loved you. So they tried to help in every way possible.

"You don't think they're... like, cut-"

Steve cut Mike's words short, "I got a paper clip. Let me open it," he got closer to the door, "step back with Mike, okay Dustin?"

"Okay," you heard your little brother's voice crack and you could tell he was on the verge of tears. You, however, were way past tears. Your sobs had you almost gasping for air as you tried desperately to hold them back, but you know they'd heard them. Quickly, you reached for the bottle of pills before the door swung open.

"Shit," you whispered when the bottle of pills tumbled over.

Steve was quick to hide you from the kid's line of sight with his body. He looked at you with sad eyes, talking in a breath as you frowned at him with guilt.

He turned around, "wait out here," he instructed the boys and turned to face you. He slowly walked closer before sitting next to you on the ground.

He wrapped his arms around you gently as you finally let yourself cry. Sobs ripped from your chest as the tears flooded, and you knew his shirt was already tear-stained. Steve held you long enough for you to finally catch a breath before he pulled away to assess the current situation.

He gently wrapped his hand around your wrist, maneuvering your arm so that he could see the cuts. "How many did you take?" His eyes scanned the still bleeding cuts as he asked about the pills.

"None," you told him, "the bottle tipped over," you frowned, "I made a mess..."

"My love..." His eyes glossed as tears threatened to fall from the corners of his eyes. "You're okay, don't worry about the mess. Let's just get you cleaned up, alright?"

You shook, more than you were before, as your sobs evened out slowly. Steve stood up, helping you slowly get on your feet, and he guided you to the bathroom.

He helped to pick you up and you sat on the counter, but the movement made you realize just how groggy you were starting to feel. You felt tired - exhausted, even - and almost fell over, but Steve held you up. "I got you, baby. You're okay. Stay awake for me, alright?"

He grabbed a wash cloth and wet it before guiding your arm under the water. He did his best to be gentle with you as he helped to clean your cuts. Finally, he wrapped a towel around your arm, instructing you to hold it there as he searched the medicine cabinet for some bandages.

"Aha," he pronounced when he found the bandage wrap that he was looking for. He got some antibiotic cream and covered your now-clean wounds, wrapping the bandage just tight enough around your wrist to help the bleeding slow down and protect the cuts from worsening.

"There. All clean," he smiled at you as he held your wrist in his hand while his other hand covered yours. You were much too tired to try and fake a weak smile for him.

"Now, do you want to talk? Or would you rather watch some movies or something?" Steve gave you options, and none of them included leaving you alone. "Dustin and Mike are here, too. I can call Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, Max... Anybody you want around. We all talk if you want, or we can order a bunch of pizza and binge your favorite show on Netflix."

He rambled more and more options for you to choose from, proving that he would really do pretty much anything to comfort you in this moment. You sighed, but a real smile actually seemed to form on your lips - albeit small, but it was there.

"I think... I'm really tired, Steve..." you confessed, really only wanting to sleep. Steve frowned a little.

"Let's get you to bed, then," he rubbed circles on the back of your hand soothingly. "I'll let the boys know. They won't mind playing some video games or something while we take a nap."

"We...?" you questioned hesitantly, suddenly feeling a bit nervous, but too tired to care enough.

"If that's alright with you? I'm a little sleepy too," he smiled gently.

You only nodded in response.

He'd assumed you didn't really want to talk to Dustin or Mike right now, and that assumption was correct, so he went to update them on the situation and they both understood.

When Steve returned to the bathroom, he helped you down from the counter and lead you to your room, practically tucking you in. He climbed into the bed next to you and the two of you faced each other.

"I think you're fantastic," he said to you, "and you mean a lot to me. You mean a lot to all of us. Especially Dustin," he smiled. "That boy would die for you in a heartbeat."

You frowned slightly, taking in his words as much as possible as your eyes got heavier. "I'm sorry," you apologized.

"No, love, don't apologize. You've got nothing to be sorry for. Pinky promise."

It was a joke between the two of you. The first time you really spoke to each other, you made him pinky promise to keep his end of a bargain - you buy the drinks and he doesn't talk about his hair for the rest of the week. It was funny, and neither of you expected it to mean anything, but it stuck.

"Okay," you smiled at him.

"There's that beautiful smile," Steve tucked your hair behind your ear, careful not to startle you.

"We need you here," he finally began, "you light up the room every time. You're our light. You're funny and kind. You're amazing. You've gone through so so much. You're allowed to be sad. To cry. But please, talk to us when you need to. Please stay."

Steve's words resonated with you, so much so that a small tear escaped from the corner of your eye. "Okay," you repeated from the last time.

And before he could say anything else, your eyes closed and you were asleep.

With him there, you finally got a genuinely good sleep for the first time in a long while.

When you finally woke up from your nap, Steve wasn't in the bed anymore. You frowned slightly, until you heard his voice bantering with Mike and Dustin's in the living room. A sigh escaped your lips as you rolled out of the bed and headed into the living room.

Dustin was the first to notice, not bothering to pause whatever video game was on the TV as he dashed towards you. His arms wrapped around you immediately, "you're awake!!"

A small smile formed on your lips as you pat his head and hugged him back, "I'm awake."

"I love you so much," Dustin mumbled against your shoulder, tightening his grip on you. "Please stay."

Your hug tightened around him this time before you pulled away and looked into his eyes, "I'm not going anywhere, Dustin."

Mike stared from afar, his attention on you and making sure you were okay had occupied his mind, any attention towards the video game he was playing with Dustin was lost.

Steve made his way over to you, Dustin going back to the couch to let the two of you speak. "How are you feeling?" Steve questioned.

"I don't know," you admitted, "but I finally got some actual sleep for the first time in a while." A weak chuckle escaped your lips.

"That's good..." Steve ran his fingers through his hair, "you know, uh... well, Dustin isn't the only one who really needs you here. I mean, Mike was lost trying to process what had happened... he was terrified. And, well, I..." he stopped himself there, inhaling deeply and averting his eyes from yours to the ground.

His hand rubbed the back of his neck anxiously, his eyes meeting yours again as he continued, "I can't lose you."

Your breath caught in your throat as you studied his eyes and took the time to process what Steve had just told you.

Before you could say anything, he continued his words in a frantic effort to explain himself, "I, uh, I know we weren't ever very close.. I mean, before I started hanging out with your brother, I was... kinda a shitty dude," he let out a breathy chuckle, "and you were so shy, you hung out with Eddie, who didn't exactly get along with my clique, and..." he paused, letting out a deep sigh before continuing his ramble, "what I mean to say is, letting Dustin drag me to your house that night to help him explain all of this upside down shit to you... Well, it led me to you, so..."

You raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of your lips curved upwards, fully understanding what he was saying, but teased him anyways. "So....?" You pushed for him to finish what he was saying.

"So, I guess maybe I should thank the little shit," a breathy laugh escaped his lips as he joked with you.

You giggled quietly and put both of your hands on either side of his face, locking eye contact with him. Judging by the way your cheeks burned, the blush on your face was prevalent, you were sure. His left hand went to your waist, pulling you in a little closer as his right hand gently curved around the back of your neck.

"Can I kiss you?"

You nodded in response, "Yes," you whispered.

He leaned down and brought his lips to yours, kissing you slowly. He had to force himself to break the kiss before he was in too deep to stop, the closed-lip, dopey smile on his face as he looked at you would have made you think that he was in love with you, if you didn't know better.

Or maybe, you were on the right track. Either way, you knew you had a friend in him, and everybody that you cared about truly did care about you, too. You finally felt safe for the first time in a very long time.

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127luvr · 1 year

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yoo can i request a mark lee (nct) x male reader where mark is basically the reader’s muse when it comes to writing lyrics and stuff. btw the reader is also in nct and since he and mark are the same age, they go to each other a lot for music advice. basically one day the reader asks mark to fetch something from his studio and then goes cuz mark seems to be taking too long, and like sees mark hold a page full of lyrics that can be read as a full on confession. and it’s super obvious that the subject in question is mark lee. and things get a bit angsty after, and yeah everything is up to you!!

Sorry, Heart

Mark Lee x Male Reader

No one is prone to Mark Lee’s charms. His soft brown eyes that follow where you go as if you’re the most important thing in the world at any given moment. His sharp cheekbones that carve out the rest of his soft face. And his nose—the faint wrinkles permanently on his face from where it scrunches up when he laughs or when he simply doesn’t know how else to express himself.

You thought you were different—the relationship between the two of you from the start was sweet. It was long nights in each other’s studios sharing unfinished melodies and lyrics. He was always there whenever you felt stuck while producing your own music. Always there when one of your ideas was turned down by management because it didn’t suit the group. And so were you.

You felt relieved when Mark came to you with his music and questions. It reminded you that Mark was human. That you could help him just as much as he’d help you. So you didn’t know when it happened. When the platonic feelings turned romantic.

It was a random Thursday night in your studio. The LED strips all around the small room transitioning from color to color every few seconds. The two of you were sitting on the (f/c) couch, sharing snacks—occasionally brushing hands when reaching for the same ones. Your (e/c) eyes had run up his hand—to his arm—to his shoulder—all the way to his face. His side profile was suddenly different, the blue reflecting off of his cheekbone hitting your eyes as if it were glowing. You felt your heartbeat quicken—a wave of butterflies hitting from the bottom of your feet to the top of your head.

Oh no.

Mark was all you could think about these days—the stack of papers scattered around your studio filled with lyrics that alluded to Mark in every way you could phrase your feelings being more than enough evidence to support it. Channeling all of your romantic feelings into songwriting helped hide your feelings around him. It helped you appear normal in the face of Mark Lee. Even when he genuinely complimented your musical ability and all you wanted to do was kiss his pink lips.

“(Y/n).” Mark waves a hand in your face to catch your attention, the beige guitar in his free hand hanging from his index and middle fingers. “Are you there?” You whisper a small apology, swallowing hard when he offers you a smile. “I was wondering if you had a guitar pick in your studio?”

“Yeah, actually.” You pause, looking around the room. “You’re gonna have to go though, I’m too comfortable. And while you’re there can you get me my headphones—they should be on the desk—if not—”

“I’ll find them.”

Mark is in your studio for a second before he notices the sheets of paper balled up and thrown around the room. A smile meets his eyes before his lips as he looks around fondly, picking a sheet up that seems to be blacked out with ink. The words going from line to line to sideways along the page. He flips the page, the smile faltering from his lips when he gets to read the mix of English and Korean lyrics. These scenarios and descriptions sounding a little too familiar for his liking. Mark sits himself down, picking up another page of lyrics. It puts him in another perspective—one that views him as if he were some godly being.

You kick your feet out, checking the clock in Mark’s studio to make sure that time was passing as you waited for Mark. You let your mind wander for a little, giving him more than enough time to grab the guitar pick—find your headphones and walk back from across the building. After the long hand on the clock passes the five, you get up, sighing as you make sure you lock Mark’s studio before you stomped your way towards your own studio.

“Mark Lee—”

He was sitting with his elbows to his knees—eyebrows furrowed as he read your lyrics before you came in. You snatch the sheet of lyrics from his hand, breath quickening as he got up from the couch trying to get you to take slower breaths. You scan the lyrics with your eyes, balling up the paper before throwing it towards your computer screen. He knew. He was too smart not to figure it out.

“Mark. Mark that was private. That wasn’t—those were my lyrics to share with you when I was comfortable enough.” Mark struggles to string words together, his mouth suddenly betraying every thought that crossed his mind. “Get out.”

“(Y/n).”

“Mark. Get out while I’m being nice.”

He waits outside of your studio door, pacing back and forth as the (Y/n/n)’s studiooooo~ sign stares down at him. He searches the ends of his mind to find what to say to you—something he’s never had to do because everything that concerned you came so easy to him. He chooses to run to his studio, silently thanking you when he turns the knob to find it locked. He walks in and out—carrying a blue journal tightly in his hand as he ran back towards you.

The knocking startles you a little. It’s so faint—timid even as he knocks again to make sure you heard it.

“(Y/n). I have something to show you.” You open the heavy door, choosing to sit back down on your couch instead of greeting him warmly as you normally would. He closes the door behind him and immediately you spot the journal in his hands.

“You have a key, Mark.” He cringes a little, upset at himself for making your voice so small in your own studio. He sits on the opposite end of the couch—one that the two of you had shared many times before so comfortably suddenly so cold and empty. He holds out the journal in front of him, giving himself a pep talk whenever he opens it to one of the first pages.

“I didn’t want to just come in.” He brings the journal between the two of you, leaning it more towards you. “You’re not the only one, (Y/n).”

You read the date on top of the page, surprised to find that it was the day the two of you met. Without taking the journal from him, you scoot closer, squinting your eyes to read the scribble of mostly English lyrics written all around the page. He skips a few pages, making a point to show the dates as he goes deeper into the journal.

“They’re all—”

“About you.” Mark looks up from his journal, again staring at you as if you were the only person on the planet. “You’re my muse, (Y/n). From the start. Those lyrics you wrote about me—I’m so glad that you have found something in me as I have in you.”

#mark lee #mark lee nct #nct #nct u #nct 127 #nct dream #mark lee x male reader #nct x male reader #nct dream x male reader #nct u x male reader #nct 127 x male reader #x male reader #hi 😆#tyyyyy for requesting I’m prettyyyy sure you’re the one that requested the one with JISUNG #if not that’s awkward… hehe #still I loved this request I’m loving Mark Lee lately #<3

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