#key to the bottomless pit

[illustratus]

#art #angel #descent #descending #heaven #key #chain #abyss #bottomless pit #dragon #serpent #snake #beast #satan #devil #biblical #bible #revelation #religious #religion #christian #christianity #angels #religious art #lock

[jeonjcngkook]

˚ ༘♡. 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 ೃ࿐

a 7 part jjk drabble series based on the explicit version of ‘seven’.

part 1: 1. monday: sęx in the workplace • - “got you skipping work and meetings”

pairing: seven!jungkook x f!reader (afab) genre(s)&au(s): pwp, non idol, slice of life, established relationship, smut, fluff, minor tiny angst warnings & smut warnings: swearing, nicknames & petnames (f rec - sweetheart, slûût / m rec - sir) , mäking out, bigdicc!jungkook 🍆 👅 , dôm!jungkook, sùb!reader, bossy jungkook, petting (m rec), slight vôyêürism, slight exhibitiønism 🫦🫦, neck kisses, fingëriñg (f rec), orãl sêxx (m rec), dïrty talk, office sēx, desk sęx, window séx 🪟, nīpple / tït play, mild strêngth kįñk, śîže kîñk, brêáthè płâŷ / äsphyxätįøn, hâîr tûggïñg, unprotected séx, mentions of safe words / tapping out, koo wears pretty necklaces that hypnotises oc 😩, he cüümms on her bøøbssgdjsn 🫂🥵🫠 w/c: 4.6k rating: 18+ banner: @caelesjjk

taglist [open]: - COMMENT ON SERIES MASTERLIST OR SEND AN ASK! - empty blogs will not be included & minors will be blocked. AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE IGNORED

note1: sorry, life got in the way a little but here we go - this is part 1; monday of 'seven ways to sunday'. note2: thank you to @tattookoo for looking over this ♡

Your heels click against the hardwood floor as you make your way down the hallway towards your small office. Behind you, your boyfriend Jungkook laces his fingers with yours and keeps up with your pace, his heavy boots making just as much noise as your heels.

Eventually, you both make it to the end of the corridor and you halt to rake through your bag for the key. As he waits, Jungkook turns back down the walk space which is filled with cubicles for interns and other members of staff — looking to make sure nobody watches you both enter together. Confirming that the coast is clear, he is quick to press himself up against you, his lithe fingers circling around your waist as he dips his head down to your neck and lavishes you in sweet, tiny pecks.

With your key now retrieved from the dark bottomless pit of your handbag, you insert the key with a shaky hand, twisting once, twice and at all long, the door swings open.

The second you both make it through the entrance, Jungkook kicks the door shut with his heavy boot and clicks the snib from the inside, locking it indefinitely from any possible intrusions.

Jungkook is all over you not even a moment later, hoisting you up into his arms and you instinctively wrap your legs around his delicate waist. His hands rest underneath your ass as he starts to squeeze your ass through the fabric of your skirt.

There is no time to waste as you lower your head towards his own to press your lips against him with urgency. Your tongue skirts along Jungkook’s pillowy lower lip and immediately he grants you access and your tongues are dancing a wicked fiery dance. The kiss is hungry and carnal; lips and tongue and teeth fighting against one another.

A low guttural growl sounds from Jungkook as he walks you both towards the grey marble desk in front the large glass panes inside the office and you swallow his sounds with your mouth, grinning into the kiss at his reaction.

Swiftly, he sits you down on top of your desk and positions himself in between your legs giving him the opportunity to press himself into your core, his hardening length underneath his blue jeans giving away his lust for you.

You break the kiss and pull away from him for just a moment to take him in and my god he’s a sight to see.

His outfit for your lunch date is casual. A simple white tee with a heart design etched into the fabric in your favourite colour — blue. The shirt is tucked into a pair of loose fitted low-rise blue denim jeans and fastened by a leather black belt with a large silver facing which you can’t help but grab onto to pull towards you with every chance you get. The outfit itself is completed with a black figure hugging leather jacket, that gives his body that broad, built effect which in return makes your mouth water for the man.

There’s always something about Jungkook that makes your heart race in your chest every time you lay your eyes on him. He’s sexy and his aura is filled with confidence and he knows it and yet he is still so humble and down to earth. He never fails to make you feel like you’re the greatest, smartest and most beautiful person in any room. Jungkook would bend himself backwards to make sure you know how incredible you are. His priceless prized possession.

“Thank you for lunch, it was delicious,” you praise his choice.

He leans back into you and closes the gap, his lips lingering teasingly but not quite making contact. “It was definitely delicious,” he pecks you on the lips. “Although, there is something else that I’ve been very ravenous for.” Jungkook confesses against your lips and his words fill you with warmth as he smirks and places his hand at the back of your neck to keep you in place as he bites down on your lower lip. “Been wanting to fuck you in this office for months now.”

You, on the other hand, shiver at his words and try to ignore just how much that one comment turns you on. What Jungkook doesn’t know is that you have also had the exact same wish.

“Unbutton my blouse, Jungkook,” you instruct and he doesn’t need to be told twice. He shuffles you further onto your desk so he can use his hands to reach the small buttons.

Jungkook takes one step back and you watch with blown out eyes as Jungkook’s nimble fingers start working on the buttons of your blouse, from bottom to top. 

A gust of cold air is all you feel against your skin before ‘click click click’ on the hardwood floor beneath you both is heard. Looking down, your blouse buttons scatter around the office as Jungkook tears the material straight down the middle.

“You tore my shirt!”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” his palms move underneath the chiffon material at your shoulders and shimmies the blouse to your elbows before he roughly tugs the cups of your lace bralette down, exposing your nipples to the cool air of your office.

Jungkook’s lips latch onto your neck and licks a wicked stripe from your collarbone to the middle of your throat. You’re hyperfocused on the wet warmth of his tongue and nip of his teeth at your skin and the pressure along the column of your throat where he paints your body in beautiful blossom marks. His teeth nibble into your flesh before his soft tongue lavishes the swollen skin, inciting a hiss from off your tongue.

“Fifteen minutes,” you whimper, “I’ve fifteen minutes before…before the s-staff meeting, oh my god.”

Your hand hurriedly finds their way to his hair, giving it a forceful yank as his mouth marks your neck as his. At this, Jungkook growls and the sound immediately travels south to your core, lifting your hips to chase any friction that will help alleviate the pressure in between your legs.

Jungkook detours towards one of your tits, leaving kisses and a trail of his saliva down the valley of your breasts. Jungkook palms your right tit roughly as his mouth brings your nipple in between his teeth and pulls at it gently. He looks up at you and watches as your chest rises and falls with his ministrations. You sharply pull once again at the roots of Jungkook’s lavish onyx locks and he releases your nipple with a wet, glistening sheen of his spit on it before giving the other nipple the same attention and repeating this over again.

Once more, Jungkook brings his lips to yours and kisses you bruisingly, his tongue sweeping over your lower lip as soon as he makes contact with you. Jungkook trails away from your lips, leaving you breathless and gasping for more as his tongue drags over your jawline and begins kissing his way down to the marks he previously left on your throat mere moments ago.

Warm huffs of air are felt against your skin as he follows a trail to your ear, sending chills over your body. “How about you skip work and your meetings and let me fuck you senseless right on this desk and call that overtime,” Jungkook concludes his statement with a buck of his hips, causing his clothed cock to grind into you harder.

His words stir something deep within you at his proposition, your heart racing and a quiet hum of approval leaves your mouth as you grab at his belt loops and drag him towards you.

Quickly, you rid Jungkook of his jacket, the heavy outside wear landing at his boots in a heap. Your hands bunch the fabric of his t-shirt at his hips before they glide up his sides and up and over his raised arms to display his beautifully flourished body. With the removal of his t-shirt, your eyes drift to his delicate decolletage where sits two thin stunning chain necklaces clasped around his neck.  

Your hand gently touches him through his pants and you feel him twitch against your palm as you give him a tight squeeze. The most beautiful airy moan falls from his parted lips and you feel your cunt clench at the sound. As you continue to squeeze, Jungkook shudders at your touch and his eyes darken and become lust filled as they flutter closed. 

"Fuck sweetheart, all the way through lunch, all I was thinking about is how good your mouth will feel sliding over my cock, the load I have to give you is going to linger on your tongue and remind you of me all damn day," he purrs, nipping at throat. "Take it out,” he refers to the bulge in his trousers.

“What if… — someone could walk in at any moment,” you tell him yet the lust filled thought of getting what you want clouds your moral sense of judgement as you watch Jungkook walk behind your desk. 

“Don’t you like that though? Knowing we have a live audience?” Jungkook sits himself down in the office chair that you occupy days in and days out. “Come on, get on your knees and take me into your filthy mouth.”

You do as you're told, lowering yourself onto your knees in front of your desk chair that Jungkook occupies and you work to undo the button of his jeans before deftly grasping the metal zipper and slowly pulling it down — the procedure comes to you so easily having done this act countless times. Jungkook lifts his hips and helps you tug the denim down his legs, not bothering to take them all the way down, instead opting to leave them half way down his legs.

You palm him one last time through his underwear before you lean your head down to lick a wet stripe over his clothed cock. His hips buck towards your mouth at the contact as a small hiss falls from his lips. Your smirk is playful as you reach for the waistband of his boxer shorts, pulling them to join his jeans and releasing him.

“I thought you were scared someone would walk in and see us?”

His dick springs free from the clothed confines and slaps against his toned tummy and you relish in the sight of cum smearing across his skin as it continues to twitch. His cock is as gorgeous as the rest of him. Deep set veins run along the underside of his length, flesh warm and responsive to your touch. His head is glistening with a soft flow of precum that pools and threatens to dribble down the valley of veins.

“I guess I don’t care as much as I thought,” you smirk salaciously.

Jungkook hums in response. “That’s fucking right, sweetheart — because then everyone inside of this building will know you only belong to me.”

With a bite of your lip and a teasing raise of your eyebrow, your hand tightens around his shaft and you watch his head lul back. You're left breathless as the sun casts a halo over Jungkook from through the bay windows behind him. His skin is blissfully golden and a sheen of light sweat is beginning to coat his skin — and you know that you’re the one causing such a reaction which spurs you on further.

“Kiss the tip,” Jungkook negotiates with you like he’s leading this one to one meeting. “With your tongue.”

Obediently, you give the tip of his hard cock a couple of seductive kitten licks and light pumps before sealing your lips around his pretty mushroom head. Your actions elicit Jungkook to open his mouth in pleasure as he lets out a throaty whine as your mouth takes him in a few more inches.

"“Open your mouth and take me deeper." He watches you between his legs, as you lap obediently at his cock.

Your lips part further, warm breaths of air fanning over his flushed head. Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, you take as much of his thick cock as you can in one go, jaw fully slacked open to accommodate his size.

“You can't go one minute without my cock inside you, can you?" Jungkook says through gritted teeth. He reaches down for you, his ring clad fingers tracing down your cheeks and back again before tangling his hand into the roots of your hair, twisting the strands around his fist and guiding your head back.

When you eventually get used to his size, you start sucking him off with intent. Every ridge and vein on his colossal cock is felt as your tongue swipes over his length, hollowing your cheeks to take him further down to his base. You use your hands to stroke the remaining length of his dick that your mouth can’t reach. Every lick and suck of your mouth on him results in obscene, wet noises, gagging filling the empty spaces of your office.

“Good fucking girl, take it, fuck, your mouth was made for swallowing my cock in this office huh?” Jungkook soothes, fucking his hips up every few words to emphasis you being a cockwhore for him and him alone.

You hear the sound of his desk chair sliding across the floor as he gives you your next order. "Stand up."

"Yes, Sir."

You rise on shaking legs, the expectancy of what’s about to come causes warmth to bloom in your chest. You’re aching for him in every manner of the word. A whimper passes your lips as you stand still in front of Jungkook, watching as he stands in front of you and towers over your frame.

The title of being called sir in your office goes to his head and he doesn’t try to hide the estranged moan at your submissiveness towards him. Jungkook roughly grabs at your hips, pulls you towards the window overlooking the city skyline and turns your body so your back presses into the cold glass.

Delicately, he noses at your shoulder and lowers his hand to your thigh through the slit in your midi length pencil skirt and traces his fingers across your skin. Seconds later, Jungkook reaches the apex of your thighs and cups your cunt in his hand and applies the faintest pressure over the material of your underwear.

“Try and keep quiet, unless you want your boss to hear you begging to be fucked during work hours,” Jungkook articulates with a slap to your exposed ass before caressing the searing skin for a brief moment only to land another slap directly on the same spot.

You can hear the rush of blood in your body loud and clear in your ears as your arousal for Jungkook builds like a wildfire inside you. You love it. “Wan’ everyone to know I’m yours…” you mumble weakly.

Jungkook lowers one hand down your body until he reaches your pussy. With skillful fingers, he immediately dips two long slender fingers inside your hole and fucks into you with precision — hitting that sensitive spongey spot over and over perfectly as you bite back a foul moan before the working environment outside hears you from inside your office.

“Why am I not surprised? My filthy slut getting off on being fucked senseless in front of her subordinates, now who’s really in charge.”

Wet slick drips from your cunt, running rivulets down his fingers and into the palm of his hand. The wet sounds Jungkook coaxes from your core is lewd but is simultaneously music to his fucking ears. The feeling of being stretched open and wrapping around him causes your eyes to roll back as your orgasm approaches and teeters on the edge of washing over you.

“I’m about to let everyone in this establishment know who it is you belong too, who it is you submit yourself too every fucking night, who’s really the boss in this building.”

Jungkook tears his fingers out of your cunt and your mouth opens in a ‘o’ and your eyes widen as your orgasm is ripped away from you. But before you’re able to scold and cry at the loss, Jungkook lifts you up into his arms and your legs wrap around his waist on their own accord.

He reaches a hand in between both of your body, grabbing at the base of his cock and slaps his cock against your clit, once, twice, thrice. Your body jerks in his arms at the sensation and arousal floods your cunt once more. Noticing, Jungkook places his cock in between your lips and rocks his hips back and forth to collect your arousal as lubricant on his cock, spreading it with his hand and lines himself up at your entrance.

“Please… please Jungkook, please, I wa — I need you,” you all but beg, your head falling back onto the glass behind you, exposing your neck to the man before you who leans down and kisses at the column of your throat.

“So fucking wet.” Those are Jungkook’s last words as he pushes himself past the clenching muscle, breaching you so deliciously. You can’t help but claw your nails at his shoulders, watching as tracks of red fiercely contrast against the blackened design of his upper arm tattoo.

“More, give me more, Jungkook,” you whisper.

“You’ve always been so hungry for me,” Jungkook praises behind gritted teeth as he pushes himself further into you until he bottoms out without resistance.

Both of your breathing becomes shallower as Jungkook stills inside of you. He leans in to you and kisses your lips tenderly, a juxtaposition to the previous roughness he’s bathed you in for the last ten minutes. Your tongue sweeps over his lower lip and plays with the duel rings that sit against his plush lower lip and Jungkook opens his mouth and lets you slide your tongue with his to explore each other's mouths.

You’re both sweating now, you can feel it against the window behind you as you find it becomes easier to slide against it as Jungkook begins to rock his lips into you against it. Jungkook on the other hand looks devastatingly gorgeous — perspiration clinging to his shoulders and chest, glistening like the most expensive jewel you had the pleasure of retaining. 

“Hold on to me,” he orders into the kiss and your arms that are wrapped around his neck tighten as he lifts you both away from the window and turns you to sit you down on your desk as he keeps him sheathed inside of your snug cunt.

You lean yourself back onto your palms, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist to keep him as close to you as possible. Jungkook looks down at you from above as he begins to thrust into you languidly. With every thrust, the necklace around his neck swings back and forth towards your face and back into his chest like a metronome hypnotising you under his spell.

“Tell me, who owns this pussy, huh?”

Jungkook hits all of the right spots in you with such pinpoint accuracy that all you can do is cry and beg for more, begging him to not stop. “Answer me when I’m talking to you.” His strokes turn punishing as if his cock can force the words out of you.

“M’all yours, Sir,” you choke as your body dissipates into sheer pleasure, blinding you and causing words to die on your tongue.

He’s not done yet though. The word ‘sir’ drips from your lips, bathing the small office space in honey and he’s bathing in your sweetness. It goes straight to his dick and drives him to fuck you the way that you deserve. Hard, fast, mercilessly. You cry out as your boyfriend fucks you like his favourite toy that he owns and feel yourself tightening around his hard length.

The room becomes littered with the scent of sex, sweat and perfume, knowing that the minute the door opens, it’s going to be evident what’s played out.

“I have a m-meeting in 5 minutes!”

Jungkook grabs at your lingerie underneath your shirt and pulls the cups down and watches as your tits spill out just for him. He leans down and latches his mouth onto a nipple, grazing it in between his teeth and pinching the other with his thumb and forefinger. “That’s bold that you think you’re walking into that meeting,” Jungkook sneers. “Nobody but me gets to see you like this.”

Knowing he’s right, you don’t push the conversation any further. Instead, you sit up onto one of your palms once more and use the other to press against Jungkook’s sweat glistening chest and he slows down as you reach for him.

“Are you okay?” He asks with slight concern, coming to a full stop but keeping himself inside you. “Do you need a minute? Was I too rough?”

Your fingers nudge at Jungkook gently and he moves back from you to let you stand up. As he does, his cock is unwrapped from you and slaps back against his stomach and coats himself in a mixture of your slick and his pre-cum.

As you stand tall in your heels, your hand reaches for Jungkook’s hand and you turn your back towards him and rest your head into the crook of his arm before bringing his hand to your throat.”

“Not rough enough, Sir,” you jest, teasing and testing him.

The raven haired man’s fingers twitch around your throat at your words. He uses his other hand to guide himself back to your entrance from behind this time.

“Need you to take a big breath, going to hold your throat right tight, sweetheart,”

“Yes,” you nod your head the best you can considering the position you’re in, words breathless already. Jungkook does as he says and untightens his hold and lets you take it a large gulp of air to your lungs,

“Ready?” He makes sure that you’re comfortable. “Tap out if you need to, remember?”

Once your consent is given, Jungkook makes do on his promise and tightens his hand across the sides of your neck, restricting the airflow in the most pleasurable way.

Breath play isn’t something that you’re shy too, having both done it numerous times with each other in the bedroom, but right now is one of the wildest you’ve taken it.

Turning your head the best you can, you face him and Jungkook uses this moment to tighten the hold on your throat and he eagerly fucks into you harder than before and pulls you up towards him. Your back arches deliciously into him and his fingers can’t help but squeeze at the sides and then let go in tiny increments — teasing and testing you this time.

Vision blurs as his thrusts turn fierce and wild and his hand remains stiff around you. You try to ignore the throb of your clit in favour of redirecting your attention to the drag of Jungkook’s cock inside of you, setting you ablaze with every swift fuck. Every time he reaches deep within you, your nails dig crescent moons into his wrist as you continue to breathe through your nose for limited air.

Jungkook stares down at your kiss bitten, swollen lips as you take the skin in between your teeth to try and conceal the plethora of moans that threaten to fall from your tongue, holding back on letting the office know that the highly respected head of finance is currently being used as a cock sleeve for her boyfriend behind closed doors .

He smirks at your pout and takes your chin in between his thumb and pointer finger. “Tighten yourself around me.” Jungkook, nearly out of breath, wraps a hand around your leg and props it onto the desk, opening you up like a flower and watching as your sweet white nectar flows coats his cock in the new position.

Jungkook looks like a sin-incarnate. Head thrown back in pleasure as you continue to tighten and clench around him. The sun still casts a crown of light over him as the muscles in his upper arms swell under his tattooed skin when he pulls you into his cock. His abdomen shines with the sweat that he worked up fucking you like a wild animal who is desperately trying to be tamed by the alpha male. 

“Are you almost there?” Jungkook sounds fucking done, his hips jerks and his jaw clenches; a sign you know all too well that he’s so close to finishing.

You nod desperately. You’ve been waiting for this moment since you both walked into your office twenty minutes ago. Your body shakes and your tears build up in your eyes. It’s all too much, too consuming and yet not enough either.

“Good fucking girl, all mine. Come for me,” Jungkook insists as he unwraps his hand from your throat. Your high hits you all at once as your body sucks in as much air as possible and your body falls forward on shaky legs, your desk breaking your fall as you limply set your body down.

“Jungkook!” You sob his name over and over like a filthy prayer. Your cries pierce through and you both know that everyone within on the other side of the walls has heard you shriek for your boyfriend. If they didn’t know what was going on before, they do now. Not caring who hears you, you continue to scream as your orgasm ripples through you, tears spilling out from the corners of your eyes.

“What do you say?” “Thank you, Sir,” you give up being quiet and scream out the title having earned it.

Jungkook’s breath is laboured as your pussy continues to suck him in, becoming harder for him to move as the tightening from your orgasm wraps around him which only makes Jungkook fuck into you harder, the force of his hips snapping into you causing your desk to screech under the wooden flooring. You feel his hips thrust against you in a broken rhythm, his own pants begin to turn into soft whines.

“Fuck, get on your knees, I’m gonna come…” Jungkook snarls as he pulls out of you and watches you lower yourself onto your lower half for him. Jungkook wraps his hands around his cock and uses your cum to aid him in jerking himself off. Darkened eyes stare down at you as you bat your lashes at him, your tits rising and falling with every breath you take.

Hot, white, sticky ropes of cum shoot from his reddened cock as he releases himself all over your chest and watches as it pools and slips down towards the valley of your chest, your clavicles and neck. Some of his seed soaks into the material of your blouse.

After what feels like thirty seconds, Jungkook’s cock stops twitching and begins to soften in his hand. He takes a step over to you and rubs his cock through the messy concoction on your skin, smearing it all over your skin, watching it glisten under the lights of your office ceiling.

Jungkook reaches for your hand and you gladly accept it, letting him guide you over to the sofa at the side of the office where today's sextivities had first taken place.

You laugh as you both set yourself down, you curlling into the warmth of Jungkook’s body.

“What’s got you giggling?” Jungkook questions with a smirk, lifting a hand up to his hair to run through the strands, ridding them from his sweaty forehead.

“Nothing… I really did just skip out on this meeting to have sex with my boyfriend in my office,” your laugh picks up.

This time it’s Jungkook’s time to laugh as he takes in your words. “Yeah, you did,” he agrees. “After this, be prepared to skip out on more meetings because this dick is the only appointment now in your calendar for the foreseeable.” 

#jungkook drabble #bts drabble #bts one shot #bts imagines #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts smut #jungkook angst #jungkook imagines #jungkook one shot #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #bts fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #bts x you #bts x reader

[agirlcandream84]

Boyfriend!Frank is NOT Pleased With Your Choice to Diet.

Girlies -- just read and be healed. Trust me.

Boyfriend!Frank x Reader

Word Count: 1,370

“Eat,” he says, sliding the burger and fries in front of you on the table.

“That’s it? You’re not gonna, like, scold me about it?” you ask.

“That’s it. Eat,” he replies and slides into the booth across from you.

And so you did, glancing at him tentatively every few minutes, the meal quietly tense. But you'll be damned if he wasn't right. The burger coated your ribs, it's protein-packed patty satisfying you so thoroughly that your headache instantly dissipated and your blood sugar evened out. With every bite you feel your energy restored, your stomach nearly like a bottomless pit.

Near bursting, you push the plate a fews inches away from you and lean back, taking a final sip of your icy Coke. Frank has been done for a few minutes, always just inhaling food quickly and quietly, and has his arms folded across his chest, his huge form smashed into a tiny booth, as he observes you.

You meet his eyes and will yourself not to look away from his glare.

"Don't" you say to him. He shrugs his hulky shoulders, his lips pressed into a straight line, his eyes still locked to yours.

"Because you don't know how it is. I'm trying my best, ok?" you add, now growing more alarmed at his silence than his presumed scolding. His face remains unreadable, the tendons in his forearms flexing as he repositions himself in the booth slightly.

"And by the way its not that serious. Trust me, I eat plenty. That's sorta the whole problem" you continue, almost willing his angry rant to just come already. His eye contact is unflinching, even as a fork clatters to the ground from a nearby table.

"It's not like it was on purpose. I just didn't plan right." you explain, your mouth just yammering in the silence. Your fingers fiddle with the napkin as you roll it into a tight coil. At his silence, you roll your eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

And it's true. You didn't plan to wait too long too eat and give yourself a pounding headache. You didn't plan to wait 7 hours between two hard boiled eggs and your next meal. You didn't plan to nearly pass out at the store.

But the other part, the part Frank is actually mad about, you did plan. You did plan your incredibly calorie-restrictive diet-- the one that's barely enough food for a toddler. You did plan to basically starve yourself for about 4 weeks to fit into the dress you bought for that wedding. You did plan to hate your fucking body so much that you were willing to neglect it and starve in the name of being smaller. Existing less.

And so when you attempted to order a side salad for a whole-ass meal, after very nearly passing out at the store alongside Frank, after not eating more than 2 eggs in 7 hours, after being nearly in tears from the headache tearing through your skull, after complaining the Advil you took on an empty stomach was making you nauseous, Frank was... displeased.

He'd immediately grumbled a "Nah, fuck that, no fucking salads" and you'd looked at him with your mouth agape, beginning to interject but he'd stopped you with "Non-negotiable. Go sit in the fucking booth sweetheart and you'll eat what I order you." You blinked incredulously before grabbing your purse and storming to the booth, sliding in with a huff.

One cheeseburger and a large fries later and you assumed you were in for it. You prepared yourself for the Frank ranting that didn't come.

"You done?" he asks plainly, his face unimpressed with your excuses.

"Yeah I'm done," you reply petulantly, feeling like a teenager having a tantrum.

Frank stuffs his keys in his pocket and grabs the greasy bag to toss in the trash. You scramble out of the booth to follow him back to the car, Frank holding the door open for you to exit and opening your car door while you climbed in. The ride home mimics the meal, tense silence as Frank stares ahead with squinted eyes.

As you arrive home, Frank puts the car in park and you waste no time hopping out the passenger door and towards the apartment complex, eager to slither out of the awkward silence. Despite the tension, Frank is still a gentleman, reaching for the grocery bags you were attempting to haul from the trunk, murmuring "I got it sweetheart," and sending you into the building.

Shortly after Frank places the bags on the counter, you reach to begin unloading the groceries but Frank's hand lands on yours, stopping you before he laces one hand around your waist and the other cupping your jaw, his wrist shifting slightly to tilt your face up towards his before he envelops you in a kiss so tender that you nearly lose your breath. He's slow, deliberate-- his lips grazing yours before you feel the firm press of him as his tongue twines around yours. You allow yourself to melt into his hold, his fingers traveling into the hair at the nape of your neck.

When he stops, you steady your breathing, his face still inches from yours, and ask, "Frank, what are you doing?" You didn't object to his affection but his tenderness was unexpected.

"Apologizing," he responds, his hand still cradling your head.

"Apologizing?" you stutter out, an apology the last thing you expected.

"Yeah. Apologizing," he confirms, brushing his thumb along your jaw. "Way I see it, if I ever gave you the impression that I didn't love your body exactly the way it is, that's on me," he adds.

"Frank it's not--" you start but he interrupts with "Lemme finish sweetheart. I'm not doing my job if you don't feel fuckin' gorgeous every day. Fuck sweetheart, I think about you all damn day. I dream about you and you're layin' right next to me for God's sake. And if you don't know that, I fucked up," he adds, his sincerity enough to nearly break your heart. You feel his hand squeeze your waist.

"Frank, its... you're not," you start, stumbling over your words, the topic so complicated and loaded. You take a deep breath and start again, "The way I feel about my body is the sum of years and years of feeling inadequate and social pressure and unkind words from people who were supposed to love me. You have healed me in so many ways Frank. But this wound is deep. Sometimes it reopens."

"S'my job to take care of you though sweetheart" Frank replies, ever the protector. He could take fix anything, he was certain, at least that's what he told himself. Surely he could fix this. He would just love you harder and louder.

"Frankie you do," you reassure him, standing on tip toes to kiss him again. He reciprocates, again tugging you closer and kissing you in a way that felt like he was trying to heal you. When he pulls away again, his brows have returned to their natural furrow and you know he's got something else on his mind.

"Ok out with it," you prompt him, still locked in his arms and trapped between him and the counter.

"Yeah, the other thing is sweetheart, I don't like when someone treats my girl bad. Even when you're doin' it to yourself," he states plainly, the scolding you expected finally coming to fruition.

"I told you, I wasn't try--"

"Nah, nah. I don't want the excuses doll. You're starvin' yourself," he retorts. You can't quite manage to look him in eye at the accusation. He isn't entirely wrong. In fact he's entirely right. That was sorta the whole idea.

"Yeah, so you gotta cut that shit out. You deserve to eat food when you're hungry. Don't make ask it again and you sure as hell better make sure I don't catch ya' doing it," he adds, his word on the topic final. You nod, feeling near instant relief at the thought of not dieting. You had been miserable for weeks.

"Unfortunately, you gotta learn a lesson though honey," he says with a smack to your ass as he hoists you over his shoulder and stomps to the bedroom.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle #frank castle fanfic #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle smut #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle fluff

[ozzgin]

I can order a yandere cute (kawaii), who maybe because of his cute and innocent appearance managed to get close to his beloved, but maybe this boy is not only cute and has a very disturbing past...

When you described a cute yandere with a messed up past, all I could think of was Kanato from Diabolik Lovers. This one's less of an asshole though. Hopefully. I also wasn't sure what you had in mind for 'disturbing past', I may have gone overboard.

Cute!Twisted! Yandere x Reader

Children will say the strangest things. Such as the marriage promise you’ve received from the little boy you befriended a long time ago, when you were rather young yourself. Yet sometimes the words aren’t entirely devoid of meaning. He definitely hasn’t forgotten his intentions, and your current fiancé is a mere delay to his plans.

TW: mentions of abuse, obsessive behavior, violence, small age gap, death

He still remembers the day you met, so clearly and vividly. His most cherished memory. 

It was particularly cold despite the sun and his feet were hurting. He didn't have the time to put any shoes on, he ran out the moment he'd heard the sound of glass breaking. 

Mother was so scary when she'd get upset. The bulging eyes, the screaming mouth, the wild hair scattered over her face, darkening her features.

What if she were to follow him outside? No, she was never mean in front of others. Then again, the street was empty...He bit apart the skin on his fingers in panic. 

"Isn't it a bit late for pajamas?"

His eyes darted up and met hers. A girl somewhat taller and older, holding a basketball under her arm and staring intently, visibly confused. He was, after all, shivering outside by himself, barefoot and in sleeping garments in bright daylight. He blushed in embarrassment. 

"I snuck out for some fresh air."

"Rebellious already, huh?" She smirked and walked over, dropping herself on the sidewalk next to him. "I'm (Y/N). Do you live in the area? We could hang out when you feel like it. No need to sit by yourself."

She pointed to a house unexpectedly close. Has she always been nearby? Then again, he was never allowed outside. Besides the spontaneous escapades in order to avoid the burning rage, he didn't see other people much. It had always been him and Mother. 

For his own good, really. At least that's what Mother used to say. When she wasn't angry, she'd cry and hold him tight, telling him how much she pities him between hiccups and candid sobs. A vile creature like him would surely be mocked by the rest of the world. Not his fault, the poor little angel. Alas, his miserable fate still had a glimpse of hope, because Mother would never abandon him. He would always find acceptance from her all-forgiving heart.

And yet, there was always the seed of suspicion in the depths of his mind. Her sweet, soothing words felt like a hot slap over the blooming wounds already adorning his body, shaping a paradox.

Then he met you. You didn't seem to be disturbed by his presence. The following days, whenever he approached you, you'd welcome him with the same warm smile. Just like you promised. He couldn't find the ridicule he'd so often been warned about.

The puzzle pieces didn't fit together, and it became painfully obvious once Mother confronted him about his secret outings. Somehow her wrath had faded. Her shouts were mere waves echoing from somewhere distant, only grazing by his ears. She must've noticed his indifference, too, because she began rummaging her pockets for the basement key. Perhaps an old fashioned discipline would have helped him regain his voice. But the dark, cramped walls of the basement no longer frightened him. During his time spent outside, he had discovered a fact of stunning novelty:

He didn't have to listen to her. Staring into her ferocious, bottomless pits, he only found the reflection of (Y/N)'s face. Her peaceful, loving expression, devoid of pain, or fury, or punishment. 

His little hands reached for the box cutter.

"It's you that has to go downstairs, Mother. You're a liar. I hate liars."

Was it the right choice? His small outburst had ultimately cost him your company. That evening he politely called emergency to let them know his Mother had gone mad. And so they dispatched a couple of officers to investigate the gruesome cadaver, sprawled along the stairs with too many gashes to count. They shyly investigated the basement, and a social worker carefully inspected the little boy's abundant markings. This couldn't have been a suicide, but the tearful, frightened eyes of the child kept them from pressing further. Whoever had stepped foot into their home that day most likely did him a favor. Nonetheless, he was now essentially orphaned, requiring an adult, and was swiftly shipped to the first available relative.

He didn't have the time to meet you one last time. A shameful departure given his final meeting: completely inebriated with ardent affection, he dared to present to you his innermost wish. One day he'd marry you, he was certain of it. You chuckled and extended your pinky finger reassuringly. A sealed deal. 

All he had was your name and your promise and God, how dearly he clung to them every night, every passing year. His true glimmer of hope.

You're scrolling through your emails, waiting for the bus to arrive, when a gentle tap on the shoulder startles you. Behind you is a young man, although the soft, feminine features give him more of an androgynous appearance.

"May I help you?"

"You're (Y/N), aren't you?" he bats his eyelashes expectantly. 

"I am, but how do you-" 

You gaze at the stranger intently. The big, innocent eyes, the childish demeanor, there's a certain familiarity to it. Who could it be? Suddenly you're overwhelmed by nostalgia. 

"It's you! How many years...? And you haven't changed one bit!" You laugh merrily at the sight of your shy, quiet friend, all grown up. 

"H-hey now, surely I look more mature this time." He tries to emulate a somber frown as a way to prove his adulthood. "Do you have time? I'd love to catch up."

He missed you so much. 

"Right now is a little difficult, but I'll tell you what. Why don't you come over to our place in the near future?"

Huh?

"This way I can introduce you to my fiancé!" You flash him your phone in order to exchange numbers, enthusiastic about the surprise reunion.

He vacantly stares at the lockscreen depicting an unknown man holding you close to him. When he searched for your name online, he didn't find anything regarding a relationship. He didn't expect this. He shouldn't have expected this. His fingers tighten around the small velvet box in his pocket. 

Did you forget your promise to him? Or was everything a lie? No, you wouldn't...you couldn't...He fucking hates liars. But you're not one of them, are you? You're not like Mother. No, no, no, no. Breathe. It's his fault. Of course, naturally. He vanished without a word and you must've thought he abandoned you. How careless of him. How terribly rude to blame you for his mistakes. It's okay, it's alright. He'll make it up to you. Sweet, darling (Y/N). 

"Are you okay?"

He looks up and notices your worried face. 

"Me? Yes, definitely. I was just a little surprised. Hehe. Who would've thought?" He grins and winks at you. "I have an even better idea! Why don't you two come to my apartment instead? I never got the chance to congratulate you for your engagement."

"Gosh, haha, don't worry about i-"

"Please. Pretty please?" He pouts dramatically, holding onto your coat, and you blush slightly at the adorable display. "It's my way of thanking you for the nice childhood memories."

"You really have your way to convince people, huh?" You ruffle his hair and he lowers his head, enjoying the touch. "I'll let my fiancé know."

"Such a cozy place you got yourself!" You beam at the lovely atmosphere of the room. Everything is bright and inviting. 

"Uh huh. The ladies must love you." Your fiancé follows up in agreement, snacking on the fancy appetizers. 

The young man places a tray on the table and hands you both a glass of sparkling wine. 

"Do you live alone? I refuse to believe you don't have a girlfriend." You joke and turn to your partner. "He was a real loner back then. Never saw him around other kids."

"Don't out me like that, (Y/N)!" He pinches your cheek humorously. "As a matter of fact, I do have a girlfriend."

Your fiancé raises his eyebrows, encouraging the boy to continue with details, while he gulps down the pleasantly aromatic drink. Must be expensive. 

"Then why didn't you bring her here? I want to meet her!" You whine. 

The man fiddles with his glass, observing the air bubbles that rush to the surface. 

"You already know her."

"Oh?"

Distracted by this knowledge, you stretch for your own glass and accidentally grab the one belonging to your fiancé. Before you can bring it to your lips, your head swings to the side and you can instantly feel your cheek throb, numb from the abrupt impact of someone's hand. 

"Don't fucking touch it!"

Your childhood friend is standing before you, equally shocked by his act. He stares at his reddening palm and his face twists in terror.

"I-I'm...Oh God...I'm so sorry, (Y/N). I just, I didn't know what else to do. You have to understand, please. I'd never-"

As you listen to his erratic apology, you hear the wheezing coughs of your fiancé. His breathing is irregular and he scratches his throat, unable to verbalize his struggle to you. A white foam begins to form in the corners of his mouth. You try to get up, but the man's fingers dig into your face, forcing you back on the chair. 

"Shhh shhh, it sounds uglier than it actually is. Trust me. Do you see now? I had to be a little rough, otherwise you would've gotten hurt. Hey! Look at me." He cups your cheeks with both of his hands, squatting in front of you. "Let him settle down. It won't be long."

Your vision becomes blurry.

"He needs an ambulance. Please. What did you do with the drinks?" You manage to blurt out.

"Won't make a difference."

He rests his gaze on your features for a few moments, admiring them dreamily. 

"It breaks my heart when you're sad like this. Didn't I say this is an engagement celebration?"

Without breaking eye contact, he pulls out his treasured box and opens it in your lap, revealing a ring.

"I know I disappeared without a word, but I truly had no choice. This is my way of begging for your forgiveness. Not a day went by without thinking of you, (Y/N). I, heh...I actually got this many years ago. Just carried it in my pocket in case I ever found you again." 

He giggles awkwardly, stroking your cheek protectively. 

"So don't cry. I've kept my promise after all, didn't I? Aren't you proud of me~?"

By the time his little speech ends, the room has filled with silence. Your fiancé is slouching on the chair, still and quiet. The young boy picks up your limp body, humming cheerfully. 

"You'll be the prettiest bride in the world.

Mine and mine only."

#female reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #male yandere x reader #yandere imagine #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere original character #yandere childhood friend #tw yandere

[legendknit]

I saw a star fallen from heaven to earth

And she was given the key to the shaft of the bottomless pit

timelapse video on youtube▼

#signalis #signalis fanart #original post #elster #ariane yeong #signalis spoilers #youtube #Youtube

[missmonsters2]

Mirror, Mirror | Five

Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work anywhere else.

PART FOUR

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Deleting the video evidence of Wanda's embarrassing confession only goes slightly awry, and in the end, she can't tell if she's relieved or disappointed with herself. Perhaps she can get advice from someone who was once in her position.

Warnings: best friends to lovers. shenanigans. jealousy, jealousy. sexual tension. pining. yearning. sexual thoughts. spicy (tumblr's version). stupid steve. neurotic nat. brat & stinky. bug as in shutterbug.

*explicit version will only be available on Ao3 & will be posted there after series is completed*

Note: There's still an epilogue after this!! But after that, it's done </3

Reminder there's no taglist but you can follow my library blog for notifications 💘

Series Masterlist || Library Blog || AO3

Count: ~4,6k

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Wanda jiggles her key through the door with a renewed rush. Her hands are shaky, and she should really just take her time. This wasn't making it go any faster.

Darcy had just dropped her off after they ate their McDonald's meal in the parking lot and was on her way back to get access to her laptop to help Wanda. 

Finally unlocking the door, Wanda took her shoes off haphazardly and took off towards your room. Your laptop sits innocently at your desk, unaware of all the havoc Wanda will reap upon it if it doesn't give her access to your email. 

She pulls out the chair and sits down before she opens it up. The first thing that greets her is the password page. Wanda pulls out the USB that Darcy gave her and plugs it in. All she can do now is wait since Darcy said she'd text Wanda once she made it home. 

The next 15 minutes feel like a bottomless pit of hell. Wanda checks her watch every couple of minutes, tapping her foot impatiently. 

"Come on, come on, come on," Wanda huffs quietly. She's extremely paranoid about what you might be doing. It's unlikely you'd be returning home tonight, and even if you were, it'd be a couple of hours from now.

Yet, the unhinged part of Wanda wants to pull out her phone and text you, "Hey, what's up? You're still busy sexing up Raye, right? Definitely not ideal, but you're not checking your emails or on your way home, right?

Wanda wishes she made Natasha go stakeout Raye's house to alert her when you were leaving the place. Before she can think more insane thoughts, her phone vibrates in her hand, and Wanda checks it with speed. It was from Darcy confirming she'd made it home and it'd be any minute now. 

Wanda looks up at your laptop screen, pushing her finger against the mousepad to ensure the screen doesn't time out. The USB must give Darcy some kind of access because, true to her word, something does start happening. 

Wanda watches the screen with mild interest as a separate window pops up. The background is black, but it's clearly some kind of coding as random words begin running. It takes a few minutes, but then asterisks fill your password box. It only takes 3 times before the right password is entered and Wanda's gained access.

"Yes!" She celebrates before she sends Darcy a quick text. 

Wanda pulls up your email and finds the latest one sent to you is a link to a Google Drive. There are many videos and some photos, but Wanda recognizes herself in one of the thumbnails and clicks on it.

"I don't see what's so great about Raye—"

Wanda immediately stops playing it, unable to bear the embarrassment of hearing herself. She quickly deletes the clip, also going to the trash bin to make sure it's permanently deleted. Wanda checks everything several times to ensure there are no other clips and any trace of her confession is gone. 

Mission completed. 

Relief floods her system, knowing that the clip has been deleted. 

Wanda closed everything she opened, making sure she changed the status of the email to unread. Once everything is as it was, Wanda closes your laptop and unplugs the USB.  

Stuffing the USB into her pocket, she's about to send another text to Darcy when Wanda hears the front door open, and you call out her name. You must've seen her shoes at the door, but Wanda still doesn't answer. She hears you walking back down the hallway toward your room and panics. 

Oh, god, she couldn't walk back out that door without bumping into you, and she couldn't jump out the window either with them living on the 10th floor. 

Oh, fuck, what does she do? Wanda's panicking as she shakes her hands in hysteria and looks around frantically. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

Wanda carefully makes her way to your closet, but it's filled wall to wall with your clothes, and the floor is filled with your shoes and other boxes. There was no room to hide in there.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

Wanda's walking around your room and has no idea where to hide. She looks at your bed and internally groans. Dropping to her knees, she scoots herself until she's fully underneath, flat on her stomach, but her head is kept off the floor. She quickly opens her phone and turns it from vibration mode to silence—Wanda refuses to be caught. She would rather die than even try and explain all of this.

The door opens, and Wanda only gets a few of your slippers as you make your way back to your desk. She hears a soft clank on the desk, and Wanda can only assume it's the mug of tea you have every night. 

Wanda hears you sigh quietly as you seem to settle in for the night. This is not good. This is fucking terrible. 

Wanda can't tell how long she's been stuck under your bed. She's too worried about moving and accidentally making a noise. All she hears is the soft music playing and your mouse and keyboard clicking. 

Suddenly, her phone lights up with a notification. It's a text from you.

Wanda bites her lip, trying to decide if she should answer. Ultimately, she decides she should because it's possible you might try to call her if she doesn't, and she definitely can't answer it if you do. Wanda would also feel bad about not answering you if you're worried. 

But, god fucking dammit, she's going to have to lie. Again. 

Wanda hears a breathy chuckle from you and tries not to smile. 

Fuck. 

Wanda doesn't know if she should say yes or no. If she says yes, will you wait until she gets home? Wanda can only dread how long she might be stuck under your bed.

The chair you're sitting scrapes against the floor a little. A reply doesn't come for a few minutes, and Wanda wishes she could see what you were doing. 

Wanda stares at the text, trying to see if she can decipher your tone from just the words alone. It's something you've told her countless times when she told you she'd be staying at Vision's place. Yet, somehow, this feels different. 

You stop replying to her after that. It's both a relief that Wanda could stop digging herself into another hole and a torture she's left without much to do again. 

Wanda checks some of her other texts and replies to them, but her battery life is getting exceedingly low, and she doesn't want it to die on her accidentally if you do decide to text her again. 

The last time she opened the phone to check the time, an hour and a half had passed. There's almost a desperation to give herself up and come clean to relinquish herself from the sheer boredom, but Wanda holds strong since she reasons she'd already made it this far. 

"Hmm," Wanda hears you let out a deep hum. The mouse clicks a few times, and Wanda wishes she could see what you were staring at. 

Definitely not her confession video; that much comforts Wanda. 

God, she's bored. She's so bored that the fear has long left her body. 

It's a miracle when Wanda hears you get up and stretch, a few cricks released from your back. You leave the room, and Wanda hears the bathroom door shut. 

Wanda scrambles to get out from under the bed, nearly hitting her head 5 times. She quickly tiptoes out of your room, heading for the front door and opening it. Just as you're coming out of the bathroom, Wanda shuts the door as if she's just gotten in. 

"Wanda, is that you?" You call from the hallway.

"Yep! You're still up?" Wanda calls back, laughing nervously to herself about how stupid this all was, but relief she was clearly getting away with it. 

"Yeah, just thought I'd get a start on the editing stuff for Tony," you say as Wanda walks towards you. 

"Oh, cool," Wanda doesn't inquire further but says, "I thought you were staying at Raye's tonight?"

"Oh, uh," you seem surprised that Wanda asks. "I was having a hard time falling asleep on her bed. The mattress is too soft and gives me the worst cricks."

"Oh," Wanda nods, knowing that your mattress is memory foam but on the firmer side. 

"What about you?" You ask back. "Didn't go home with Darcy?"

"Uh, no," Wanda fumbles slightly. "Uh, it was good, but I, uh, was getting a slight stomachache from the McDonald's so I decided to go home."

You frown. "Do you want some tea? Maybe some Tums?"

"Maybe some ginger and honey tea?"

You nod. "Alright, I'll get some ready for you. Why don't you go take your makeup off and whatnot? We could watch some TV before we sleep."

"Oo," Wanda grins. "I think I saw some things come out on Disney+, let's see what they have!"

The rollercoaster of the night comes to a satisfying end for Wanda. 

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

The next three weeks are odd for Wanda. During the first and second weeks, she was so busy with her clients and a whole PR mess that she barely had time to see you. 

She spends more time collaborating with her team about how they will dig one of their clients out of the mess they'd made or if they should just drop the client. She's barely been able to think about her feelings for you and what to do about it. 

By the time the third week arrives, everything at work finally slows down, and she has time to herself like a regular person again. Wanda reflects back on her position and the entire video-deleting debacle. 

With the fear and adrenaline long gone, Wanda can't actually tell if she's disappointed that you haven't discovered her feelings. Would things have just been easier if you had watched the video?

At the very least, it might be better in the sense Wanda wouldn't be stuck in the same place. 

Wanda's sitting on the couch, lazily trying to focus on her book but can't with her mind continuously drifting. You haven't been home as of late—Wanda only realized you've been out a lot for a week and a half now. 

Sighing, Wanda closes her book. She was getting bored again. You wouldn't be home until later, and she already spent an hour on the phone with Natasha earlier. 

Just as Wanda was about to text you to ask if there was any possibility you'd be home earlier, the front doorknob jiggled, signaling someone was putting in their key.

Wanda smiles, hoping she'll see you walk through the door, but smiles even wider when she sees who walks through it. 

Getting up from the couch, Wanda runs and jumps, latching onto the person. 

"Oof," the voice was gruff.

"Bucky!" Wanda yells excitedly as Bucky catches her, wrapping his arm around her to ensure she doesn't fall, even though her legs are around him. 

"Hi, nutball," Bucky says, but his mouth is muffled by Wanda's shoulder and some of her hair. 

Wanda slowly slides back down onto the floor, taking a good look at Bucky. Of all the people she adores besides you, Bucky is at the top of her list, along with Natasha, which is why they both have key fobs to the apartment. 

Bucky kind of reminds her of Pietro in certain ways, if Pietro would ever grow up and get a little serious. Bucky seems to know that and has cared for Wanda in Pietro's stead now that the guy has left for Europe since they turned 18. 

"When did you get back?" Wanda asks. "Why didn't you call? I would've arranged to pick you up from the airport."

"It's fine. Steve picked me up from the airport and we relaxed a little bit before he had to leave to the station to do some kind of sketch for a case," Bucky says as he takes off his shoes.

They wander back into the living room space and take a seat. Bucky had brought her some coffee and pastries that Wanda delighted over.

"So," Wanda says after a sip of her coffee. "How was California?"

"Hot," Bucky smiles. 

"You said you were going to train an upcoming actor in a movie, right?"

Bucky nods, sipping his own coffee. "Yeah, some new superhero movie. Pretty young; I think he just turned 18. Definitely now super ripped for an 18 year old," Bucky laughs.

"Does he need a PR agent?" Wanda grins. 

Bucky rolls his eyes with mirth. "Probably not since he has his manager handling everything, but I did pass your card along."

"You're good people."

Bucky snorts, and they spend another half hour catching up before he finally comes to the topic he's been waiting to discuss. "You know, Steve brought up something interesting."

"Oh, yeah?" Wanda raises her brow.

"Steve was bringing up how Bug seems to be seeing someone," Bucky says slowly. "And she looks a lot like you...like everyone else Bug has dated."

Wanda lets out a huge groan. "Steve should eat rocks and jump into the ocean."

Bucky laughs, leaning back onto the couch, and smiles. "So? What do you think?" 

"About what?"

Bucky gives her a side-eye, and she groans quietly this time.

"Fine," she grumbles. "It was strange to realize, but like, a good strange. I don't know. I want...I want her to look at me."

Wanda's blushing at the admittance to Bucky. It makes her feel shy, but also good that someone else close to her knows and will be on her side. 

"Have you confessed?"

"Not exactly."

"Ah, so you haven't done shit except probably rope people into your weird schemes that turn out poorly."

Wanda's jaw drops. "I have not—okay, well, I mean, I wouldn't say they turned out poorly." She would never tell Bucky about the videotaping incident. She was taking that to her grave. 

Bucky eyes Wanda, taking in the small expressions on her face and the muted longing in her eyes as she picks at her nails. "You're so much like me, sometimes I'm convinced that you're actually my little sister," Bucky grins, and Wanda mirrors him. "Don't tell Pietro that, though. He's gets so jealous."

Wanda just gives him an, 'obviously,' look.

"When I started realizing my feelings for Steve, I didn't say anything for a long, long time, and I've known I've liked Steve since we were boys making mudpies," Bucky leans his head back against the couch, the coffee resting between his hands on his stomach. "I kept thinking about what if Steve didn't feel the same? And then there was the whole Peggy situation, and I didn't want to break that up."

"You're better than me," Wanda sighs. "I would break them up in a heartbeat if I knew how she felt about me."

Bucky can't hold his laugh in for that but continues on. "I think a lot of those fears I had paralyzed me. I kept thinking I'd have more time and there was a right moment, or if I did certain things, Steve would feel the same. I just had to wait it out."

"So, what happened?"

Bucky gave her a wan smile. "Steve and Peggy, even though they'd be on and off, were getting more serious. One night, Steve told me he was thinking about proposing."

"What?" Wanda's jaw drops. She's never heard of this. "But obviously he didn't because you guys are together now."

"Yeah," Bucky laughs, "because I totally freaked out. I started saying he couldn't and then kissed him, and then started crying. It was a mess."

"Oh, god," Wanda rests her hand against her mouth. She could totally see herself doing that to you if you said the same thing. Now, she's starting to freak out if you're getting serious with Raye. 

"I think you know what I'm getting at," Bucky says, turning his head to look over at Wanda, and she feels vaguely uncomfortable. "You need to say something—now. There's no perfect timing. There's nothing extra you can do to magically know, and you're not gonna always have more time."

Wanda lets her head fall back against the couch, closing her eyes. They start to sting with tears, and she feels that same fear creep into her belly. Yet, Bucky's words resonate with her, and she suppresses that fear until it settles into a muted nervousness. 

"Fuck, I swear you and Steve planned this."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Despite Wanda's talk with Bucky, she says absolutely nothing to you when you arrive home late in the evening. Wanda's eyes are glued to the TV, watching How I Met Your Mother absently. 

You seemed to have a long day yourself as you carefully sat next to her on the couch. 

The air feels weird, and there's a tension in your shoulders. It starts to make Wanda tense until you suddenly relax with a deep breath. You shuffle in your seat before scooting until you're pressed against Wanda's side, resting your head against her shoulder. 

The smell of clean laundry and leaves fills Wanda's nose, and she relaxes against you. 

"Wanna order in?" You say.

"Yeah," Wanda replies, pulling out her phone to see what she was in the mood for. The two of you quickly place an order and continue to sit in silence, watching the TV.

You seem deep in thought, but you grab Wanda's hand at some point, holding it with keen interest.

Wanda doesn't say anything. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears are warm as you stroke the back of her hand with your thumb. Her heart doesn't speed up, but it begins to thud noticeably harder in her chest. 

It continues like that until the food arrives, and it's also eaten in silence with the background noise of the TV. Yet, whenever Wanda looks up, she finds you staring at her, and you don't break eye contact. 

It's strange, and it's making Wanda feel somewhat nauseous. 

When the food is done and put away, the two of you settle back onto the couch, but Wanda doesn't think she can handle the silence anymore. 

"How was your day?"

You turn your head, staring at Wanda, and reply softly. "Okay...how was yours? Bucky told me he stopped by to see you."

Wanda tenses. "Yeah," she mumbles. "It was good seeing him again."

"It's nice that he's home," you nod. "I'm sure Steve is happy."

Steve doesn't deserve to be happy, Wanda pettily thinks. It was his fault that Wanda felt so nervous that she felt like she would puke. 

Wanda needs to say something.

She knows she needs to say something now like Bucky told her to. 

All those same fears and anxiety creep up, but frustration has also lingered in her since the day she realized her feelings for you. 

Wanda's tired, she realizes. She's also sick of saying nothing and watching you be with someone else. She's scared but would rather say something and be put out of her misery than continue saying nothing. 

Just as Wanda is about to say something else, you say something first. 

"I broke up with Raye."

Just like that, the wind is blown out of her sails, and Wanda's brain stalls. "What?"

"I," you clear your throat, "broke up with Raye."

"When?"

"A week and a half ago."

"And you're just telling me now?"

Your brow scrunches, and you turn in your seat to fully face Wanda as you cross your legs on the couch. You're fidgeting with your fingers in your lap. "Yes...I needed to think."

"Think about what?"

You wet your lips. "If...if it was worth it potentially ruining our friendship for something more."

Wanda's heart drops like an amusement park ride. Her stomach feels the same way it does when an airplane is ascending. 

She had all these things she was going to say to you just a minute ago, and now her head was empty, and all she could think about was what you were trying to say.

"I think it is...if you feel the same, which I know you do unless something's changed in the last three weeks."

"How do you know?" Wanda frowns. Then again, she wasn't trying to be sly about it the last few months. Maybe you've finally caught on. 

Wait, Wanda pauses. Three weeks? That was when—

You pull out an SD card from your pocket. Wanda's around you enough to know what that is, and her stomach sinks. 

"You know," you give her a small smile. "I was trying to edit the video together for Tony the night after the party, but as I was going through the footage, a third of the photos or videos were corrupted."

Wanda thinks back to the USB she returned to Darcy. Dammit, Darcy! That lying, sneaking, betraying—

"I didn't think much of it, but I had to meet up with the videographer to get the original files. You'd never guess what was on there," you smile wryly. "Or maybe you do since you've somehow deleted it from my Google Drive...and corrupted the other files, so I'd have to get the originals. Very conflicting motives I was getting."

"I didn't mean to corrupt the other files," Wanda mumbles. "But you should probably get your laptop professionally cleaned..."

You give her a weird look but chuckle with a shake of your head. "You're super kooky, you know."

"I do know," Wanda rolls her eyes. "I think you know as well."

"I thought I might've seen you on my first date with Raye. That rock that hit that car wouldn't happen to be something you know about, do you?"

"Not at all," Wanda replies quickly. "But if I did, I'm sure the person would want to say she wasn't aiming for the car or your head."

"So, just Raye's head?"

"Once again, not a clue what the intention was as it wasn't me."

You laugh, and Wanda joins in until it fades, and you bite your bottom lip. "I don't know how any of this works, Wanda. I've never dated anyone I consider my best friend."

"I would hope not," Wanda raises her brow at you. "That means someone else was your best friend and you've committed the ultimate betrayal."

You roll your eyes with a mirth and a smile. 

"I haven't either," Wanda says softly, slowly turning fully toward you, grabbing your hand, and lacing your fingers together. "But I want to. And no matter what happens, we're gonna be okay. I don't think I'll ever love anyone the way I love you. I think I've loved you for a really, really long time."

"Me too," you mumble, squeezing Wanda's hand, feeling shy. "I don't think I ever really thought about it. I just love you. You're my best friend and I love you."

"Now I'm your girlfriend," Wanda grins, leaning closer and closing her eyes.

"Whoa, okay, let's not get ahead of ourselves now. What if we're not even sexually compatible?" 

Wanda pulls back and looks at your face, shocked. It's stony and serious until your lip twitches and Wanda smacks you.

"Ugh, you're such a brat!"

"No, that's you. I'm stinky."

"Stinky."

"Brat."

"Bug."

"Witch."

"Oh, we're bringing back middle school nicknames, are we?" Wanda narrows her eyes at you. You're about to say something else, but Wanda's had enough.

Didn't she think something earlier about being sick of saying nothing? What was she thinking? Saying nothing sounds ideal.

Wanda launches herself across the seat into you, hearing you grunt as she topples you over onto the couch and presses her lips against yours. 

It's not a dream this time, Wanda's very sure. 

This was much, much better than any dream could give her. It feels better. 

Your lips are soft, and you taste faintly like the cookie you split with her earlier. 

Oh god, oh god, oh god, Wanda's mind is racing. She's finally kissing you.

Oh my god, she was kissing you!

You were kissing her back!

Wanda kisses you, pressing her lips over yours over and over as your fingers trail over the outside of her thighs and stroke up to her back. You're bolder than her as your fingers dip under her shirt, pressing her against bare skin. 

It's thrilling; Wanda almost can't lie still on top of you. Goosebumps are forming, and it's forming everywhere. 

You break the kiss, lips caressing her jaw, and scatter light kisses as they trail down her throat. 

Your hand moves higher up Wanda's back and pauses. 

"No bra?" You raise an eyebrow at her. 

"I didn't leave the house today," Wanda mumbles, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. 

You hum. "No complaints here," you resume your caresses of her bare skin but pause again. "Wanna move to the bedroom?"

No, Wanda thinks. She doesn't want to detach herself from this position. She doesn't want your touch or your kisses to stop. 

You can tell that Wanda's debating the pros and cons, and you try to persuade her. "A bed will give us more room to do things...and I want to do a lot of things..." You nibble on her collarbone. 

Wanda lets out a soft moan, and her toes curl. 

"Okay, fine," Wanda acquiesces, getting up and pulling you along with her. "Move quickly, though. No dallying."

"Dallying? I would never," you smile as Wanda pulls you down the hall. "I'll mirror you perfectly."

"I think you always have," Wanda says softly, turning to look at you. "That's why it's taken us so long to get here. We're stupid."

You laugh. "Seems like one of us deviated from our mirror, mirror dance."

The two of you enter Wanda's bedroom, and she falls back onto it, pulling you on top of her. 

Your body heat spreads across hers, and Wanda thinks she's dizzy again. 

"Good," Wanda mumbles, cupping your face, her thumb stroking your cheek. "I'm tired of us being chickens."

You press a kiss to her, smiling against her lips. One arm wraps around Wanda while the other trails under the front of Wanda's shirt. 

"Speak for yourself," your fingers trail higher and higher. "Maybe I'm just stupid." You press another kiss, lingering a moment longer, and then pull away. "Chicken."

"Stupid," Wanda smiles, her lips grazing yours when she does. 

"Witch."

"Bug."

"Brat."

"Stinky."

"I love you."

"I love you more."

Wanda feels something so peaceful settle over her. The butterflies in her stomach flutter around from your touch, but she's so happy. She thinks she might cry if she thinks about it too much because this was all she ever wanted. 

Wanda focuses on the feel of your hands on her skin instead and how you're making her feel hot. She focuses on the feel of your lips against her skin, the sound of her breaths, and your soft moans. 

There's no way the two of you aren't sexually compatible, but Wanda's eager to find out exactly how compatible they are...over and over. 

As your lips trail lower and more clothes are removed, Wanda idly thinks that maybe Steve doesn't need to eat rocks and jump into the ocean. 

EPILOGUE

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff x y/n #avengers imagine #scarlet witch imagine #scarlet witch x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #modern avengers au #Elizabeth olsen x reader #mm: my fics

[mayajadewrites]

For Me (Levi Ackerman x Reader)

summary: Levi Ackerman has a staring problem. Specifically staring at a woman that he has been admiring at his local coffee shop for months. She doesn't usually notice, however, one day she did. She would flip his world upside down, but would she let him in her world?

pairing: levi ackerman x reader

modern attack on titan au (no titans)

CHAPTER ONE: EARL GREY

ao3

"One Earl Grey tea." The barista at your favorite locally owned coffee shop sings. She's always in the best mood, even on days where the sky looks like it's about to break out into tears. "If it isn't my favorite regular!" She smiles and slides the tea towards me. "Writing anything good today?"

"One can only hope." You smile, grabbing the cup of tea. The steam is almost dancing off of the hot liquid, the warmth gracing your skin. "I'm working on my latest fiction novel. Romance is not the easiest to write for, contrary to popular belief." You offer her a warm smile. "I'll see you soon."

"Good luck!" She waved as you walked to your usual table. The coffee shop is based off earthy tones, plants hanging in the corner along with welcoming decor. As you sink into your seat, you feel a pair of eyes on you. You think about looking up into the eyes that could burn a hole in your skin, but you don't. You have work to do. 

Your tote bag sits on the seat next to you, almost bursting with anything one would need for a day out. You pick your headphones out of the bottomless pit and pick out your 'writing playlist'. Next, your laptop. As you open it, you stare at your reflection across the black screen. A sigh leaves your lips as you type in your password and begin brainstorming for your next novel. 

Your books have become more popular as more people are reading now-a-days. Thanks to social media, a few of your books have gone semi-viral. Typically you write fiction, specifically romance. Your fans are usually on the younger side, falling in love with your characters and wishing for more books featuring them. 

You bite your lower lip as you begin typing, only to press down on the backspace key a few seconds later. Since when is coming up with ideas so hard for you? 

You feel goosebumps populate your skin as you sense the same pair of eyes looking at you again. This time, you indulge. Your eyes meet his steel grey ones and it feels like time has stopped. The world now only contains you and him. You expect him to look away, but he keeps staring. 

Raising an eyebrow, you continue to hold his gaze. Without looking down, he takes a sip of his tea from the ceramic white mug that comes with every drink. 

His jet black hair mostly stays on one side, covering one of his eyebrows. You notice his undercut, which looks like he just recently got it buzzed. You study his skin, clear of any imperfections. His mouth is almost in a straight line, but his lips are pouting ever so slightly. He is dressed like he's going to work as a CEO - suit, tie, all that. 

You break the staring contest you were participating in when you hear someone next to you trying to get your attention. 

"Hey, sorry to bother you." A man with light brown hair smiled, watching you take your headphones off.

"Okay..." You look at the man, waiting for him to speak. "Did you need something?" 

"I-I just wanted to tell you that you're beautiful." His cheeks began to turn a shade of red. "And I would like your number." His eyes darted to the floor. You raise an eyebrow, analyzing his face. He looks young, can't be older than 23. You notice a group snickering as the man seemingly embarrasses himself in front of you by the color of red that is burning his cheeks. 

"Do you have a name?" You ask, taping your almond shaped fingernails on your laptop. You look down at your hands and admire your perfect manicure with your favorite nude shade of nail polish.

"Jean. I'm sorry, I should have started with that." 

"Yeah, maybe." You glance at the group again. "Are those your friends?"

"Yes. They didn't think I was man enough to come up to you and ask for your number, which is why they're rudely staring right now." 

"I appreciate your bravery, Jean." You smile at him, holding your palm out. "Hand me your phone." 

Without hesitation Jean slips his phone into your hand. You open up the contacts app and add your name and number. You tell Jean your name as you give his phone back to him. 

"Thank you. I'll... text you later?" Jean ended the sentence as a question. 

"What else would you do with my number?" You let out a soft laugh. "Yes, we'll talk soon." 

Jean walks back to his group of friends, putting his hands up to show victory. He's with 3 women, and 3 men. The men pat Jean on the shoulder while the women shake their hands, continuing whatever conversation they had going on before Jean came up to you. 

When you turn to focus on your laptop once again, you feel eyes on you again. 

This man will not stop staring, and he's almost shameless about it. 

__________________________________________________________

Back at your apartment, you begin your 'Sunday reset' of your apartment. It's a weekly tradition for you - your sheets get washed, the floors get mopped, and you get your house ready for the week to come. Since you spend most of your time there, you try to make it as clean as you can while still feeling like a lived in home. Your phone buzzes in your pocket as you strip your bed of your sheets. 

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey! It's Jean.

YOU: Hey there.

JEAN: Thank you again for giving me your number, I can't believe a woman as beautiful as you would even give me the time of day.

YOU: I admire your bravery and think it's cute that you got all red trying to talk to me. And thank you, you're very kind.

JEAN: Can I take you out for dinner this week? Wednesday?

YOU: Sounds like a plan. Text me where and what time and I'll meet you there. 

JEAN: Will do! :)

You smile to yourself as you put your phone on your side table next to your couch. Your mind wanders as you clean, leading back to the man that has a staring problem. Why was he staring? How long had he been staring for? 

#levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman smut #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman fanfic #attack on titan #aot

[eddiesghxst]

ALL I WANTED

part one | part two | part three

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x rockstar!reader

summary: your band, Daughters of Vampira, and Corroded Coffin hate each other and are struggling to keep a clean image in the media; so, in an attempt to solve the issue, your managers try to come up with a solution.

contains: enemies to lovers trope, alcohol consumption, smoking, cheating (reader is cheated on by her fiancé), themes of misogyny/sexism, and eddie being a dick <3

word count: 12.9k

| Daughters of Vampira setlist | Corroded Coffin setlist |

-story masterlist- | -main masterlist-

You were a musician. A rockstar. On your way to being one of the greats. Your band, Daughters of Vampira, was a small, feminist rock band out of Hawkins, Indiana. You created this band with your friends, Robin, Nancy, and Max, an outlet the four of you used to sing and write your little hearts out. You hit it big when you all moved to Los Angeles, playing at some lame bar when a producer walked up to you after the show, saying she wanted to see more, handing you a business card. 

Then boom. 

Everything was up from there. You got signed onto a record deal– played shows, signed autographs, walked carpets, and did interviews. Your wallet was a bottomless pit. En route to being wed, you got engaged to your production assistant turned bassist, and all was well— until about five minutes ago.

You came home from a day at the studio with your band, crafting a new song, playing with guitar riffs, and imagining lyrics. This track was going to be big; a song about your love for your fiance, a tale of how magnetic and beautiful every second was and will be.

You unlocked the door to your shared apartment, kicking off your sneakers, when you noticed a pair of red heels, which is weird because you hate heels. Maybe they were your friend Angie’s shoes; she knows where you hide your spare key and sometimes sneaks in when you’re not home. Furrowing a brow, you cautiously set your bag and keys down, looking around you for any more clues— her bag or her keys, anything. Your socked feet softly pad across your cold, wooden floors as you walk into the apartment's threshold, glancing into the kitchen. Nothing. You turned to the living room, unknowingly holding your breath—still nothing. Suspicion itches in your mind as you take in the space around you. You turn the corner to your bedroom and see the door left ajar. 

You almost think nothing of it; you wouldn’t be mad at Angie taking a nap in your room; she’s your childhood best friend, but then you hear it— the two voices. The first voice is your fiance, Scott, and the second is an unknown woman.

They’re laughing. They’re whispering about something you can’t hear either because they’re either speaking too quietly or your sudden rage is filling out the space in your ears; you’re not sure which it is. You quickly glance back towards the door, eyeing the heels for the second time— your heart drops.

It was Angie. Those were her heels; you helped her pick them out, for fucks sake. You storm up to the door and swing it open without a second thought, and your eyes widen at the sight before you. You had so badly wished your mind was playing some sick trick on you, and you were just hearing things. You were wrong.

Your fiance and childhood best friend, Angie, are sprawled out in your white-sheeted bed, heads laid on your pillows tousled, under your roof— and both incredibly naked. 

Despite the anger, your eyes quickly fill with tears, salty pools of resentment and betrayal threatening to spill over. Scott sees you in the doorway and scrambles out of bed, hastily grabbing a pair of boxers to pull over his bare hips. You can hear him sputtering out excuses, apologies, and reasons through the fog— so many words that sound like nothing but white noise to you. 

He stumbles his way over to you, hands reaching out to grasp you and raising in surrender when you yank away from him. You can hardly think; a cloudy moment where you feel as if the floor has been wiped from below you and you’re free-falling in some shitty excuse of a dream. 

“Sweetheart, please just listen–” He didn’t get to finish his sentence; the palm of your hand cracked down against his cheek to stop whatever bullshit excuse was coming. Angie shrieked, jumping out of bed, still with no clothes on, as she hurried to his side, an obvious two-against-one— that’s clarified when she shoots you a pointed look, fire building up in her eyes— and you can’t believe the audacity. 

Scott looks back at you, cheek red with the sting of your rage as he points a finger at you, “Don’t you dare fucking touch her,” he scolds as if you were a child, warning you to leave the cookie jar alone. You scoff, your mouth falling agape as you laugh humorlessly. “Me? Touch her?” You point to the naked girl. Your neck heats in fury as you shake your head, “That is rich, Scott.” 

You step back, eyeing both of them and ignoring the lump in your throat as you speak, “So, how long has this been going on?” They stare at you like they’re fucking clueless, and it ticks you off to no end, “In my own fucking bed? With my best friend?” Your tears are hot as they begin streaming down your cheeks, and the harsh swipe of your wrist to wipe them away stings, but you refuse to let them see you cry. Your mind is cluttered with questions, but they come out like bullets, firing round after round. 

Angie takes to answering you, saying your name to halt your questions, “We– we’re in love, and… and he doesn’t..” She looks to Scott for guidance, her eyes pleading for him to help her. Your fingers shake in anger.

“I want to call the wedding off,” Scott says, looking you in the eyes while he and your best friend link fingers. They look fucking stupid, standing there naked and feigning unity– you almost want to laugh. You scoff again, folding your arms over your chest like that would hide your pain from them, despite the evident ghost of tears still clinging to your skin. 

You glance around the room, around at the life you had planned for yourself, for him. Pictures of your engagement day, the closet you two shared, the fucking bed you shared, the life the two of you shared. More tears fall, and you don’t bother brushing them away this time. You nod, defeated.  “Yeah, that’s– yeah, we can… we can do that.” You wipe at your tears, fingers shaking with agony as you swallow the words. 

Your ex-fiance reaches out for your arm, and you back away, like he’s contagious– like his touch carries the heat of the sun. “Don’t touch me,” you snarled, watery gaze boring into his brown eyes. 

“The wedding’s off, so… Take your shit and,” you look at your childhood best friend— your ex-childhood best friend, and your heart aches. This fucking hurts. Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you dismissively wave your hand towards the clothes strewn across the floor, “And take her shit and get the fuck out.” You turn to leave but stop when Scott speaks, “I can’t just do that; I–” He stutters at the stab of your glare, “I need to call a truck so I can carry everything.” 

You laugh, tilting your head, “Nah, don’t worry, I can help you with that.”

You pace to your apartment window, swinging it open and ignoring the confused voices behind you when you start picking up various items. Scott’s eyes widen as he watches you storm over to the window, a heap of his things in your arms. He scrambles to you, yelling as you toss his stuff out the window. He’s looking out the window, watching them fall, “Get. The. Fuck. Out.” You shriek after every item you throw: his computer, acoustic guitar, books on Logistics, and How To Save Money Like A Businessman. 

You flutter about the room, shaking Angie off when she tries to grab you, ignoring her when she falls to the floor in a heap of naked limbs. You pick up a pricey statue that was Scott’s, ignoring his protests, courteously tossing it out the window to join his items. 

You storm out of the room, glancing around for any of Scott’s stuff. Yes, this was your apartment, but you were working on sharing it— sharing it with him. Your fiance. Ex-fiance. You skirt out to the living room, the two lovebirds hot on your tail and begging you to stop. You walk over to the balcony doors, pushing them open and ignoring the sound of the doors cracking against the wall, some picture frames falling to the floor. 

Pictures of you and him. 

You pick them up and toss them over the balcony, looking around for any other fallen pieces. You thoroughly sweep your apartment— as thoroughly as you can through your tears of rage, gathering jackets, shirts, and shoes and carelessly tossing them over the balcony. You ignore them as they hastily put on their clothes, brushing past them to pace to the door.

Your gaze is hot and heavy on Angie’s heels. Those shiny, blood-red, smooth pumps. They oozed sex appeal and smirked at you, asking, daring, challenging you. Angie scrambles to you, yelling for you to put them down, yelling that they were Jimmy Choos, that they were expensive— like you would care. 

You shrug her off as you walk back to the balcony, hanging them over the ledge and turning to gaze at her as she watches with tears brimming. Pathetic. You look into her eyes and drop them— one by one, “Fetch,” you whisper hoarsely.

Angie begins to cry, turning and running to Scott, who points an accusatory finger at you, “You’re a fucking crazy bitch. You couldn’t just end things like a civilized human fucking being?” He exclaims, “You are fucking insane!” He grits out, holding Angie by the waist. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and you better have my shit,” he says scathingly.

When they both have an appropriate amount of clothes on— Angie settling for one of his oversized shirts and panties, him with sweats— Scott hastily searches for his keys. You watch them both, numb and unmoving, and it feels like your body is vibrating in a storm of emotions. Scott finds his keys and wallet, yanking Angie by the hand and hauling her out the door, but not before he shoots you a glare— a look that tells you it’s over. Completely done with no room for redemption— you don’t care either way.

The door slams shut, and silence fills the space. You stand there for what seems like eons, basking in the fizzling heat of your emotions before shuffling towards your bag near the door and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. You search for your lighter, growing irritated when it seems to be missing. You toss your bag to the floor with a curse and walk to the gas stove, turning the knob until a rim of flames arises. You slip the cigarette between your snot-slick lips, ducking your head towards the stove top and watching the cancerous stick catch fire. 

You stand upright, inhaling and puffing out the smoke. You grab your flip phone, shuffling towards the balcony for fresh air while you make a call, but to your dismay, a crowd is gathered below your building, watching and taking pictures. At closer glance, you realize these people are none other than paparazzi— the very bane of your existence. They’re already recording; you can hear them chattering about what they suspect is happening, making up stories for the cameras and soon-to-come tabloids. 

Then, to make matters worse, Scott and Angie skirt out from the building entrance and start picking some items up, the paparazzi asking various intruding questions. Scott has enough grace and respect for you to deny a comment, opting for catching a taxi with Angie instead. With a roll of your eyes, you walk back into your apartment and busy yourself doing a shitty job clearing the mess you’d made. However, like clockwork, your phone rings.

You know it’s Miss Sinclair; well, Erica, as she always corrects you. Your music manager, a firecracker, that one, but overall a good friend on your side. 

You answer, taking a drag from the cigarette as you step onto your terrace again, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “What?” You ask snappily into the phone, glancing down at the crowd of people taking pictures of you. Assholes.

”What? What do you mean, what?” Erica hisses through the speaker. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Tiger?” A nickname she has for you that originated from God knows where. “Yeah, like… what’s up?” You play dumb, smiling sarcastically and waving innocently to the cameras below you.

“Why the hell do I have people blowing my line asking me why you’re tossing shit onto the streets of Los Angeles like it’s a goddamn Goodwill?” She impatiently asks.

You shrug, even though she can’t see you, “Dunno. See you tomorrow at the studio.” You pull the phone away from your ear, hearing her shriek and yell at you, commanding you not to hang up. You slap the flip phone closed, ending the call; her words cut off. You take another drag of the cigarette before flicking the bud off the balcony at the intruders, watching them back away to glare at you, yelling a few curses. You flip them two middle fingers in response before turning to walk back into your apartment, closing the doors behind you. 

You’re going to write a song. A kickass song.

“And then I threw all his shit out the fucking window,” you chuckle, retelling the story to your drinking companion, Robin Buckley, the drummer of your band. She smirks and downs another shot of vodka, “Yeah.. you uh,” she grimaces and smacks her lips at the bitter drink, “you created quite the stir earlier today,” She points at you and winks, picking up her forgotten glass of whiskey beside her and holding it out to you, in cheers. 

You sigh and smile, and inevitably you clink your whiskey-filled glass against hers as she says, “To shitty men and new beginnings— preferably with women,” she winks again, laughing along with you as you lighten up from her joke. You down the rest of your drink and put your glass down, sucking your teeth before rolling your lips inward as you stare thoughtlessly, the whiskey leaving burning kisses in your throat. 

The loud, underground celebrity-only bar drowns out behind you. What were you going to do? You had so much planned with Scott, an entire fucking wedding, a home, maybe even kids. And as if that’s not enough, you wrote an entire song about him. You were almost finished with it, so close to recording it and putting it out, maybe with tour dates to match. 

Now it's gone. Dead and buried. 

A whole song, written in 4 weeks, about your love, the love of your life, your supposed forever person, and he threw it all away. You knew love wasn’t easy. It never was, especially not after your rise to fame. It was hard to find time for date nights, for sex, for just seeing each other and talking. But you would’ve never imagined this to be how it ended.

You can’t help but feel as though this might have been your fault. Some small, pessimistic, mean part of you nagging that you could’ve prevented this if you had just changed. You tried to make time for Scott, you really did, but you got caught up in the music— the music for him. You worked tirelessly at it. For Scott to hear this song and immediately know it’s about him. You wanted it to be a wedding gift, maybe, to play it at your wedding for everyone to hear your love. You had never been so soft in a song, so open and disgustingly lovesick, and you wasted it all on him. Maybe it was your fault; perhaps it was for the better—

“Hey, you okay?” Robin cuts through your thoughts, “You went a little quiet there,” she smiles softly, playfully nudging her shoulder against yours. “Yeah,” you nod, “I-I’m good. Great.” You nod along with your words, trying fiercely to believe them.

You were not good, nor were you great. You were, to put it nicely, fucking wrecked. You were humiliated. How could anyone be okay after something like this? It was bad enough he cheated in the first place but with your best friend? You lost two of your closest people within the blink of an eye. It hurts more that they got each other while you got nothing but ghosts and memories. Scott was there for everything, your first real concert, the after-parties, the carpets. He was there for all of it. And he won’t be there anymore, and that hurts.

You shrug, laughing nervously and rubbing the bridge of your nose in distress, “I just can’t help but think that— that maybe this–” You motion your hands uselessly. Robin quickly interrupts you before you can finish your thought, “No. Do not go there. Are you insane? This,” she motions lazily over your figure, copying you, “was not your fault.” She shakes her head, sincerity laced within her voice and gaze. “Believe me when I say that— I would tell you if you were a crazy bitch, trust.” She smiles and nudges you again with her shoulder, pulling a laugh from you. 

You sigh, rotating your neck to stretch it out, rolling your shoulders, “So, like, what’s up with you?” You ask to lighten the mood, leaning on the bar counter with your elbows. It works because she laughs and nods, looking down at the glasses of whiskey as the bartender wordlessly fills them back up. She traces her finger around the rim of it, still nodding, “I-I’ve been good, you know,” she glances at you and shyly looks away when you begin to smirk, “Just sorta.. Hangin’ out, I guess. Shootin’ the shit,” she shrugs, and you laugh. “Yeah, so when did you guys hook up?” You say over your glass rim innocently, laughing even harder when the girl turns red in the face and sputters over her drink. 

“We did not hook up!” She exclaims, wiping the drink from her lips. “Me and Nance,” she shakes her head, “we just… We, like, hung out, you know?” She shrugged. You mockingly raise an eyebrow as she keeps talking, “And like smoked a bit and maybe drank and then like, there was a movie involved, and then she kissed me and—” You interrupt her rambling with a wave of your hand, “Alright, no more details. You totally hooked up,” you laugh, and she blushes harder, laughing and shaking her head, “Definitely did not.” she scoffs.

“You definitely did.” You challenge.

“Did not.” She shoots back.

“Did.”

She groans and shakes you, “If I pay for your tab, will you shut up?” she offers. You pretend to think dramatically for a moment before giving in and nodding, laughing when she slams a one hundred dollar bill on the counter and gets up, picking her leather jacket from behind her chair. “God, you are so annoying,” she complains, shucking her coat over her Daughters of Vampira band t-shirt. 

You get up, shrugging your leather jacket on and snickering, “Nah, you love me,” you teasingly say, shoving at her shoulder. She smirks and shakes her head, heading for the exit, “Yeah, you wish,” She pushes the door open and steps outside into the chilly Los Angeles night, immediately shoving her hands into her pockets. 

You opt for taking the damaged, smashed pack of cigarettes out of your pocket and pulling a matching lighter out. The lighter has a siren with long, blonde locks and a green, shimmery mermaid tail. You pull out a cigarette and stick it between your lips, igniting the flame and holding it up to the end of the cigarette. You bask in the warmth emanating from the flame, a soft heat kissing your nose. You pull the lighter away and puff, blowing the tobacco back out.

“Man, all I wanted was a peaceful drink, and I got verbally berated instead,” Robin jokes.  You laugh, blowing smoke in her face before stopping, looking ahead. You freeze, and not because of the air; the cogs in your brain start moving, fired up with the fuel of alcohol and the lightheaded buzz of nicotine. You still your movements, looking at your friend, “What did you say?” you ask slowly, pulling your gaze from the busy car-filled street. 

Her face heats up, eyes widening and hands flying from her pockets to raise in defense, “No, I mean, like— I was kidding. I wasn’t being serious—” you interrupt her by waving your hand hastily that was holding a cigarette, before looking at it and tossing it carelessly to the side. You aimlessly shake your hands at her, “No, what did you just say?” You stare into her eyes, watching as she tries to connect the dots. 

She raises her eyebrows in confusion, shrugging before saying slowly, “All I wanted—” You stop her, snapping and pointing, walking away and walking back, obviously pacing. “Yes! Yes— that. It’s perfect.” You stop pacing for a second, standing with your hands on your hips. Robin laughs nervously, fiddling with her zipper jacket, “Uh, what is happening right now? Am I in trouble?” she jokes anxiously, but you ignore her. 

You were thinking. Thinking hard. 

All I wanted. All you wanted? All I wanted. 

You repeat it to her, mumbling the words, gaze still focused on the ground, “All I wanted.” You say, pulling your eyes back up to hers. “Uh.. yeah– All I wanted…was a drink,” she parrots back, nodding dumbly, placating you like a small child doing a math equation. 

You smile mischievously, “Robin, you’re a fucking genius!” You all but shriek, earning some glances from the sidewalk. You pay no attention to them, but Robin does, grabbing your shoulder and pushing you into a walk, looking around her to not draw attention to the both of you, but it’s difficult when you’re wildly smiling and humming out a guitar tempo. 

“Dude, what are you talking about?” She stresses, “Please tell me what’s happening; I have no idea what is socially acceptable to say right now,” she explains nervously, hand moving to grasp at your elbow, keeping you in motion. “Robin, we have to go to the studio right now,” you beg, looking her in her eyes, your gaze shining in inspiration. “What? No, what? Why?” She steps in front of you and halts your walking, “What is happening?” she pleads, leaning forward and pressing her palms together in a praying motion— silently asking you to please elaborate. You move past her, still walking, still thinking. 

Robin jogs to catch up to you, “Tell me what you’re thinking, please,” she begs. You look at her and smirk, “I have an idea for a song,” you conclude. Upon hearing this, Robin smiles like the fucking Cheshire cat.

“Hit me, Tiger.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh when his friend tells him what happened. He pauses for a moment, staring at Scott and waiting for him to say it was just a joke, but he never does, and Eddie nearly dies of laughter, the rest of the band along with him.

“Holy shit,” Eddie gasps between laughter. Gareth snorts, raising his eyebrow in shock as he speaks, “She threw your shit out the window?” 

Scott rolls his eyes, flipping the brown-haired boy off, sipping his beer, and leaning back into the red leather couch. Eddie shakes his head as he swivels around in his chair to mess with the studio soundboard, “That’s what you get when you fuck crazy bitches, man,” Eddie laughs, glancing up to watch Jeff mess around with chords in the sound booth. He listens as he speaks, “I mean, sure, she was hot,” He shrugs, reaching over for his box of cigarettes, “Insane tits or whatever, but at what cost?” He snorts. 

Scott shrugs, downing the rest of his beer and tossing the bottle into the small trash bin near the soundboard. 

“I mean, the sex was definitely good, but she just— I dunno, man,” he shakes his head and dismissively waves his hand, “She’s too much of a firecracker. Angie is way more docile,” he concludes. He snickers as he thinks it over, “Easier to deal with,” he smirks, reaching down to the floor to pick up another beer. Gareth snickers and Eddie grimaces with a shake of his head; he then smirks as he slides a cigarette between his lips, “Nah, the firecrackers are the fun ones, man.” he speaks around the paper as he lights the cancerous stick, sucking and blowing out the smoke. “So, what now?” Gareth asks, taking a swig of his drink as he looks at Scott. 

Scott shrugs, opening the glass bottle of beer and sipping it, “Yeah, y’know… no wedding, I’m with Angie, whatever,” he says, and Eddie chuckles, glancing over his shoulder for a moment, “Yeah, I get it,” he nods, taking another drag off his cigarette, lost in his thoughts. You’re a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good… A lightbulb goes off in his head. 

“Wait, guys,” he swivels around in his chair to face Gareth and Scott. The two boys look up at him as Eddie speaks, “We’ve all had crazy girlfriends, right?” His gaze bounces between the boys as he puffs on the cigarette before standing up and pushing the bud of it into Gareth’s bottle, much to his dismay. He ignores Gareth’s complaints, ignoring the boys laughing at him, pacing the room, mind swirling to the sound of Jeff’s guitar. 

Through the fog of chords and lyrics, Eddie continues speaking, “All of our ex-girlfriends— and ex-fiances,” he blindly points to Scott as he paces, ignoring when Scott scoffs, “are crazy bitches,” he points out, looking back at the group. “I mean, I can’t remember the last time I had a normal fucking girlfriend,” he snickers. The boys look at Eddie as if they’re concerned, confusion written across their faces that Eddie could care less to ease, “This is fucking inspiration, boys! Let’s write this shit down,” He leans on the soundboard, “Let’s expose this chick,” He snickers.

He walks into the sound booth and grabs his guitar from the stand, pulling the strap over his neck as he nods toward Jeff, “Keep playing that,” he orders. Despite his masked confusion, Jeff continues to play the riff he’d been tweaking. Eddie steps up to the mic in the middle of the sound booth, reaching for the headphones to slip them over his head, leaving one ear uncovered. He gestures to Gareth through the glass, motioning for him to tag along.

Gareth puts his beer down and walks in, glancing at Eddie in confusion, “You gonna tell us what we’re playing or?” He sits behind his drums as Eddie tweaks the strings on his guitar. “Just follow along, man.” Eddie distractedly mumbles. Gareth and Jeff glance at one another— Eddie often has moments like this, and they have yet to get used to it. Gareth shrugs, picking up his deeply mangled drumsticks and tapping a beat to Jeff’s strings.

Eddie mumbles to himself, fingers ghosting chords over the frets as he nods his head to the beat. He picks up with Gareth and Jeff’s sound, shredding along to create a fuller sound, the images of the music he’d composed in his mind coming to life just below his fingertips. Scott watches from outside the sound booth, standing up to lean over the soundboard. He watches, intrigued, as they play together, wordlessly tweaking until they all compliment each other. Scott reaches over with a smirk and hits the record button just in time for Eddie to chime in on the mic, finally spitting out the lyrics they’d all be waiting to hear.

And it’s fucking good. 

“Alllriiight!”

It’s raunchy, unhinged, and all things dirty. On top of that, it’s a massive fuck you to Scott’s ex, and Scott can’t keep the grin off his face as he adds the bass to the track, snickering at the words Eddie sings. They work on the song all day, throwing in new verses and tweaks until they feel satisfied for the time being. They sit outside the sound booth and nurse a round of beers as they play the song, listening to what they have so far, grinning and nodding along to the beat, laughing at the absurdity of the lyrics.

“Hey, you’re a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good, I’m on top of it.”

“It’s good… as much as I hate to say it, it’s good.” Scott laughs, rolling his eyes when the boys cheer. Sitting on the swivel chair in front of the soundboard, Eddie reaches out and nudges Scott's foot with his own, “You might get a few slashed tires when she hears this, you know.” He snickers over the rim of his beer bottle.

Scott laughs and shrugs, “Can’t be any worse than what she’s already done.” He jokes. The boys all laugh, watching Jeff as he raises his beer in the gesture of a toast, “To crazy bitches.” The boys all raise their beers in unity, parroting back, “To crazy bitches!” They clink their drinks and laugh, taking sips.

“You’re crazy, but I like the way you fuck me.”

“Think of me when you’re out, when you’re out there,

I’ll beg you nice from my knees.

And when the world treats you way too fairly,

Well, it’s a shame, I’m a dream,”

Your voice filters through the speakers, thick studio headphones skewed on your head as you fiddle with the soundboard knobs and buttons. You sigh and push the headphones to rest around your neck, rubbing your hands tiredly over your face. You take a glance at the clock— 4:34 AM. Goddamn. You had truly been here all night. After your night out with Robin, drinking your feelings away, and your quick epiphany moment, you guys caught a taxi straight here and got to business. That was at 10:46 PM. 

Poor Robin, you put the girl through the wringer. Making her drum out new beats, forcing her to pluck out a bass riff to the best of her abilities. The rest of your band was, without a doubt, asleep, and you didn’t want to bother them with your antics. And, of course, you all were close, but it was just different with you and Robin. You guys could be together for hours and never tire of one another. You just clicked. 

Maybe it was also the fact that you didn’t want to face whatever awkward encounter was bound to happen between Robin and Nancy, opting to wait until the morning to see them face one another. Robin was fully asleep underneath the sound booth, using both of your jackets as a pillow. Her fingers are wrapped around the beer she’d been drinking; hand cuddled up to her face. You pull out your cigarettes from your pocket, pulling one stick out and sliding it between your lips. You light it up and puff on the cigarette, glancing at Robin beneath the table before reaching down and carefully snagging her beer. You take a quick swig, quietly listening to the song. 

“All I wanted was you,

All I wanted was you.”

The guitar that comes in right after is powerful. It’s beautiful; it showcases your anger, your betrayal, your heart that still aches. This was supposed to be a love song for Scott, but after tweaking a few lyrics, it quickly became a song laced with hatred and resentment— a piece of heartbreak and anguish you’re still clearly sorting through. But that’s all that love is, right? Just two people fighting and slashing at each other until one inevitably gives in and waves a white flag? 

You down the rest of your stolen beer, still taking drags of the cigarette and blowing it back out. It wasn’t unusual for you to be the only one here at ungodly hours of the night, but it was one of the first times you were here with your friend and bandmate. Knowing she was here for you after such a chaotic, hectic day, supporting you even at unreasonable hours, was nice.

You replay the lyrics repeatedly, playing with the weak bass Robin was barely able to play. You should go home; you know you should, given how late it is and the dryness that begins to seep through your eyes, but you hate the feeling that runs through your bones when you think about what used to be your and Scott’s home. You don’t want to go home. Home is where everything ended. Home is no longer home— not after what happened. Home is where you’ll go to relieve the day over and over again until you get tired enough to pass out. 

And then it hits you; lyrics, more heartache hits you. The song was initially titled The Only Exception, but the words changed after playing around for several hours. You stuff the cigarette bud in the beer bottle, letting it fizzle out as you get up from your swivel chair to try and find a notebook— a notepad, napkins, or something, but you only find a pen. Frustrated with your lack of writing materials, you look at your surroundings hungrily before your eyes land on Robin’s bare arm. 

You pace back to the soundboard and reach underneath to yank on Robin’s arm, waking her up for a split second. You ignore Robin’s grumbly and slurred “What the fuck?” and proceed with your task as she inevitably falls back asleep. You yank the pen cap off with your teeth and begin jotting down lyrics on Robin’s pale, freckled, tattooed arm. 

“I think I’ll pace my apartment a few times,

And fall asleep on the couch. 

Wake up early to black-and-white reruns,

That escape from my mouth.”

Scott and your favorite thing to do was watch old 1950s classic films. You guys watched them so much, watched so many of them, over and over again, that you could quote them to one another. Tears begin to well up in your eyes as you write these lyrics down, some falling on Robin’s arm and smudging the ink. You curse and press your palm to the running ink to dry whatever can be salvaged from your sloppy work. You drop her arm to the ground and hear her briefly groan as you pace back into the sound booth, picking up your black guitar from the stand and pulling the strap over your upper body. 

You move your headphones around your neck to sit over your ears, waiting for your next move. You start strumming out a guitar riff, basking in the glory of the echoing sounds and its full, tough ring. You push your lips to the microphone and begin mumbling, playing with more lyrics in your head before you sing.

“I could follow you to the beginning,

Just to relive the start.

And maybe then, we’d remember to slow down.

At all of our favorite parts.”

The tears are freefalling now; the dark eyeliner you’d spent the past hours smudging leaves roads of sorrow against your skin. You and Scott were together for seven magical months. Yeah, it was quick— pathetic in a different light, but you’d been mindlessly in love. And fuck, would it have been a mistake if you did end up marrying him. He was a production assistant and a bassist with no new lines of work coming, opting to freeload off his friend’s band, Corroded Coffin, playing with them at shows whenever they needed him. 

And it’s working for him so far— until it doesn’t. As much as you hate to admit, Scott is talented. He’s good with his instrument and has a good ear for sound, but despite his talent, he has no real drive— no actual want to succeed and be at the top of the music pyramid with you. As you continue to play with the guitar, you stop for a second to wipe your eyes, thoroughly smudging your makeup now and probably making you look insane. 

Scott had good moments, though. When it was good, it was good— spontaneous nights out, making out in alleyways like lovesick teenagers, and every second feeling like a movie until the credits rolled— but when it was bad, it was really fucking bad. Fights, stupid arguments, bickering, breaking expensive items, and threatening to leave each other until he makes it up to you with mediocre sex and breakfast in bed the next day. You loved him, you did, and you believe he loved you too, but you just can’t pinpoint where it all went wrong. 

You stop strumming the guitar and huff waterily, setting the guitar back on the stand and ripping your headphones off your head before tossing them to the ground. You sit on a metal, foldable chair beside you and lean forward to push your head into your hands. 

You really blew the fuck up on him. Did you overreact? Did you honestly act like a crazy bitch? Fuck, maybe you should apologize. 

You can hear Robin in the back of your head, nagging and begging you to stop thinking self-destructive thoughts like this, telling you you’re insane for even thinking of apologizing, but you just can’t help it. You venture down the deep, dark, but welcoming rabbit hole of psycho-analyzing every romantic relationship you’ve ever had. None of your relationships have lasted— the ones in high school, obviously, but you’ve been out of that shit hole for years now, yet you’re still playing the never-ending game of kiss and tell.

Life in Hawkins was a weird, dull one. All the boys you brought home never shared the same interests as you and certainly did not like that you had a mind of your own. They didn’t like the clothes you wore, or the makeup you did, or the music you listened to. They thought you and the rest of the band were stupid and wasting your lives trying to be something big with the weird sound you carried. Nothing about you or the people you hung out with fit the cookie-cutter shape of Hawkins, and you learned that the hard way. 

You were more of a dirty secret for boys in your school. Nobody wanted to express their love or attraction to you openly, but they sure as hell did so behind closed doors. Your first boyfriend, Brady, was a star on the wrestling team; he didn’t mind showing you off much because nobody had the guts to talk shit about him— too scared to get sucker punched. Brady lasted a few months before you eventually cut ties with each other. 

There were a few others after Brady, all meeting the same dead end you’re so familiar with. Although there was one guy— Eddie Munson— people believed you would be perfect for each other. You liked the same music, dressed relatively the same, and had shitty high school bands nobody wanted to listen to. Logistically, it was a perfect match; the only problem was Eddie Munson is an asshole. 

Scum of the earth, piece of shit, grade-A asshole.

Scott was friends with him, and on occasion, you would sometimes cross paths at parties or hangouts with mutual friends; and every single run-in you’ve had with the man left you with a splitting migraine and an itching impulse to smash his head through a window. He’s awful; he doesn’t respect you or any woman for that matter, he acts like he’s a living god, and he and his shitty band won (stole) that fucking music contest in Hawkins back in ‘87, and you’ll never forget it. That’s how you met him, and your guys’ race to the top hasn’t let up since.

And now that you think of it, it’s not surprising that Eddie and Scott get along so well— they’re both sexist assholes. 

You’re milling in your thoughts for what seems like hours, tears dried and itching against your skin. You’re not sure how long you sit in the sound booth, but before you know it, Robin’s hoarse voice is cracking through the speakers of the sound booth, “As much as I think you’re a musical genius and love the way you work in mysterious ways, it’s extremely late, and we both need to catch some sleep before tomorrow.”

Your face twists in confusion, “Tomorrow? What’s special about tomorrow?” You ask, your voice cracking. Robin shifts on her feet, brows furrowing at your confusion, “We’re meeting with the record label. Remember we’re playing them our new album?”

Fuck. You completely forgot about that, and all of those songs, except for maybe three, are based around your stupid ex-fiance that just dumped you for your best friend. You sigh, dropping your head in your hands and running your palms over your face. You let out a long groan into your hands, not even hearing Robin opening the door to the sound booth and walking up to you. Her chilled fingers wrap around your wrists to pull your hands away from your face. Her blue eyes are tired and full of love and warmth as she squats before you to gaze at you, “Talk to me.”

Tears brim your eyes at her soft voice, and you wince— you really wish you could stop fucking crying. You rub at your teary eyes and shake your head, “It’s just—” you sigh and blearily blink down at Robin, “they’re all about him, Rob.” You frown.

Robin patiently waits for you to find the words, comfortingly squeezing your tear-dampened fingers. “Every song on the album is about him and I… I really don’t wanna spend an entire tour singing about him.” You softly speak, avoiding her gaze.

The brown-haired girl shuffles closer to you, ducking into your gaze and shrugging, “That’s okay,” she shakes her head, “We can scrap it. I mean, the label might be a little pissed, but just… play them what we did tonight, and I guarantee you they’ll extend our time.”

You furrow your brows and shake your head, “What? No. Robin, the song’s not finished—” “We don’t get another chance with this, Tiger. We either play them what we did tonight or give them the album.”

And you know Robin is right; she does not want to give you an ultimatum, but it’s the inevitable truth. You can either play the song and hope it’s the best thing the label has ever heard, or you suck it up and play them the album full of bittersweet words that leave a sticky residue clogging your throat.

You look at Robin, her patient and tired gaze locked on your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek, thinking it over for a moment— and it could work. The new song you’d just recorded is insane— nothing you’ve ever done before and, without a doubt, has a groundbreaking sound. It could work.

Max and Nancy are going to kill you tomorrow.

You nod your head, “Okay,” you breathe. Robin’s lips slowly stretch into a smile, “I’m gonna play it for them.” You nod. Robin shoots up to her feet with a cheer.

“Perfect! Now wipe those tears, and let's get the fuck out of here.”

You and Robin look like hell. You’re sporting heavy undereye bags with dark circles, while Robin opted to cover her evident lack of sleep with a pair of dark shades. Nancy and Max look concerned when they see you both sitting in the lobby of your label’s building. Nancy, of course, chastised you for your lateness while Max just snickered in the corner. Max suddenly makes a face as she speaks, “Why do you guys look like you’ve been hit by a bus?”

Robin tiredly groans, shifting in her seat with a yawn, “Stayed at the studio late.” She mumbles. Nancy’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Why? I thought we had everything ready for today.” She points out, obviously concerned. Nothing would ever get done if you didn’t have Nancy in the band. Now that you look at her, she has a manila folder in her hands, most likely stuffed with questions, comments, concerns, budgets, and more. She was more like Erica’s assistant than your bass player. But fuck, could her skilled fingers pluck out a riff.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, glancing over at Robin, who seems to be now passed out behind her glasses, offering you no help. You scoff. Of course. You mentally punch Robin in the face. You fidget with the rings on your fingers as you begin to explain. “So, basically,” you start, “I came home yesterday and found Scott and Angie fucking in my bed, so I threw their shit out the window and then called Robin,” you barely pay attention to Nancy and Max’s widening eyes as you spew out the events of yesterday. You knew they already knew, probably from Erica or the fucking tabloids. Hell, the whole fucking world knew, but they acted like this was their first time hearing about it. 

You ramble on about the events, telling them about you finding inspiration and dragging Robin to the studio, drunk, only to decide to scrap the album you’d all been working on for the past few months. 

That last bit of information didn’t go so well, however. 

“You what?”

You wince at Max’s sneering tone, glancing at Nancy to try and get a read on her expressionless face. “Please tell me you’re joking,” Max says, voice teetering on the precipice of panic. You wish Robin would wake the fuck up. “I… I know I’m really taking a leap of faith here, but I need you guys to trust me on this,” you plead, gaze hopefully bouncing between the two women, “Please.”

Max folds her arms across her chest, tongue rolling against the inside of her cheek before she shakes her head, “I swear if this fucks us over, you’ll never hear the end of it from me.” She breaks, and you’re just thankful she agrees to follow your and Robin’s plan. She turns around and walks over to plop into the seat on the other side of the lobby, glancing at you before speaking, “Sorry about Scott, by the way…” she mumbles. “Maybe it’s a good thing; I never liked all those love songs anyways…” She smiles apologetically, and you huff out a chuckle.

Nancy nudges her foot against your leather boot, “You were out of his league anyway. He was dumber than a rock.” She adds to Max’s apology. You snicker and thank them for their condolences. Nancy sits on the chair next to Max and sighs heavily, “Did you tell Erica about the change?” she asks, already flipping through her folder. You pretended you didn’t hear the question, which was not a good idea. 

The two girls begin to panic at your eerie silence. Nancy’s face falls, and Robin fucking snores, “You did tell Erica, right?” She presses. Your silence says enough.

Max groans, leaning forward to sink her head into the palm of her hands, “We’re so fucked.”

And when the time comes, you’re not exactly sure what the label is thinking. All the board members wear the same unwavering expression as they listen to All I Wanted. You glance at Nancy and Max, who are both visibly shaken with nerves; Max’s leg bouncing at an ungodly rate beneath the table, and Nancy’s poor fingers picked to shreds. Robin, who’s now awake, is busying herself with doodling random sketches on the napkin in front of her, and you’re— well, you’re hardly breathing. 

Erica looks thoroughly pissed; you don’t doubt she’d thought about strangling you the second you announced you were scraping the album. You could tell she was itching to make some phone calls as her stone-hard gaze stayed on you throughout the whole listening session. You pretended you didn’t notice her.

When the demo ends, a thick silence settles over the room, and you lean forward, pressing pause on the track to prevent the CD from repeating. You awkwardly scratch the side of your neck, “I-It’s not done; I’m still working on it, but um—” You glance at the table of faces and gulp. You haven’t been this nervous in longer than you can remember. “I know it can be something. Something big.”

James, the CEO of the record label, clears his throat and leans forward, pressing his elbows onto the thick wooden table. A burning cigarette hangs between his fingers as he points to the middle of the table where the CD player sits, “This is about Scott, yes?”

All eyes are on you, and you have no choice but to nod yes. James takes a drag of his cigarette, eyebrows furrowing as he silently thinks. You glance at your friends, a wave of nerves washing through your body at the anticipation. “What happened yesterday can never happen again. You almost ruined your image. Almost.” He finally speaks, his stern gaze locked in on you. You almost want to shrink in your seat, feeling like a child being scolded in the principal's office as he continues to speak. “You're a good talent, but if you don't know how to act like a grown woman, you won’t have a place here.” 

You scoff and open your mouth, a smart response on the tip of your tongue, until Robin harshly kicks the heel of her leather boot into your ankle. You hiss in pain, sucking on your teeth to poorly conceal it. You relent and nod your head, “I understand.”

James nods and flicks the ashes of his cigarette into the ashtray beside him, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh, “Now,” his lips split into a smug grin, a grin that tells you that you won, “Get this track finished by the end of the week. I want it on air by Monday morning.”

Monday morning, Eddie is hauling ass down I-405, without a doubt breaking many traffic laws he could care less about, given he’s late to his studio session with the band. When is he not late? He’s got a cigarette hanging from his lips and the smell of last night's alcohol on his clothes. As he meticulously swerves and weaves in and out of LA traffic, he jams his finger to turn his radio on, flipping through static, noise, ads, shitty pop music, and landing on a seemingly decent Rock station. 

He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and puffs the rest before tossing it out of the open window. His hair tousles from the wind, and he bats the curly strands away whenever they fly into his view. His ringed fingers grip the steering wheel, swerving out of the way of a truck before honking and throwing up a middle finger. What he misses during that exchange is the introduction of the song.

“Next up is a new hit single named All I Wanted by Daughters of Vampira! Daughters of Vampira will be going on tour soon; stay tuned for details!”

Then, the music starts when he finally starts to slow down after narrowly missing the truck.

“Think of me when you’re out, when you’re out there,

I’ll beg you nice from my knees.

And when the world treats you way too fairly,

Well, it’s a shame, I’m a dream.”

Your voice filters through his car stereo, unbeknownst to Eddie, and he glances down at his music console. He slowly turns the volume dial up, intrigued by the sound and wanting to know where it’s leading. When the ferocious guitar shred comes in, his face twists in approval, turning the volume even louder as he bobs his head to the tune. Whoever’s band this was, is fucking good. It’s not every day you hear a good Rock song sung by a woman, he thinks.

“All I wanted was you, oh,

All I wanted was you, oh!”

Eddie’s not sure why it takes him so long to realize the voice playing through his speakers is none other than the lead singer of that stupid fucking feminazi band Daughters of Vampira. He nearly chokes when he realizes it’s your voice, turning the volume up to max and listening to the words.

It’s… sad. The lyrics are like the gut-wrenching heartbreak you see in movies, aching and drenched with the grief of a love that was supposed to be great. And your voice is so fucking raw, so angry, and filled with pain that it brings Eddie to a stand-still, the skin on his arms raising in tiny bumps at the sheer emotion. Eddie almost forgets he’s in his car until he hears the car behind him honking, the man behind the wheel yelling at him to go now that the traffic light has turned green. He doesn’t move an inch, afraid he’ll miss a beat of this slice of heartache.

The song ends, and Eddie turns off his radio, choosing to spend the rest of his ride in silence as the gnawing feeling of guilt settles in his gut. By the sound of it, Scott really did a fucking number on you— tore your heart out, chewed it up, spit it out, and stepped on it like a spider on a sidewalk— and Eddie knows what that feels like; he’s had his heart broken before so he knows what it feels like to be so angry at the love you had for a person. It’s a shitty feeling.

So, Eddie’s not sure why he decides to be an asshole and tell the boys about your new song, but he does. The second he enters the studio, he tells Gareth to turn on the radio.

“...Why?” Gareth questions with a tone of suspicion. Eddie brushes his question off and walks to lean over the desk, turning the radio on and beginning to switch through the stations. “Uh, Eddie… we’ve got some work to do, man, we don’t have time for—” “Shh, just give me a second,” Eddie snaps. 

“It’s gotta be playing somewhere.” Eddie mumbles, eyebrows furrowed, ringed finger going overtime on the dial, abruptly stopping when he finally hears it. “This is it! This is it; just listen.” Eddie turns the volume up and stands up to his full height, hands on his hips, and chews on his lip as they silently listen to the song.

Jeff is the first to speak through the sound of drums and intense chords, “Why are we listening to this?” Eddie waves him off, telling him just to wait— just wait until the verse.

“I think I’ll pace my apartment a few times,

And fall asleep on the couch. 

Wake up early to black-and-white reruns,

That escape from my mouth.”

Scott’s eyes widen, striding over to Eddie’s side and gazing at the boombox in shock, “No fuckin’ way.” He breathes. Eddie looks at Scott as he reaches over to increase the volume. Gareth twirls his drumstick between his knuckles and deeply sighs as he leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the soundboard, “Dude, no offense, but why are we listening to this shit?” He asks. Scott turns to the boys and points back to the radio, “That’s my fucking bitch ex singing about me.”

Jeff and Gareth’s eyes widen, both boys leaning forward in their seats to listen to the lyrics. Scott curses and reaches over to shut the radio off, letting a thick silence fall over the room. Jeff is the first to break and nervously laugh, and Eddie grins, Gareth falling into a fit of laughter behind Jeff’s. “Why the fuck are you guys laughing?” Scott sneers.

Eddie chuckles, reaching out to rest his hands on Scott’s shoulders and turn him to face each other, “You don’t get it, man,” Eddie begins. Scott’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and Eddie smiles mischievously, “This is the perfect time to drop Crazy Bitch.”

You nearly blow a gasket when you first hear Corroded Coffin’s new song. Nancy did quite a good job of bringing you down to somewhat of a levelheaded state and getting you to understand that killing Scott or slashing his tires wouldn’t be the wisest of decisions to make. You still aren’t convinced.

You try your best to ignore the song, switching the radio to a different station whenever it plays, but it seems like that fucking track follows you wherever you go. A week after the song's release, you’re walking down the street with Robin, browsing the stores that catch your eye and chatting about whatever comes to mind.

You hardly notice the crowd gathered outside the store you are in until Robin points it out, nudging your side and nodding towards the window, “Looks like we’ve got company today.” she mumbles. You curse, shelving the shirt you’d been looking at as you grumble to Robin, “Seriously, how the fuck did they find us?”

You suppose the rest of your day out won’t last much longer, so you and Robin decide to make your way home, stepping out into the crowd and shoving through a sea of flashing bulbs. 

Over time, you’ve mustered up the strength to ignore the questions paparazzi throw at you; questions about who you’re dating, your sexuality, your political beliefs— questions of generally no substance or anything to do with your music. You’ve become numb to the reality of your life being plastered on tabloids and riddled with lies; it doesn’t really hurt you anymore. 

However, you’re still a human being, and you have moments where you crack, and today seems to be one of those moments when a man yells out, “You were seen dumping your ex-fiance Scott's items into the street! So is the song true? Did you and Eddie Munson have an affair? Is that why you and Scott broke up?” 

Robin tenses, glancing at you and silently pleading for you to just keep walking. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

You glare but smile at the man, flashing your white, shark-like teeth, “If you wanna know so bad, why don’t you ask Scott and Angie yourself?” You sneer. 

A few of the men snicker, one whistling and commenting about you being feisty, but you ignore it and continue as you and Robin finally reach your car, “And for the record, I wouldn’t touch that asshole with a ten-inch pole. His dick is small.” You grin sarcastically, opening your car door and getting in without another word. You hear the crowd erupt in more questions outside your car, some scribbling stuff down on their notepads and some laughing.

You groan in annoyance, buckling yourself in and starting the car as Robin settles in the passenger seat. You don’t miss the chance to flip the mob of men off when you drive off, leaving them behind with screeching tires. It’s silent until Robin chuckles, and you glance at her, “What’s so funny?”

Robin shrugs and shakes her head, “Nothing,” she says, “Just that Erica’s gonna murder you.” You roll your eyes and slide a pair of shades on. “When is she not wanting to murder me?” 

The media erupted after your comment about womanizer and rockstar Eddie Munson. Many fans came to your aid, voicing the truth of the breakup and defending you and your band. In contrast, many other fans— Corroded Coffin’s cult of assholes— came to Eddie’s defense, stating that he was only doing charity work to get your name in the papers. That you were fucking your way to the top of the music industry and much, much more deeply misogynistic statements. 

You didn’t care for any of it. You, your friends, your family, and your band knew what actually happened. The best part is that Scott knew the truth, and he was a shit fucking liar. He couldn’t cover up what happened if his life depended on it. It made you think of how he could lie about the affair for as long as he did. You don’t dwell on that thought for too long, growing tired of digging deeper into the pit of despair Scott had so happily tossed you into.

At the end of the day, your image is in shambles, and if your image is fucked, then so is the bands. Daughters of Vampira wasn’t booking anything; shows, meet-and-greets, autograph signings— nothing. Even though All I Wanted was an enormous hit and ended up in the charts, people couldn’t get over the fact that you, the lead singer, tend to be explosive. You would’ve felt bad about this if Eddie’s image hadn’t suffered the same fate. 

Eddie and his band immediately stopped booking shows after their song Crazy Bitch. Of course, it was a big success, but only because the drama fueled it. Young women stopped throwing themselves at the band and instead opted for screaming, “Woman haters!” and “Sexist pigs!” at them whenever they were out. It had been fucking rough, and it only got worse after Eddie commented to the paparazzi while he was out on a coffee run in the streets of Los Angeles.

“How the fuck do they always find me?” Eddie grumbles to himself, putting on a fake smile for the group.

Eddie was rocking a pair of shades, thinking of ways to quickly escape the mob, when a young boy approached him from the crowd. He had a Corroded Coffin shirt on with a photograph of Eddie clenched to his chest as he kindly asked for an autograph. 

“Sure, kid,” Eddie crouches down to the boy’s height and gently takes the photograph and Sharpie, "who am I signing it for?” He smiles softly at the boy, “For Thomas, sir!” The boy politely says, his eyes shining in excitement. “Thomas, sick name, man.” Eddie compliments, yanking the cap off with his teeth. He signs his name with a Let’s fuckin’ ROCK! in the corner, putting the lid back and handing the photo back to the boy. 

He smiles when the boy squeals in excitement and offers him a fist bump before standing up to his full height. “Thank you, Mr. Munson!” Eddie snickers and nods, “‘Course, but hey, don’t call me Munson; call me Ed,” He smirks, and the kid laughs. “Mr. Muns– Ed, I have a question for you,” the kid shyly asks. 

Eddie’s heart implodes at the cuteness of this little shithead and chuckles as he responds, “Shoot, kid, I’m all ears,” Eddie ignores the flashes from the cameras, taking photos of this pure and innocent moment. He ignores the coos from the women, from the kid’s parents, all of it, just zoned in on this small child meeting his hero. Him.

“Ed, is it true that you hate girls?”

And just like that, the moment is over.

Eddie turns red in the face and forces a harsh but nervous laugh. The crowd closes in upon hearing the exchange and begins asking a multitude of questions. The parents snag their son away and start expressing profuse apologies that Eddie waves off. “Nah, nah, the kid’s fine. But uh, to answer your question, no, that isn’t true, Tommy boy,” he says, looking at the child standing beside his mother’s legs. He takes out a pack of smokes and opens it, sliding a cigarette between his lips as he adds, “I am a really big fan of girls,” he flashes a dazzling smile around the stick and does finger guns at the small kid before he turns and begins to walk away. 

He’s forgotten all about his coffee, and now all he wants is to get the fuck outta there. 

He lights the cigarette up and ignores the crowd of paparazzi following him, cameras still in motion. He rolls his eyes, body buzzing in annoyance from the kid's question and the crowd. He continues walking the street as more questions and fans approach him. As Eddie signs a woman’s photograph, a cigarette hanging from his lips, an interviewer comments with a camera already zoned in and recording Eddie’s face. No doubt this will be on MTV tonight. No doubt he won’t hear the end of it from Dustin and Steve.

“Eddie, did you hear what the frontwoman of Daughters of Vampira has said about you? Can we get a response?” He shoves the mic into Eddie’s face.

Eddie’s lips break into a grin, but he doesn’t look up from the autograph he’s signing. “Yeah… yeah, I heard, and y’know what? She can come find out herself if it’s small or not,” He looks up and smirks right at the camera, “Have a nice day.” He smiles tightly at the interviewer and hastily flags down a taxi, hopping in and yelling at the driver to step on it. He watches as the crowd grows smaller and smaller with distance, his heart thundering in his chest. He takes deep breaths to slow his pulse down, to stop thinking of you. 

It never seems to slow as his mind can’t move on from you or that damn song.

Both the managers of Corroded Coffin and Daughters of Vampira are pushed to the limit with you and Eddie. Dustin Henderson and Steve Harrington are co-managers of Corroded Coffin, mainly because Steve has the money and Dustin has the brains to man the operation. All Steve really does is cut the checks and warn the team when to cut back on the extracurriculars. 

Erica, Steve, and Dustin are all from Hawkins and are quite familiar with each other due to living in a small town where everyone knows everybody. They, along with all members of Corroded Coffin and Daughters of Vampira, all sort of grew up with one another in the 80s and have always been on this whimsical journey together. As the years went by, you all drifted, more so because of the competition, but aside from the band, the managers stayed relatively civil with one another. Erica, Steve, and Dustin stayed in touch because sometimes they couldn’t handle the two bands, which is why Erica summoned the two boys to a bar in downtown LA.

Erica Sinclair is seemingly always tested by you and has no idea where to go or what her next move should be. She has times when she feels like a single mother dealing with an angsty teen, and when those moments teeter on disastrous, she makes calls— the call.

“I mean, I have just had it up to here,” Erica moves her hand up in the air to emphasize her annoyance, “with these girls, I mean, my god!” She shakes her head as she sips her red wine, the two boys nodding from across from her. “Trust me,” Steve scoffs, “we get it.” 

Dustin nods, taking a sip of his Shirley Temple and smacking his lips before adding, “We’re in the same boat too— with Eddie,” Dustin starts, drinking his Shirley Temple out of a bendy straw. 

“Yeah, he’s always been a pain in the ass, ever since high school,” Steve continues, sharing a look with Dustin, who tiredly nods, “But it has never been this bad. Normally we can get a hold on him running his mouth, but it’s just been…” Steve falters and trails off, struggling to grasp the words to explain Eddie’s childlike behavior. Erica nods, “I know what you mean,” She makes a face and holds her wine glass out to cheer with them. Dustin clinks his Shirley Temple, and Steve clinks his beer, them all taking a sip.

“Both band’s images are terrible. It won’t be long till we’re losing more money,” Steve grumbles, taking another swig of his beer. “I think we should just lock them all in a room together till they get along,” Erica jokes, earning a chortle from Steve and a cackle from Dustin. They all sigh in unison, a comfortable silence falling over them. 

Suddenly, Dustin sits up straight, aggressively snapping his fingers before pointing to Erica.

Steve jumps and makes a face at Dustin, grumbling about how annoying Dustin’s theatrics are. Erica rolls her eyes, already used to the boy’s antics. “Well? Are you gonna tell us about your nerdy little lightbulb moment or keep making a scene?” She sneers over her wine glass rim, taking a sip. Dustin looks back from Steve’s annoyed face to Erica’s tired one, basking in the dramatics.

“Why don’t we do just that?” He finally says.

Steve and Erica share a look. Typically, Dustin has these moments, and Steve and Erica have to entertain them, but Erica thinks Henderson might be onto something. Steve scoffs and leans back in his chair, “I doubt they’d last a week locked in a house before one kills the other.” Steve mumbles, clearly missing Dustin’s case in point.

Erica, however, knows just where Dustin’s mind has gone— to the motherland of brilliant-fucking-idea. Erica puts her glass down and leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin on the backs of her folded hands. “When you say just that, you mean…?” She looks at the boy quizzically, praying he means what she thinks he means. Steve puts his hand on the back of Dustin’s chair and leans forward, “I’m not really picking up on this guys,” He uses his other hand to lazily gesture. Dustin ignores Steve and nods slowly, “Oh hell yeah, I mean that.” He says, smirking mischievously. Erica and Dustin share a grin, a playful gleam in their eyes. Steve groans on the side in annoyance.

“Let’s book a fuckin’ tour bus, boys,” Erica concludes, and Dustin erupts in cheers, the two of them clinking their drinks. Steve finally understands, and his eyes widen, “Oh! Holy shit, that’s fucking genius.”

Erica laughs and finishes off the last of her wine. “Tiger is gonna kill me.” She smirks and shakes her head, sighing. Dustin and Steve share a look and chuckle a little bit, “Her reaction won’t be as bad as Munson’s. He’s gonna fuckin’ lose it.” Dustin says, slurping on his straw.

A few weeks pass before Erica, Steve, and Dustin manage to rally both bands in a conference room. The tension in the room is almost unbearable. For the most part, the band members seem more interested in knowing why they’ve been summoned together— the real tension is at the end of the table, where you and Eddie sit across from each other. Eddie wears a snickering grin to go along with his darkened shades, and you— well, if looks could kill, everybody in this room would be six feet under and crossing into the afterlife. 

You’re pissed. Annoyed that you’re being forced to breathe the same air as that fuckface Eddie Munson, and Eddie could not be more pleased with himself. Eddie gazes at each of the girls across from him; Max, who’s glaring at your managers and bouncing her knee in evident impatience, Nancy, who couldn’t look more uninterested if she tried; and Robin, who seems more intrigued with the wood paneling of the wall to look at anything else. He makes the mistake of looking at you, earning him a nicely silver-wrapped middle finger which he winks at.

“If you two are done acting like children down there, we’d like to get this meeting started,” Erica announces from her seat at the head of the table. All eyes turn to her, and she sarcastically smiles, opening her mouth to begin speaking until you cut her off, “Whatever fucking bullshit you three have planned, I won’t be a part of it. Not with this asshole.” You gesture to the curly-haired boy across from you.

Gareth and Jeff snicker, and you glare at them, ignoring Robin’s elbow jabbing into your side. “It’s funny that you think you have a choice, Tiger,” Erica says, tilting her head with a grin. You begin to bounce your leg impatiently, jaw clenching as the ticking time bomb in your mind begins to speed up. 

Dustin clears his throat and stands up, gathering everyone's attention as he clasps his hands. “Let’s cut straight to the chase,” he begins, “Your music careers are fucked.”

Jeff breathily laughs to the side, and Erica glares at him, quickly diminishing his obvious amusement. “Somehow, the seven of you have managed to obliterate your band's image in less than a month,” Dustin points out, picking up a stack of magazines before him and walking calmly about the room. He tosses a magazine out into the middle of the table, “Misogynists,” another magazine, “Anti-feminist,” another magazine, “Chauvinists,” another magazine— the final one, “Woman-haters.”

You all look at the magazines silently until you mumble, “Sounds about right,” causing Eddie to scoff and roll his eyes beneath his shades. “What? You’re mad the media is finally realizing how full of shit you all are?” You prod with a tilt of your head. “At least nobody’s saying I should be sent to a fucking ward.”

Your eyes narrow, and you begin to form a response, but Erica rises from her seat loudly, startling the room as her loud voice booms through the space, “The media is tearing both of you to shreds,” she leans forward to press her palms against the cool wooden table, heated gaze darting between you and Eddie.

“Both of your bands aren’t booking gigs, and you're losing money faster than you earn it,” she points out, watching as you all cower from the truth. She waves a manicured finger between both sides of the table, “This stupid little fucking back and forth you’ve created either ends here or on the road.”

Robin’s face twists in confusion, a raspy voice speaking up for the first time, “On the road?”

Steve turns to her and grins, “Yes. On the road. Together.”

Gareth leans forward in his chair, confused as he speaks, “What, like a retreat type deal?” He questions. Dustin slaps a paper down in front of him, “No. Tour. Nine months, ninety-two shows.”

Gareth doesn’t get much time to take in the information on the paper before Eddie snatches it out of his hands, shades pushed up into his hair as he leans in to gape at it. A list of tour dates, an ongoing and never-ending fucking list.

“You’re not serious.” He says. Steve chuckles at the end of the table, nodding his head, “As serious as a heart attack.”

You’re next to snatch the paper away for a gander, ignoring the rest of the room as everyone erupts in a fit of protest. You stand with your back to the table as you gaze through each date, your neck heating up with anger as your fingers crease the paper. You turn around, face twisted in rage, wrinkling the paper in your shaking fist as you storm up to where Erica stands, waiting for you to say your piece with an unwavering impression.

You hold the crinkled paper up as you stand before her, “You’ve lost your fucking mind if you think I’m doing shows with these pieces of shits.” You sneer, tossing the paper onto the table. Erica raises an eyebrow, looking at you as if you’ve gone off the deep end. The room enters a thick silence at your outburst, all eyes on the standoff between you and Erica. “Call the tour off, or I’m out.”

“What?” Robin leans forward to gaze at you, eyes widened in shock at your words, “You’re not leaving the band, Y/N, you— you can’t.”

You ignore Robin and step closer to Erica, eyes burning into her gaze as you speak, and Erica has never seen you this angry in all her years of knowing you. “Call it off.”

Erica will let you believe you have the upper hand for your peace of mind, but when it comes down to reality, you both know you don’t stand a chance against her force of nature. Erica is calm and uncannily patient as she speaks to you, “You’re at a dead-end street, Tiger,” she starts, “You either make a way, or you go back to Hawkins with your tail between your legs like everyone expected.” 

Erica sits back in her chair, not even bothering to look at you as she busies herself with the paperwork before her when she adds, “You make the call.”

You glare down at her, throat closing in anger and betrayal. You don’t say another word as you storm out, leaving the room with a booming echo of the heavy glass door slamming shut. Erica sighs, settling back in her chair and gazing at the rest of the band members, who are all silently fuming in anger. “Now, does anyone else have something to say or something of substance to add, or are we done here?” Eddie rises from his seat with clear annoyance, “This is bullshit,” the force of his movement sends his chair back to the wall as he walks out of the room, just as angrily as you had previously done.

The remaining band members sit in silence, avoiding each other's gaze, and Steve breathily laughs, “Well, Dustin, you were wrong,” he teases, smirking when Dustin and Erica turn to him. “Eddie took that pretty well.”

The band members glance at the managers, and Dustin sighs as he leans back in his chair, twisting his mouth in thought and tapping his pen against the table.

“This is gonna be more work than I thought.”

————

a/n: AHHH, YOU'VE MADE IT TO THE END!!! WE HOPE YOU LIKED THIS AND LOVE THEM SO FAR; more to come sooonnnn <3

————

teeny taglist: @tommyvelvet @oeuryale

#WOOOOO #ENJOYYY #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson au #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x rockstar!reader #drabble #eddie x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie x fem!reader #stranger things au

[silaswritesthings]

scara x yandere housewife reader?? please

(o^▽^o)

Summary: Scaramouche has been spending less time at home with you because of his partnership with ‘the doctor’. Why does he want to spend more time with someone who hurts him rather than someone he loves? To solve this, you stole his keys so he Couldn’t leave your home <3

Starring: Scaramouche (fatui harbinger)

Genre: toxic relationship

Warnings: cursing, reader is a Yandere, slight implications of unethical experimentation, suggestive themes

Author’s note: I hope I did justice to your ask and I hope you enjoy reading this, Thank you! I enjoyed writing this more than I’d like to admit.

Word count: 894

“Stay here with me.” You said to Scaramouche. He had you cornered in your room and the fragile peace that persisted between the both of you for the past few days shattered.

He stared at you with disbelief before snapping, “Have you lost your mind?”

A sound of amusement left your lips without your intention. You hated when your body reacted to him without you thinking, you wanted to avoid pushing him further than you already had. But if he loved you… he would love you even when you snuffed his patience like a candlelight, yes? “Love tends to do that to people.”

“Give me my keys.” His stance was domineering but it was difficult to be dominated by somebody at your eye level.

“No.”

“Give me my damn-”

“I will not-” You began, raising your voice-“let you leave this house until I have removed the one you keep allowing to hurt you!”

Scaramouche stared at you in stunned silence before laughing so hard he had to wrap his arms around his abdomen. “Dottore is helping me work my way to godhood.” His voice turned condescending, “It is my calling, you couldn’t dream of understanding it.”

“Then make me understand.” You spat with sarcasm.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re not leaving until I’ve understood why you keep going back to him and giving him the leeway to hurt you.”

He remained quiet and you took this as an opportunity to continue. “If you want to be hurt that badly, then ask me to do it.” You took one of his hands and held it to your chest despite his resistance. “I’m your wife, I'm here to make you happy.”

He struggled against your hold but you didn’t budge. His jaw tightened. “Kill yourself.”

“If you want me to die, do it yourself”

“You have gone too far with your actions and I’m getting irritated, do you forget who I am?” He stepped closer, pushing you into the wall and then grabbing your chin with his free hand. “You speak as if you believe I won't be able to hurt a single hair on your body.”

You smiled, ecstatic at the contact, because he hadn’t laid a single finger on you in almost four days. “Dying by your hands sounds like a dream.”

He tensed and stepped back but you grabbed the wrist of his other hand and trapped it in your hold too. Your eyes narrowed. “I’ve waited four days to be in close proximity with you, yet you only let me experience it for a few seconds. You’re a cruel man.”

“Let me go.”

“I don’t want to.”

He burst out in laughter but your hold on his hands didn’t falter. When his laughter died down, he was in your personal space once again. Pushing against your hold, he gripped your chin and forced your eyes to remain in contact. “So you can do whatever you want and I can’t?” He tilted his head as he asked, his breath kissing the skin of your face.

You nodded in a daze but the action was interrupted by Scara holding your face tighter. By now, you had released your death grip on him, and he rested his free hand on the wall beside your head.

You were hyper-aware of your surroundings now; the dim light, the hard wall pressed against your back, the cold touch of Scara’s skin and most importantly, his breath mixing with yours. His eyes were usually a bright amethyst under the sunlight but in the dull light of your room, they looked near-obsidian. Like two bottomless pits that promised you terrible things. However, you would take whatever he would give as long as it is Scaramouche who is giving it to you. Would he do the same for you? The thought made your chest tighten.

“You’ve made me upset.” You admitted.

His grip on your face loosened just enough to make your heart flutter. “Have I?” He whispered as he observed your face. When you nodded, he had begun to run his thumb over your cheek in a gentle repetitive motion. “You made me upset first,” his voice was quiet, “is it not fair for me to make you upset too?” His touch melted your resolve and soon the reason behind your anger was buried at the back of your mind.

“Nevermind that. Allow me to apologise, my dearest wife.” His thumb had ventured to your bottom lip, and he tugged it gently. “Even though I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” With that, he replaced his thumb with his lips. It was an action filled with deceit but you allowed yourself to be fooled by it.

The kiss was slow but passionate and all your coherent thoughts were lost when he moved his hand from the wall to lift the hem of your shirt and trailed his fingers over your waist. You nearly dissolved into the air when he sighed your name against your lips-

“Where are my keys?”

“Kitchen, under the third tile on the left from the oven.” Damn it- The way he smirked against your lips drowned any forthcoming anger you had, and he pulled you toward your bed before making you sit on the edge.

“You do a very good job at keeping me happy.” He began as he knelt down before you. “Allow me to return the favour.”

THE END.

#silaswritesthings #silas #genshin impact #genshin x you #genshin wanderer #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #genshin scaramouche

[chemistryread]

she is both hellfire and holy water

- part II

you should take it as a compliment, that I’m talking to everyone here but you

jake seresin

callsign: scorcher

part I

part III

disclaimers/tags: female!aviator!reader. jake is a needy loverboy who needs to be liked so much. slowburn and angst. sooo cheesy, i know.

a/n: this is short as well, just establishing the backstory and how/why reader and jake become a little closer. there will be more parts, bear with me :)

tagging: @thedroneranger @shanimallina87 @peakascum @cherrycola27

It's a slow Saturday, and he's just come back from the gym to find you speaking quietly on the phone.

He doesn't mean to intrude, but he can't help himself. He'll eat his yogurt while he eavesdrops.

"Just, tell me those numbers again, please."

Your back is turned to him, looking out of the window, hand scratching at the back of your neck soothingly. You're shaking.

He puts a half full cup of yogurt down and takes a step in your direction, concerned but unsure.

"Got it. Yeah, thanks for letting me know. Nonono, don't worry, you know I hate it when you do that."

There's a strain to your voice and Jake has learned which of your small laughs are forced.

After that talk with Maverick, he started observing more. You, your mannerisms, how you treated everyone from or not from base. He's hell-bent on figuring out why he's different to you.

One of the things he picked up on was how you hated concern. Anyone fussing over you made you wildly uncomfortable. Sometimes, if someone asked you one too many questions about your day, you'd have to sigh quietly and mumble out a standard, masked 'fuck off' answer.

It's funny how, with him, you would've just told him to fuck off, plain and simple. He doesn't know whether to be offended or flattered.

"I'm good, really." A pause, like the other person on the line is considering. "There we go. Talk to you soon. Okay, bye."

He waits for you to turn around and notice him.

It's awkward when you take too long, holding the phone against your chest and leaning your back unsteadily against the dinner table.

You make a move to walk, feet turning to the door, but decide to retract on it.

He doesn't really know what to do with what happens next.

Still holding onto the table, you crouch down with your knees to your chest, the other hand holding the phone covering your mouth. A controlled sob breaks through.

Jake reboots on the spot, jogging to your side. That was too much, regrettably.

You jump up, nearly losing your balance, spinning away from him presumably to hide your tears.

Trembling hands rub your eyes before an infuriated face turns to him. Smooth.

"Hangman, what the fuck?!"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to-" He cuts himself off. There's nothing he could say to make this any less embarrassing. Surely, he just made your day much worse. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, you scared me 's all."

He shouldn't think that you look cute right now, holding your wrist to calm yourself down, skittish.

"That's not what I meant."

That hot anger takes over your bottomless-pit eyes, closing the distance and puffing your chest out, trying to look scary.

"What do you mean, then, Seresin?"

Your eyelashes are wet, and you're sniffling at the end of every sentence. It's funny that you would even try to deny you are upset. Stubborn, like Maverick said.

His cautionless chuckle is misinterpreted by the figure in front of him, who pushes on his chest - not that it moves his body at all - and storms off.

Oh, c'mon.

Shit.

He looks for you everywhere, stopping by the lockeroom to grab a hoodie and his car keys.

Eventually, he finds you sitting on the roof, watching the ocean.

"I'm knocking so I don't scare you again and you don't fall and break your neck."

Without so much as a smile, you answer him with sarcasm. "How considerate."

At least an exhale out of your nose, he expected. He was using his best sympathetic voice.

"Wouldn't you rather actually see it? Instead of looking at a distant blue line." His open hand is extended towards you, out of the window. "C'mon, I'll drive."

You leave him, ironically, hanging for a minute. But he's not giving up on you today.

Wet fingers close around his palm. You were drying new tears. His heart shrinks a little as he helps you back inside.

It was raining earlier, and you slip on a muddy spot.

Jake quickly wraps his arms around your waist and unceremoniously drags you through the window.

You take a second to regain your footing, shoes still slippery, and he steadies you with his hands on your elbows. A genuine sigh of relief passes his lips, and he shuts his eyes.

He opens them again when he feels your arm hair stand up. Your brows are furrowed, lips shaping into a pout. Adorable when upset, again. He knows he should not think like that.

"You scared me, I scared you back. We're even."

He chuckles again, but you're unrelenting. He stands there, holding you, for a beat too long before you widen your eyes towards the door.

Right, he promised to take you somewhere. Where again?

For the entire ride, your head is leaning back on the headrest, wind ruffling your hair.

Finally at the beach, you seem confused when he takes a seat next to you on the sand.

"Fucking…what now?"

"What are you doing?"

"Watching the ocean, I thought that's what you wanted to do."

"I thought you were gonna meet someone here. You said you were giving me a ride."

Ok, he never thought of you as stupid before but this is a strong contender to sway his opinion.

"No, I said I would drive. Why would I bring you along to meet someone? That makes no sense."

"Fine, then what do you want?"

He laughs in your face again. He should probably stop doing that, but this one is justifiable.

"Are you always this suspicious of everyone? Live a little, honey." As soon as he looks back at you, your lips are pursed into a thin line and he regrets the venom in his words. Maverick's revelations come back to him. You do have a hard time trusting people, and especially him, apparently. "I thought it'd make you feel better. Maybe make you want to talk about it."

"It has nothing to do with the Navy, if you think you're getting any juicy gossip."

Your hands are digging into the sand, arms leaning on them as if prepared to get up and leave any second.

He speaks quietly and slow, ignoring the way you assumed that he was only trying to get information out of you, more patient than he knew he could be.

"If you want to talk about it, I'm happy to listen. Or we can just watch the waves, but I can't guarantee I won't get bored and actually call someone to meet me here."

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, but a small tug of your lips is very much noticed by his watchful eyes, just as much as your shoulders relaxing as you get more comfortable on the fluffy ground.

"Only if you promise not to offer help or say you're sorry."

Holy shit, you are stubborn. He bites back a smile.

"Promise."

"What do you want to know?"

He's not Penny, but he understands this means you will talk about it but want to have control of the conversation. Not give away anything he doesn't inquire about.

"Why were you crying?"

The only times he saw tears from you were when Maverick made it back in the F-14 and at the finish line of a marathon where Phoenix got first place. Even then, they pooled around your eyes but did not dare to actually drop.

"Got surprised by something." He's glad the sun isn't too bright and you're sitting under the shade, because he can see your smile reach your eyes when you laugh at his hesitant and confused expression. The lightness in your clarification is nice to hear. "A bad something."

"Oh." Normally, he would have his sunglasses on, but maybe if you can look into his eyes you'll see that you can trust his intentions. "Don't think I've seen you that upset, ever."

Quickly, you look away, flustered. Fuck's sake, he wants you to know it's alright. But how can he possibly do that without scaring you away when he already knows you don't trust him?

A sigh, followed by a barely audible laugh. It's bitter.

"I guess I'm just tired of this."

Do you mean flying? God, he hopes you don't mean flying. You have one of the sharpest eyes and best quick-thinking - instinct - up there. He enjoyed watching you have a good time in the air, even more when you took it dead serious and kicked everyone's ass when it was just a standard training. You're fun.

"Of this?"

"Oh, no! No, not this. This is everything I am, I can't let go of it anytime soon."

"That's a relief, you have no idea." It's mumbled, but you catch it, squinting at him. He can see you swallowing, gearing up to tease him, so he brings your focus back to the matter at hand. "Then what?"

You swallow harder, looking at the horizon with a pained expression.

"I don't…have anyone, Jake." You never used his name. He takes it as a test. You look back at him and he maintains the same encouraging look. He's listening. "Family, I mean. I haven't seen or spoken to my mother since I was a teenager, my own choice. I have brothers but we never got along, there's a big age difference. And my dad is the reason I'm in a bit of a mess. It's just tiring, to have no one to fall back on."

He remembers not to say sorry and props you up to continue.

"Extended?"

Another painful look.

"My parents were…weird. They didn't like each other, but they also did not like each other's families. It was psychological warfare, keeping each other away from the people who actually cared for them until someone broke under the pressure and finally asked to leave. By the time they divorced, I was too old to be interesting to any of them."

"That is seriously demented."

"I know."

There's the lightness again. You seem to keep a sense of humour about all this.

"Still, they're your family. Don't they want to be close to you now?"

You shrug.

"Dad has a new family. They can do the whole affection thing and holidays together from scratch. Small kids are easier to please, deal and relate with than grown adults."

Affection thing. He wants to laugh at how foreign it sounds coming from you, until he realizes that you really don't know what that's like. He thinks back to his own family. Numerous and suffocating, sometimes.

"They don't care about you? Where you are or what you're doing?"

"Sometimes they text. Usually they just ask my dad about me, but it's pretty inefficient since he doesn't know how to answer that. I've been erased from their history."

Your head might be held up high right now, but he hears the shame.

"Well, they're missing out."

You laugh again, and he is stupidly, childishly proud that he made it happen.

"I don't know, they have a lot of people around them. I think they're okay."

There's silence after that. You mean it, no bitterness that time. You think they're better off without you. It's not his place to, but he wonders what convinced you of such a thing. He doesn't know anyone who would say that their lives would be improved by not having you. Usually, it's the other way around.

Looking at you, it seems like it doesn't even bother you. You've accepted it. You deserve to be shunned from your family, to be alone. A desire to change that perspective sparks inside of him.

He coughs.

"What about your dad? You said he's the reason you're in trouble, so you keep in touch."

Sensitive spot. You readjust on the sand, biting your lip so it stops quivering, nails digging into your forearms.

"The only thing we talk about is money. From time to time, he calls to ask for some. Demanding that I pay back what he gave raising me, since I'm not grateful. That's how it works in his head, anyways."

"That's what happened? He asked for money and you don't have it?"

You're scratching yourself now and he regrets asking but you're already answering.

"Sort of. I accumulated a lot of debt after I moved out. A couple of- Actually, exactly two years ago, I payed it off. All of it. Then, three months ago my dad needed help and I had some money saved so I gave it to him. Life is full of surprises, no matter how well you plan for those, so now I'm falling behind on some bills again and I guess…I don't know I guess I had flashbacks to that desperate feeling of not knowing how you're gonna fix a problem on your own."

"Ask Maverick, or even Cyclone for some way to-"

"Jake."

Bile churns in his stomach at the threatening way you said his name. A warning. It's vulnerable, the waterline of your eyes glimmering. He doesn't know if this is an appropriate moment to say sorry or if the rules still apply.

"Why did you give it to him? You said he has family, people, let them help him."

You lay down on the sand, covering your eyes with your arms, crossing the wrists.

"It's not simple. If I do that, I'll start a war. I know because I've tried. And it's not worth it. In his eyes, I owe him." Your arms come down to swat a fly away and he's glad to see your face again. "I just- I want peace. I want to be left alone. Whatever it takes, because I'm fucking sick of it. If giving him the money will get him off my case for even a day, it's good with me."

You sound suffocated.

He wants to tell you he is sorry. He wants to wax poetic about how loving his own family is and how that made him into a good, or at least better than he could ever be on his own, human being. But he's afraid it'll come out dishonest, despite it being true. He finds sentimentality usually sounds forced in his voice, it's kind of a curse, not able to sound genuine no matter how hard he tries. So he doesn't try anymore.

He lays back with you. It's not the moment to think about this, but you make him nervous. Jake Seresin walking on eggshells to avoid hurting someone's feelings, to prevent a pretty girl from slipping through his fingers.

"If you didn't like me before, I can only imagine how much I disgust you now. Sorry."

It's so quiet, barely breaking through your teeth.

"Why would you disgust me?" It's not the term he would use. Stomp, maybe. "And I thought we weren't saying sorry."

"I mean, everyone who's related to me keeps their distance. Surely, something must be wrong with me. That's what you're thinking." Your eyes are closed, and he takes the opportunity to get closer, turning on his stomach. "And I make the rules, of course I can say it."

"I don't think anything's wrong with you. Not for family-issues-related reasons."

"Aha, but you think I'm weird, right? You said it once."

"Why do you rememb- Oh my God, is that why you don't like me?"

"Who said I don't like you?"

Your eyes shoot open at the accusation, widening once they notice how close you are.

"C'mon, you despise me. I feel it every time you look at me."

He's smiling, obviously teasing you, even with a spot of truth to his exaggerated statement. But you're serious, staring into his eyes a little too long. It unnerves him.

"Fine, I owe you an apology." If his mouth wasn't so dry he would choke. "I don't despise you, Seresin, you're just easy to fuck with."

"I'M EASY TO FUCK WITH?"

"See?"

He shuts up as you prove your point, embarrassed that you captured him so perfectly. Do you know it's just you, though? That the truth is, he isn't easy to fuck with, you just have an easy time fucking with him.

"But I thought…at least the thing with Rooster's dad and Maverick would've made you hate me. It worked for everyone else."

"Lucky for you, I make my own opinions on people." You're blushing? He smiles and lets his eyes fall to your lips briefly, for fun. "I was disappointed."

There you go again, killing all the good feelings inside of him in a millisecond.

"But?" He holds out hope.

Lingering on how disappointment implies expectations. He is equally pressured, annoyed and flattered that you'd expect something out of him. Most people just meet him, stick to their first impressions and expect nothing. It's freeing.

"But I wanted to see how you would handle it. That's the most important part. You fucked up, how you deal with the aftermath counts a lot. And not only did Rooster forgive you, you saved their lives. I can't hold a petty thing that barely involves me against you after all that."

"You never said anything. I expected to be yelled at, like Rooster."

"Did you want me to yell at you?"

It's a confident whisper, taking back control of the conversation at his expense. Fuck, is he blushing? You're steamrolling him. Easy.

"Why let him have all the fun?"

You roll your eyes again, rejecting his advances like a million times before, but there's a new found playfulness to it. His heart beats faster.

"Like I said, I wanted to see what you would do. If I interfered, I wouldn't be able to judge your character, would I?"

Anyone else, and he would've told them to shove judgement up their ass, he doesn't need it. But he sort of wants your judgement to fall on him, so he can know what to think of himself. That's not how it should work. Alas.

Still, one thing bugs him.

"What about Bradshaw's character?"

He cocks his head back, like he just made a great point you hadn't thought about.

"He showed it from day one." Realization probably crosses his face because you mock it. Unlike the easy-going Bradley, he did keep some walls up. A giggle (Jesus, a giggle? Do you want to kill him?) escapes your lips and you bite them to stop it. "Relax, not everyone is an open book. I know, that's why I gave you the chance to show everyone you're mostly alright."

"What?"

"Someone had to tell those hard headed idiots to trust the process."

You did- Why would you?

"Wait- you just, what, told them to have a little faith in me?"

You scoff.

"No, I told them I have a tendency to be right. And I was."

That sounds more like you, cocky but for a reason. And yet, it's weird to hear it in defense of him.

Jake still doesn't fully understand, mind overflowing with questions, urging to have the blanks filled.

"So you defended me?"

Green eyes do their best to intimidate you, or he thinks that's what they are doing, hopes. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

"You're no damsel in distress, Hangman, I wasn't safekeeping your honor-" A snort this time, and he knows you're taking the piss out of him, but he's reveling in it as if it's a compliment. Maybe it is, coming from you. The relaxed expression on your face, freely teasing him like you do with the rest of the squad. He'll take it, if it's all you got. "I just said you probably weren't evil, and you'd come around when needed. Floyd was the one who stood by me the strongest, if you'd like to know."

And right you were, he stepped up when Maverick and Rooster needed him to, without hesitation.

A possibly misplaced sense of pride, the pure kind, spreads inside of him at the thought that you saw potential in him. He expected Javy to know that he would do whatever was necessary, maybe their instructor and mentor, who seemed like an optimistic man. But you, who never really gave him the time of day, who didn't seem impressed by much…that was unexpected. Almost as much as the intensity with which he is pleased to hear you don't not believe in him.

"I could get used to having you on my side."

He pours as much of his charm into the sentence. You don't look even a bit phased, and your voice stays leveled.

"That's a seriously presumptuous leap. I never even said I like you."

Stubborn fucking Lieutenant.

He shakes his head and starts getting up, doing a couple half assed push ups to annoy you (it works) before cleaning the sand from his hands on top of your body.

You swat it away with a faux scowl. He's getting real good at discerning your genuine and fake reactions.

"Wanna grab something to eat?"

You're quicker to take his hand this time, looking at the sun setting behind him.

"How about something to drink?"

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #tgm x reader #tgm fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction

[bobateastay]

keep looking - p.sh

villain!park seonghwa x gender neutral!reader

cw - journalist!reader, police detective!choi san, roommates sanhwa, slow-ish burn, murder/crime, angst, blood, implied cannibalism, uneven power dynamics(?), implied character death, probably isn't realistic don't @ me about it - nothing too explicit but overall dark-ish themes

word count: 6.6k

a/n: this work is a part of @sanjoongie's year of the villain collab! please check out the other writers' stories as well. the original version of this was a little different and this isn't all that explicit :') but thank you for letting me participate anyway and giving me the opportunity to try something new, i enjoyed working on this a lot ♡

Open-mouthed, bloody-lipped. Breathless, beautiful. Exquisite, intoxicating. Hungry. Hungry, hungry, hungry. Always so, so hungry. 

No matter what or who he swallowed down, Seonghwa was always impossibly hungry. He was less of a man and more of a bottomless pit. Less of a bottomless pit and more of a black hole. Pulling and pulling, swallowing and swallowing. It was embarrassing how easily you let him pull you in. 

San hadn’t told you about Seonghwa when he first moved in with him. You weren’t sure why he didn’t say anything to you and neither was San apparently, because he never explained the fact to you even though you were clearly stung by your childhood friend keeping secrets from you. 

You’d only met Seonghwa by mistake, knocking on their apartment door to talk to San one evening when you’d lost your spare keys only to be greeted by an expensive-looking man with glossy lips and peachy eyeshadow dusted over his eyelids. You couldn’t put your finger on why, but you’d felt suddenly inadequate in his presence, his smile teasing while his voice was sweet. When you’d frowned over San not having told you about a new roommate moving in, he’d clicked his tongue at you like a mother hen and stepped out of the doorway.

“Stop pouting and come inside,” he’d said.

If anybody else had spoken to you that way you would have cursed at them, but something about Seonghwa’s demeanour was so commanding that you obeyed without hesitation. His smile had turned from teasing to something you couldn’t name, and you felt as though you were on the edge of your seat the whole time you were around him. 

When you confronted San about him a few days later, the other had only sighed and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes.

“I’ve had a lot going on,” he’d told you over cheap, burnt coffee one day during your lunch breaks. “New case at work. It’s a miracle your lot haven’t caught on yet.”

Your lot. Journalists. You’d never understand San’s disdain for your profession. You did your best to convey the truth, the same way most of your colleagues did. If an article or two came out exposing law enforcement’s mistakes it was because they were real and had affected the public, not because you had a secret vendetta against them. Not that San seemed to understand this.

“He seems nice,” you said. The words almost sounded like a question. He had been nice after all, even if there was something about him that made your insides squeeze. 

“He is,” San mumbled. “I put an ad in the newspaper” – You bit back the urge to tease him for putting an ad in the newspaper in this day and age. – “and he was the only person who answered. I thought it was the best way to find someone more sensible.”

“Makes sense,” you hummed. San smiled weakly at you. You wondered briefly what exactly his latest case was. You’d never seen him so worn down by his work, especially not when the case was so fresh. 

“I’ll get back to work then. But come over one of these days, alright?” he said, standing up from his spot at the coffeeshop table. The second you stood up he wrapped you in a warm, tight hug. You tucked your face into his shoulder and he giggled, kissing the side of your head. “I’ll tell Seonghwa you said hi.”

“Okay. Take it easy, Sannie,” you hummed, before letting go of him and watching him leave to go back to work. He looked different when he was out of your reach, fitting into the grey of the city with a sad ease. You sat back down and opened your laptop to get back to your own work, pushing thoughts of Seonghwa’s enchanting smile and San’s tired eyes to the back of your mind. 

You and San’s professions had rarely caused any problems between the two of you. Of course, rarely didn’t mean never. The two of you had already been through occasional spats throughout your friendship - growing up together will do that to you - but the added tension from your lines of work was something newer and more precarious. By the time you were both a few years into your established careers it became clear that you were starting to tread on thin ice.

It had never crossed your mind before that journalists and police detectives could be so at odds with each other, but as time passed it seemed to become more and more obvious why that was the case. Between the corruption and things swept under the rug on San’s side and the rushed distribution of flawed information on yours, it was hard to keep work talk civil. Still, most of the time your aversions were kept quiet and there were even times in which your professions overlapped in a way that allowed you to help each other. This new case, however, allowed for the exact opposite to happen.

“You wrote this?”

San’s voice was deep. Harsh. You hadn’t even heard him walking up to you, still standing outside your usual meeting spot when San pushed the day’s newspaper into your face, his eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. You were met with your own headline when you looked at the paper and took a deep breath to steel yourself. You should’ve known he would bring it up.

“Police’s refusal to inform the public costs three lives?” he hissed, shoving the paper into your chest and jabbing a finger against it. 

“It’s not about you, San,” you said, even though it was very much about him. He was one of the main detectives on the case after all. 

“It’s about all of us!”

“Well it’s not personal!” you insisted, unable to stop yourself from getting defensive. “Is it not true, anyway? That you withheld information from the public while there were three bodies going cold?”

San paled in front of you even as he gritted his teeth. It was true, no matter his feelings on the article. It hadn’t taken much digging to find out about the supposed murders that the police had tried to keep quiet for nearly a week now. People whose bodies had been peeled open, explored like caverns, whose organs had gone missing and whose limbs had been maimed. Three horrifying murders, all supposedly connected, and not a word from police. You wouldn’t have been surprised if their silence had allowed for more of them to take place. But San wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of admitting it. Not when he’d obviously been working so hard on the case.

“Don’t recite the lines of your bullshit article to me,” he muttered, and while you knew that he didn’t really mean it, that he had never thought your work was bullshit even at the worst of times, you felt your hands shake as you shoved the newspaper back at him.

“As though your department’s statement was any better,” you shot back. San stepped forward, and though the two of you were only centimetres apart you had never felt so far away from him. His hand closed around your wrist, his grip loose but still forceful, and in that second the space between the two of you grew impossibly larger. He opened his mouth to speak but was immediately cut short. 

“I wouldn’t have thought it appropriate to touch a close friend like that.”

San’s eyes widened the same way yours did and you turned simultaneously to find that it wasn’t a stranger interfering with your argument. It was Seonghwa who was standing there on the pavement, a smile on his glossy lips and the corners of his eyes creased. You noted that he was not the only pedestrian looking at the two of you. 

Seonghwa’s smile was different from the one you’d encountered at San’s apartment the last few times you’d visited. It wasn’t teasing or courteous, nor was it friendly. It was strained. Cold. It was more telling of his temperament than a frown would’ve been. San let go of your wrist, embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t-”

“But you were, weren’t you?” Seonghwa asked. The tone of his voice made your blood run cold and your heart skip a beat at the same time. San scowled and snatched the newspaper back from you.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled to you, not unlike a small child who had just been scolded by his mother in front of his friends. You weren’t sure what to make of the apology, not when it was so inauthentic. Instead of replying, you turned to Seonghwa.

“I can defend myself,” you told him. Seonghwa’s smile turned softer, and when he looked at you you found yourself feeling stripped bare beneath his gaze.

“I’m sure. I was just looking out for a friend,” he said. At this, San scoffed.

“Friend?” he asked, raising a brow at Seonghwa. More out of spite toward what San had said than out of affection for Seonghwa, you hummed in confirmation.

“Yeah. Friend,” you emphasised.

San’s frown turned into something closer to a pout, his brows drawing together to form a furrow in the middle. He looked down at the paper in his hands, eyes moving over the headline over and over, as though he might find a word or two in there that would dispute the claim that you and Seonghwa were friends. Eventually he gave up, handing the newspaper to you and shuddering like a bird trying to straighten out its ruffled feathers. 

“I’m going to head back to work. We can see each other tomorrow instead,” San mumbled, and you could find it in yourself to nod back and do nothing more. He glanced into the coffeeshop where the two of you usually shared lunch and turned away to head back to his job, but not without shooting Seonghwa a glare first. You sighed softly and watched him blend back into his life as a cop who couldn’t stand seeing his best friend’s comments on his work. The cold space between you both grew just a little bit wider.

“Hey,” Seonghwa murmured, pulling you out of your own head. He reached out with one arm, slowly, so that you would have enough time to reject him. When you stayed still he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and squeezed you gently, fingers kneading into your shoulder while you both looked down at the newspaper in your hands. He stopped after a while, sliding his hand down to your waist. Something about the way he touched you made you relax rather than tense up the way you expected yourself to do. “Come on, let me buy you coffee.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” you replied, folding up the newspaper and meeting his eyes. 

“I insist,” he pushed. His hand squeezed your waist tight before he let go of you entirely. The moment his touch was gone you found yourself feeling cold and vulnerable. You resisted the urge to reach out for another hug and instead held the newspaper close to your chest. Seonghwa laughed, a sound that should’ve been sweet but instead sounded like an upbeat song twisted into a minor key. “For what it’s worth, I thought the article was good. Well-worded.”

It was your turn to laugh a bitter laugh. 

“Thanks,” you sighed. You met his eyes and allowed yourself to fall into them. “Coffee sounds good.”

You never asked yourself why Seonghwa had arrived at the exact moment San had grabbed your wrist. All you did was smile when he placed a gentle hand on the small of your back, and hoped that he wouldn’t notice the way your grip tightened on the newspaper in your hands.

Just as you’d predicted, the murders grew in number. Three jumped to five and five turned to six. The public was appalled, the police were scrambling to handle the fallout of their silence concerning the first three murders, and every news outlet was fighting to connect the dots and figure out the case before anybody else did.

There were close to no connections between the victims. Spread far and wide across the city, it was hard to tell where the next body would be found and which area officers should be guarding. Three women and three men had been found so far, four killed methodically and almost surgically while the other two were killed brutally, bones smashed and abdomens torn open. At first there was doubt as to whether they could have been committed by the same person, but the way all six crimes coincided made it hard to believe that they belonged to different perpetrators.

Pathologists determined that the victims had been cut open while they were still alive. The murders were close to being vivisections, perverse and calculated in nature. It was just as horrifying as it was intriguing, perfect for triggering the shameful part of human nature that caused humans to stop and stare at car crashes, greedy for the tragedy missing from their own lives. It was always fun to be a spectator when you suffered no consequences after all.

You were working on a new article on the case, mind racing to piece together every new scrap of information that was being handed out to journalists and the public alike, when there was a knock at your front door. You figured that it would be San, coming to talk about your articles or perhaps even apologise, but when you opened the door it wasn’t just your best friend standing in the doorway. 

“Hey,” San exhaled, as though he’d been holding his breath since the last time he saw you. Beside him, Seonghwa smiled at you. 

“Hi doll,” he greeted. You ignored the way San seemed to almost bristle at the pet name that Seonghwa used and instead focused on swallowing down the butterflies fluttering in your throat. When neither you nor San spoke, Seonghwa continued. “We brought some food we cooked. Can we come in?”

Only then did you notice the bags Seonghwa was holding and the box of chocolates in San’s hands. San smiled tentatively as he held them out to you, waiting for you to accept his proposal for a truce. While part of you wanted to keep being bitter, you weren’t strong enough to turn San down. You never had been. You took the box of chocolates from him and snorted when he pulled you into a hug, holding onto you with something close to desperation. 

“I’m sorry. I should never have grabbed you like that,” he mumbled. He was right, but you didn’t feel like pressing the subject any further. You kissed his temple and pulled back from the hug. 

“It’s alright,” you reassured him, stepping aside to let them both into your apartment. 

You didn’t mention out loud the look on Seonghwa’s face as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He was tight-lipped, his jaw hard as stone and his brow bones an icy cliff that gave way to frozen eyes. Even so, he must have noticed the way you looked at him, because his features thawed once San was out of earshot and he glanced at you as though he’d never frozen over to begin with.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said. 

“It’s good to see you too,” you replied, breathless for a reason you couldn’t name. At this, Seonghwa grinned. You found yourself even more winded than before.

After you’d eaten, San volunteered to stay in the kitchen and do the dishes while you and Seonghwa retreated into the room you used for your work. He looked over the notes and news clippings you had tacked onto the wall, eyes drawn to the images you’d obtained from pathologists and morgues of what the various bodies looked like. His expression was different from those you’d seen so far. He remained quiet while he looked over everything, his perfectly manicured fingers trailing over the images. 

“Who do you think did it?” he asked, looking at you. It wasn’t curiosity that was in his features but something else entirely. Something like a high school teacher asking a question that had a painfully obvious answer. You stepped closer to him so that both of you were looking down at the same picture and chewed on your bottom lip.

“A lot of people at work have been saying that it might be a surgeon or an ex-surgeon,” you started, resting your fingertip atop a particularly gruesome picture. “But I thought it might be something different. Like a hunter, maybe. I think that someone who hunts would have more of a capacity for violent murders but they’d know enough to dissect the bodies as well.”

“The word would be vivisect. It was done when they were alive, right?” Seonghwa corrected. Despite his expression just a moment ago his voice was smooth and nowhere near chiding. He placed his fingertip beside yours. His skin was well kept and his cuticles were perfect, but there was something brownish and dark gathered beneath his nail. “I think you’re almost right.”

“Yeah?” you asked, shifting your fingertip only for his to follow. You did it once again, amused by the game of cat and mouse. Not once did you lift your eyes to look at him. You preferred this. The warmth of him standing next to you, his perfect hand and stained fingernail chasing after your finger. You felt him turn his head slightly and shivered when his breath hit your ear.

“It’d have to be both,” he said simply, as though he knew he was right. “An ex-surgeon has no need to murder and a hunter has no need to meticulously take apart. But together?”

His free hand moved to rest on your back, fingers tracing your spine. You finally turned your head to look at him, confused both by him and by the warmth that filled your belly at the sound of his voice. A warmth that was far too close to arousal for your liking. He smiled at you with those glossy lips that always unnerved you and held your gaze with dark, bottomless eyes. 

“Think of it like a butcher,” he said. 

“Butchers kill animals for people to eat,” you replied, glancing between his face and the image of the body still beneath both your fingertips. “There’s no evidence of cannibalism.”

“Well there have been so many missing organs. Do you think it’s an organ trafficker instead? Someone keeping trophies?” he asked. You chewed on your bottom lip again, teeth playing with the flesh until it became soft enough for you to tear a chunk away and swallow it. You looked back at your spread of information, eyes roaming over it all while Seonghwa’s fingers roamed over your back. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted with a sigh. “San’s team hasn’t figured that much out yet.”

“Forget San’s team,” Seonghwa hummed, pressing his hand flat between your shoulder blades. The touch felt safe and loving and, as his blunt fingernails pressed into your skin through the fabric of your shirt, hungry. “You have enough to figure it out. You’ll get there before them.”

Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, your mind struggling to understand what he could possibly mean. But before you could get far San was calling out that he was done with the dishes and that he was putting water to boil for tea. You barely got another glimpse of Seonghwa’s nail and the substance caked beneath it before he was pulling away from you and gesturing for you to follow. 

“Think about it later,” he commanded. 

Not for the first time, you followed his instructions in a heartbeat.

The bodies continued to pile up. The police continued to struggle. The journalists continued to milk money out of the story. The public began to scream of incompetence and carelessness and corruption. The skin beneath San’s eyes grew dark and the collage of images and writings on your wall grew to occupy an alarming amount of space, like something out of a tacky cop TV show. Through it all, the only thing that remained the same was Seonghwa. 

Seonghwa and his perfectly planned outfits, Seonghwa and his carefully applied makeup, Seonghwa and his guarding touches and teasing smiles and minor key laughter. His presence was just as eerie as it was grounding and soon enough you found yourself unlocking the door to San’s apartment not to see your childhood friend but instead to see his roommate. And while San began to shoot you bitter looks each time his department was mentioned in one of your articles, Seonghwa only seemed to grow prouder and prouder, eager to discuss your thoughts and to provide new context and theories that you never would have thought of by yourself. 

This was the case when you let yourself into their apartment early one Saturday morning. You were expecting to find San getting ready to leave for work but it seemed that he wasn’t home. You were toeing off your shoes and hanging up your jacket when Seonghwa emerged from his room, eyelids heavy from sleep but the eyes beneath them just as sharp and alert as they always were. 

“He’s still at the station. Didn’t come home last night,” Seonghwa explained. 

It was odd to see him bare faced after seeing him in makeup all of this time, but he looked just as pretty and alluring now as he did when his lashes were curled and his lips were painted. You nodded in response to him and walked further into the apartment, making your way to the kitchen to put the kettle to boil. 

“This case is really doing him in,” you sighed softly. You thought of San’s worn out face and his irate reactions to the headlines in the newspapers. In all the years you’d known San you’d never seen him so beat down. It was all foreign to you. “Twelve bodies and not a clue as to who’s behind them all. Stuff like that doesn’t even happen nowadays.”

Seonghwa hummed as he followed you, standing beside the counter and watching you. When you’d first met him you’d shrunk beneath his gaze, shying away from his analytical eyes and trying to pull out of his magnetic field. Now, you turned to look at him and found yourself relieved to be close to him. Pulling away wasn’t even a thought in your mind.

“What about you?” he asked. “You’ve been working with it but you don’t seem beat down at all.”

“Well I’ve had you to keep me afloat,” you replied, not thinking twice about the words. The corners of Seonghwa’s lips twitched upwards and you felt your face heat up. 

“I’m enough to keep you afloat?” he asked. While he was only teasing you, the words had enough truth to them to make you face away from him, unwilling to let him notice how your heartbeat had suddenly picked up its pace or how your stomach was suddenly tying in knots. But Seonghwa would have none of that. Though you couldn’t see him, you could hear his footsteps as he came closer to you. When he rested a hand on your hip from where he stood behind you, your nerves melted. You shut your eyes and felt lips pressing against your temple for a heartbeat or two. “You’re closer than you think.”

The words were spoken right up against your ear and the grip on your hip grew tighter. Hungrier. You sucked in a sharp breath and turned to look Seonghwa in the eye. Your noses brushed and the roar of the boiling kettle grew louder and louder until you couldn’t hear your heartbeat rushing in your ears. You wanted to ask him something, anything, to try and understand why he had so much faith in you. Why his touch always felt so protective. Why his smiles always made it seem like he was telling a joke that was too complex for anyone but him to understand. Why he was so good to you when he was so indifferent to his own roommate. But then the kettle clicked at the same moment as the front door’s lock clicked and you were startled out of your train of thought. As though he could read your mind, Seonghwa gently took hold of your jaw and looked between your eyes and your lips, looking like he was arguing with himself. Finally, he let go.

“Hold that thought,” he told you, and stepped away from you. The air of the apartment was cold around you as it took Seonghwa’s place and you found yourself speechless. You were left staring at his face, his expression neutral once again, and found yourself wanting something more. Found yourself hungry.

“Good morning,” San greeted from the doorway of the kitchen, breaking off into a yawn as he waved at you. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“Yeah, I just,” you paused to steel yourself, using every ounce of concentration in your body to avoid looking at Seonghwa sitting at the kitchen table. “I thought we could go out and get breakfast together. I didn’t know you were working overnight.”

“It was a last minute thing,” San sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“New body?” you asked, trying to be sympathetic. San seemed to appreciate the gentle tone because he smiled at you more genuinely than he had done in weeks. 

“New body,” he confirmed. “I don’t know what to do. If we could just get an idea of what this person looks like I’m sure we’d figure it out. Someone like this… I think all it’d take is one look at them and we’d know.”

You didn’t miss the way Seonghwa’s face twitched at this. He was amused. You weren’t sure why. You didn’t ask either. 

“I’m sorry Sannie. Go get some rest, it’ll be good to look at it with fresh eyes,” you said, which only drew another sigh from San. He turned and left anyway, leaving only you and Seonghwa in the kitchen. When you both made eye contact, he drummed his fingers against the kitchen table. You noted the filth caked beneath his nails again but this time you didn’t dwell on it. You turned and picked up the kettle, making mugs of tea for all three of you. Seonghwa kept you silent company, and the moment of closeness from earlier went unmentioned. 

Seonghwa didn’t leave you hungry for long. 

For the first time you invited him over alone, not bothering to invite San as well when you knew that he was unbelievably busy. Seonghwa came over the same as usual, all smiles and mundane chit chat and eagerness to hear about your days and what you’d been doing lately. He even let you show him your growing board of images and clippings, eyes never leaving your lips while you told him about all of the new evidence and what it said about the old evidence. He looked at the new images on your desk and picked one up, rubbing his thumb over the picture of somebody’s empty abdominal cavity.

“I didn’t know journalists investigated this much,” he murmured, setting the picture back down.

“Not all of us do,” you replied with a shrug. “But this is what we all study and work for. A big story. They don’t come often, we should do our best with them.”

Seonghwa grunted in response. You turned to look at him, wondering if you’d said something wrong. But then he turned his head to look at you and you felt your heart practically come to a standstill in your chest. His eyes became strangely focused the same way they did when he looked at the gory pictures you had printed out and stuck up for analysis. 

“You’re brave, you know that?” he asked. When you raised an eyebrow in question, he raised one in return. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to meddle with the affairs of someone who’s so willing to maim and kill? Do you think they aren’t reading all of this? Watching what you’re doing?”

For the first time since the murders had started, you felt a pang of ice cold fear in your chest. 

“No, I… I didn’t think of it like that,” you whispered, looking at your wall through a new lens. Maybe Seonghwa was right. Maybe all you were doing was making yourself a target without even coming closer to an answer for the case. Seonghwa grunted once again. 

“You have to look closer, and never think that they’re not looking back at you,” he said. Before you could even register what he was doing he pushed aside the papers on your desk so that there was a clear space in the middle. He guided you to sit down with the intoxicating touch that you were starting to become more and more familiar with and you followed. You followed again when he stepped forward to stand between your legs and leaned in so that his nose brushed against yours. You looked at his hands and, after weeks of fleeting glances and trying to figure it out, you understood what was stuck beneath his nails. “Look at me. Are you looking at me?”

You looked away from his hands, the icy fear in your chest melting into the warmth of attraction in your stomach, until you couldn’t tell what was horror and what was desire. In the end, both feelings fostered an aching hunger deep in your belly.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I’m looking.”

Seonghwa lifted a hand, allowed you to stare at the blood beneath his nails before he held your jaw and gave it a calculated squeeze. 

“I’m looking back at you,” he said, words ghosting over your lips. 

When he kissed you it was hungry. You felt as though your stomach had opened up into a black hole. His teeth dug into your bottom lip and you let them, even when the pain of it became sharp enough to make you wince. You let him kiss and bite and lick even when the skin broke and the kiss began to taste of metal and flesh. His nails dug into your skin as he pushed his hands up beneath your shirt, no doubt leaving behind indents in the shape of crescent moons, and his breaths came out heavy and unsteady. 

“Keep looking,” he demanded, voice rough and unlike anything you’d heard from his lips before. “I’m looking right back at you.”

The crimes only seemed to escalate after that. In tune with them, the hunger you felt around Seonghwa escalated each time you saw him. You wanted more from him, but he only ever gave you half of that. He pressed you against his kitchen counter and bit into your skin, teeth digging in hard enough that you were sure he’d break past it and make you bleed the same way he did to your lips. But he never did bite that hard. You were starting to learn that Seonghwa was a master of self-control, even though the number of murders in the city only seemed to climb. While you still had no real reason to believe that he had anything to do with them, you couldn’t keep yourself from trying to connect the two dots.

You barely saw San anymore. Instead you sat with your legs over Seonghwa’s lap while you told him about the latest autopsy report and he clued you in on what you weren’t looking at closely enough. He pushed a hand beneath your shirt and traced each of your organs as you described what had happened to those of the victims. Some of them had been removed with the utmost care, while some of them had been torn out with the same aggression a five-year-old would use to tear the limbs off of their Barbie dolls. Seonghwa seemed to enjoy listening to you describe that sort of aggression, and if that was suspicious to you in any way, shape or form, you kept that suspicion to yourself. You never posed any questions, just kept looking closer. Each time you did, you found that Seonghwa was looking right back at you. 

It was late one evening when there was a furious knocking on your front door. You were half-asleep already, sitting in front of the TV with a book in hand, and you stumbled when you got up to answer the door. Unlike weeks ago, it was Seonghwa who you were expecting to see at this time, not your childhood friend. But it was San’s face that greeted you, not his roommate’s.

“Hey Sannie,” you mumbled through your drowsiness. When he didn’t immediately reply, you blinked at him, slowly zoning in on the anger and discomfort in his eyes. You stepped out of the doorway but he made no move to come inside, instead shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“You know something,” he said. A statement, not a question.

“What do you mean?”

“Your articles are different. The speculation isn’t speculation anymore,” he said. This managed to wake you up.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said, but the words were only half true.

“I know how you write. I’ve read your articles for years,” San continued, his discomfort becoming more and more obvious. “All this stuff about the killer being a surgeon and a hunter? Speculating that they’re a cannibal? That the killings are like the work of a butcher? You’re not guessing. You’re writing things that you know for sure.”

You froze. You hadn’t even noticed the tone in your articles shifting. You realised suddenly that you might have written about something you weren’t supposed to know, something that hadn’t been revealed to the public yet. Your blood ran cold. You couldn’t even remember how much of Seonghwa’s words had weaved their way into your own. 

“Are they things that you know for sure?” you asked, unable to keep the shake out of your voice. Something akin to disappointment, maybe even betrayal, passed over San’s face. 

“You have to tell us why you know these things. You have to tell us or else they’re going to make you,” he said quietly.

“Don’t you trust me?” you asked. 

“It’s not about trust. This is my job,” San said. He paused for a moment, looking as though he might regret what he was going to say. But he said it anyway. “If I have to throw you under the bus I will. If I have to arrest you or take you to court to solve this case, I will. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t you.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t you. He didn’t even care who he was sacrificing, not if it would get this case off of his back. He didn’t really care about solving it. He cared only about washing his hands of the matter. The two of you did nothing except look at each other for a long while, and that gap that had surfaced when you wrote your first article about the case appeared again, wider and deeper than it had ever been. You wondered for a second if you would turn San in for something he hadn’t done, but it took only a second and not any longer for you to dismiss the idea. Of course you wouldn’t. Who would do something like that?

You shut the door and locked it. You stood there until you finally heard San’s footsteps retreating, finalising the divide in your friendship. 

“You can’t tell me anymore than you already have,” you told Seonghwa days later, taking down your scraps of paper and pictures of evidence and packing them all up into a shoebox. Seonghwa watched from the doorway of the room, his expression stiff enough that you couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or displeased. 

“You don’t want to look anymore?” he asked. You glanced at him, felt your cheeks turn hot as he looked at you. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you mumbled. “San’s going to turn me in if I say anything else.”

“What makes you think he’d be able to?”

This time when you looked at Seonghwa he looked something close to livid. 

“What makes you think anyone can hurt you anymore? That they could do anything to you that you don’t want them to do?” 

You tried not to think about what the words implied when there was dry blood beneath his nails and a dark look in his eyes. You pushed the last of the pictures into the box and set it down on top of your desk. You sealed it shut with copious amounts of tape, working silently even as Seonghwa came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. Finally, you were done, but you stayed still as Seonghwa pulled you closer to him, nosing at the back of your neck. 

“Keep looking, okay?” he whispered. “I’ll keep looking back.”

Pulling and pulling, swallowing and swallowing. It was all Seonghwa knew how to do. Not for the first time, you let yourself be pulled in and swallowed down. Only this time, you were finally aware of it. 

It didn’t take long for another body to be found. Only that this time, you knew first. You knew before the emergency service operators did, before the police did, before any other journalist did. You knew first, and you kept looking and looking and looking while it looked back all the while.

This was the first time you’d seen somebody die and it was the first time you’d seen somebody kill. It was also the first time you’d seen somebody open-mouthed and bloody-lipped. Breathless, beautiful. Exquisite, intoxicating. Hungry. Hungry, hungry, hungry. 

Hungry even when he pulled you close and kissed you with blood in his mouth and all over his face and beneath his nails. He swallowed down flesh and you kept looking. He tore open skin and you kept looking. He got blood on his peachy eyeshadow and you kept looking. The shameful part of your human nature wouldn’t let you pull your eyes away. 

“C’mere doll.”

His voice was magnetic and he knew it. You moved closer to him, shuffling alongside the body beginning to turn cold beside you both on the bed. Seonghwa’s hands slid beneath your underwear, squeezing your ass tight enough to make you gasp. He stained your skin with blood and grinned at you. He leaned forward to kiss your neck and this time his teeth broke the skin. He lapped up the blood that surfaced, kissed at the wound like a mother kissing her child’s scraped knee. 

“Are you still looking?” he asked, sounding something like tires crunching on gravel. 

“Yes,” you replied, kissing at his iron-coated lips. He hummed, satisfied. If he wanted to eat you whole you would have let him in that moment, spellbound by his touch and gaze the same way you had been when you first met him. But for the first time since you’d laid eyes on him he was satisfied, less of a blackhole and more of a bottomless pit. Less of a bottomless pit and more of a man. 

“Good. Don’t take your eyes off me.”

Even as the case spiralled, even as dry blood began to accumulate beneath your fingernails, even when your best friend’s name appeared in your headlines, you did exactly as he said. The fear subsided into curiosity, and curiosity subsided into admiration, and admiration inevitably subsided into hunger. Through each and every body and through each and every bump in the case, your eyes never left his. And he kept looking

right

back

at you.

.

taglist: @i-luvsang @peanutpmingib @sannierio @lokai-fi @w-iill @cutie-wooyo @xirenex @sanjoongie @talkbykhalid @itsjustwinter

taglist form here

#ateez x reader #park seonghwa x reader #ateez fanfic #park seonghwa fanfic #choi san fanfic #ateez imagines #park seonghwa imagines #ateez fic #park seonghwa fic #yandere ateez #yandere seonghwa #not rlly but idk what else to describe it as

[tazmiilly]

love that ford threw a key into the bottomless pit. why. what if u need that

#maybe he's throwing away the key to his box of secrets like mabel #except she threw the whole box #realistically he probably didn't know what the key was for #need a tag for consuming media

[auntieclimactic]

HOLY SHIT, I WROTE A THING

Working Title: Eternal Sunshine of the Demonic Mind

Crowley opened eyes that he didn’t remember closing only to be greeted by the floating head of the Antichrist. 

“Adam,” Crowley tried, but his voice scraped against the inside of his throat, making him cough. The head of the child currently known as Adam and formerly known as the Antichrist blinked down at him.

Down at him? Ah, yes. Crowley was flat on his back. And Adam Young née the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness wasn’t a head suspended in a blue void. He was a fifteen-year-old boy, body firmly attached, kneeling over Crowley with a twitchy expression on his face. The blue void was no void at all but the sky, which Crowley was staring up at as he was still on his back. 

“Nyg,” Crowley croaked out. 

Adam’s face lit up. “Oh good. For a second, I thought I’d done it wrong and scrambled your brains or something.”

Crowley tried to commend his body into standing position—sitting even!—and quickly gave it up as a lost cause. Maybe he should try to get his eyes to uncross first. 

“What,” Crowley enunciated carefully, “did you. Do to. Me?”

“You asked!” Adam whined in that mortally offended way that only teenage humans were capable of. 

“What—” Crowley tried again only to have an envelope shoved in his face. His vision wobbled a bit as his eyes crossed, uncrossed, and refocused. On the envelope, written in his handwriting and in a language no being currently on Earth was familiar with, was his name. 

It took Crowley a bit of wriggling and, ultimately, Adam’s assistance, which shall never be spoken of again, to sit upright. 

Inside the envelope was a letter. On that letter, was his irritated scrawl, which read:

Hello Crowley,

By the time we’re reading this, it will be done. Hopefully, Adam didn’t cock things up too much, but our options were limited and he owes us for the whole Apocalyptic Intervention nonsense. There are three things we need to know:

We asked for Adam to wipe a Certain Individual, who shall not be named, from our memories 

We are better off without memories of said Individual.

Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES are you to ask Adam to reverse the process. Trust me, er, trust us, I suppose. 

Of course there are minor stipulations, but no need to concern yourself with those now. The keys to the Bentley are in your pocket. Don’t forget to yell at the plants. 

Yours in damnation,

Crowley 

Crowley looked over at Adam. Adam grinned widely and gave him two enthusiastic thumbs up. Staring down at the letter, Crowley tried to make sense of it.

Certain Individual, the letter said. What Certain Individual? Crowley didn’t know any Certain Individual. Well. There was the Upstairs Individual and the Downstairs Individual and the Individual formerly known as the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. But knew about them, so they couldn’t be the Certain Individual.

Frowning at the letter, Crowley did a quick skim through his memory. No glaring holes. No jagged blanks. Just him and 6,000 years of stirring up trouble—minus the 14th Century, of course—and some minor recurring Heavenly nuances whose names were barely worth remembering, but nothing else.

Whomever this Certain Individual was, Crowley decided, tucking the letter in his pocket, they must not have been very important.

#listen. what if I took Good Omens #and plot devices from Eternal Sunshine on a Spotless Mind #and Harrow the Ninth #and mashed them together like a child playing with play-doh #WOULDN'T THAT BE FUN?! #Auntie C's fic #It feels good to be writing again #fic in progress... maybe... no promises

[onedaughterofman]

You, forever (Chapter X: Dance Macabre)

Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x g/n reader Summary: The Clergy takes something from Copia, but he refuses to let go. Warnings/tags: descriptions of corpses, death, blood and violence. Biblical references and Satanism. Angst. Around 8K words.

A/N: The end is here. I want to dedicate this chapter to King Satan. None of this would have been possible without Him.

PREV CHAPTER HERE

"The fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth. To him was given the key of the bottomless pit. He opened it and there arose smoke and the sun and the air were darkened. There came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth."

Breathe.

The sky remains calm. Ominous gray clouds obscure the firmament, rendering it black. Copia’s eyes gradually lift from the old, decayed remains of marble tiles and rubble on the floor, examining the area until they inevitably fall on you.

Breathe again.

Copia’s heart jumps inside his ribcage, stopping scarcely for a moment before resuming a measured, heavy pace. His organ throbs and whines painfully, beating slowly. The sensation it’s terribly burdensome, as if his heart alone weighed more than his entire body. Mouth agape, he battles to inhale but even if the air enters his lungs, there’s no substance in it.

The entire world has come to an abrupt stop. No birds or cicadas dare to sing, not even the wind whistles in his ears. Copia is unsure if he’s still alive and breathing, or if he has ceased existing too. His fingers twitch, not quite moving, but desperately yearning to reach out.

You are standing in front of him. As beautiful as the last day he saw you, laying in bed and sleeping soundly. Copia remembers that morning previous to his trip, before the word crumbled at his feet. He recalls your tousled hair in the pillows, the way the dim light fell on your exposed body and how the sheets and blankets swirled around your figure. Copia remembers the little smile on your tender lips, the way your eyelashes fluttered when you acknowledged his departure.

That morning, the sky was equally dark as today, rain threatening to fall at any given moment. Now, even if the air is humid and saturated with dew, Copia fears no storm. The ground could break into a thousand pieces, turning into nothing but fire and lava, and he would nevertheless try to reach out, to hold you even if dread and guilt anchor his feet.

Suffocating as it is, Copia is sure he’d rather experience forever this solid weight his heart carries than to lose you again. It would be a hungry beast to feed, a dreary peace coated in blood and sacrifice. But worth it, so worth it. 

 It’s been months, years, an eternity since he saw you standing for the last time…And now, now Copia’s right hand lifts, fingers shaking and yearning to take yours. Yet, he doesn’t dare to. His feet are glued to the ground.

Frozen in place, Copia can only stare at the way Goore’s hands hold your waist and wrist, firm grip restraining you in place. There’s a black blindfold obstructing your vision, and the hair falls on your forehead in a way he’s convinced you must hate.

Yes, you used to despise that. His memories may have faded now, to the point he’s no longer certain what is reality and what a dream, barely a product of his imagination and mind tricks. Copia no longer remembers his past, the days and nights have become a blurry, mushed mess in his jaded brain. However, he’s sure of this. 

If it’s about you, then he naturally knows it. He feels it in his guts, in his heart.

In front of him, you remain both hauntingly beautiful and sinister, much like the phantasmagorical version of you he has kept alive all this time inside his mind.

“For you,” Goore announces, definitely shattering the deep silence. The tree tops move with the wind, practically in slow motion. “Right back from the bottomless pit.”

One step, then another. Copia’s legs vacillate, weakening at the sight of you oscillating limply in Goore’s arms. Your hand moves by degrees, in a very artificial and articulated way, almost as if there were invisible strings holding you together by the joints. He breathes through his teeth, raw air freezing his insides.

And yet, he moves. There’s no strength, no soul behind his flesh, only muscle memory keeping him upward. Copia’s hand extends again, fingers narrowly brushing the hair on your forehead before something hastily strikes at his face.

The effort to move out of the way makes his heart race. At least, now he’s sure he’s alive. Goore’s laugh pierces the silence, demolishing it into a thousand pieces as a low growl dies in your throat.

Copia swallows, but there’s no saliva in his mouth. His tongue is dry, and something wet is scurrying down his cheek. The realization hits him like a train.

It’s blood. He’s bleeding, from a shallow cut on his forehead.

Oh, impious father, why must he keep suffering? Hasn’t he given enough? Hasn’t he sacrificed everything, everyone in this spiteful earthly realm? He only wanted one thing, and that was to live with you, to love you. Was it too much? Was it so greedy of him, to desire your love?

Is he so wicked, so cursed that not even Satan himself would grant him his one, true desire?

It’s hard to accept it, to face the truth. You have attacked him, mercilessly tried to claw his eyes out of his face. Copia could cry, but his throat is closed and his soul is tired, empty. His lip merely quivers, before he regains control.

Behind his back, he perceives the muffled growling of the Ghouls. The tails are flickering and wiping the air, in a visible demonstration of their uneasiness. Copia gestures for them to calm down, but the growl persists, only becoming a dull rumble he chooses to ignore.

Mary’s chuckles are completely different. This time, their hands nudge you away, making you trip on a pile of debris. Your body doesn’t hit the ground, only because they grip both of your wrists before the fall, keeping your nails away from their face.

“Careful,” Mary advises, blowing a few strands of hair out of their eyes. “Their wrath knows no difference between a friend and a foe.”

“What have you done to them?”

As much as his soul hurts, there is no anger reflected in his voice. Copia is terribly numb, too exhausted to even consider devoting his energy on someone like Goore. If he’s about to plumber to the ground and allow nature to consume him to the very core, then he wants to use his last vital force to hug you and be with you under the moonlight.

“Me? I opened the pit that kept their soul trapped in the underworld. Just like you asked me to.”

“This is not…” Copia begins, but the words taste bitter, like poison. He debates whether or not to say them, pondering if it’s better to spit them out and release them to contaminate the ground or swallow them and hope to die from their venom. “This is not… the person I used to know.”

No. You, the one he fell for, would have never hurt him. You were kind, lovely, so full of warmth. Copia detects bits of you in the creature he has in front of his eyes, notes the resemblance, but there are also striking differences. It feels as if he is looking at you through a thick, colored glass or a distorted mirror. 

You’re the same and yet, you’re a stranger. He can’t overlook the way his muscles spam and tremble when he takes a step back, head shaking. Oh, how afraid he is, how strongly the anguish tears into his throat. He’s terrified, frightened of you and of himself, of the things he has done and the blood on his hands and clothes.

The fear in his small pupils is evident. Goore sees it even in the gloomy night, smells it permeating the air. Their lips stretch again, a wide grin on their face. “Man, don’t be like that,” they say, fingers digging into your cheeks. A growl escapes through your teeth, but you remain in place. 

When Copia doesn’t move, Mary continues. “You heard that? He doesn’t want you anymore,” they mock, turning your head in the other’s direction. Only a low gasp exits his lips. “You can’t rely on a man’s loyalty, believe me. Been there, done that.”

Finally, his words elicit a reaction. “That’s not…!” Copia complains. To ever think about leaving you or, Lord forbid, you discarding him makes his blood burn, then freeze. You can’t. He loves you. He needs you. You have promised to stay together eternally, to rot and burn forever united. “You must have made a mistake. Something is wrong, I know it!”

Rejoicing in Copia’s internal turmoil, Goore merely huffs in response. Their eyes are wide open, pupils blown inside the light irises. The gaze is intense, malevolent even. If there’s a spawn of the deepest circles of Hell on earth, then it’s Goore.

Maybe it’s not Death the one who didn’t want them. Maybe even Satan preferred to keep them far away.

“Well, you made me speed up the process way too much. Human resurrection is not as simple as one might think.” A long pause. Mary’s fingers uncurl from your wrists, pushing you away. Your legs tremble and give up, barely regaining your footing before reaching the ground. “Why, though? Death doesn’t take everything away, only the soul. The flesh and bones remain, just like the memories stored in the brain. If you give them a little push, a spark of life, they start moving like flesh puppets.”

Yes, that sounds right. Most of Goore’s projects were just flesh puppets made to satisfy whatever selfish desire they had. It quickly became a boring hobby, a stale one. Mary wanted more. So, they got more. “But yours? This one has a vigorous, tortured soul. That’s why it’s fucked up. I told you to only bring the body back.”

“You’d say it’d work.”

“It works. They need some adaptation time to reconnect the soul, body and memories.” Or so, Mary hopes. All their past projects were incomplete, way too complicated to be allowed inside the Ministry. You’re different, a masterpiece, a beautiful creation. “If you still want them, here they are. Hell, I’ll make them behave for you.”

A deep breath is all it takes. When Goore concentrates, it’s almost as if the cords holding you in place suddenly tensed up. Like a puppet with no visible strings, your back straightens and both feet get planted firmly on the dirt. A twitch of their fingers makes you twirl and dance round and round under the ghastly moonlight.

It’s awful.

“See? Are they not more beautiful now?"

No. It's terribly awful. Copia stares, eyes wide open, air frozen in his throat. His guts hurt, and he feels about to puke. “Stop!” he yells, moving forward. His fingers touch you for the first time, and there’s a spark there. He feels shivers down his spine, the bile rising to his mouth. 

Oh, Satan, if he’s been a good servant, then he only pleads one thing: let this be a nightmare. Copia is suddenly small, so scared, both happy to finally hold you but terrified of this reality. He has you back, but something is terribly wrong, he can tell. The realization of what he has done, how he has turned you into this, condemned you to this monstrosity, hits like a train. He could cry, sob and wail for days to come. 

But he doesn't. “Just leave them and go. We are done here.”

“As you wish,” Mary says, starting to walk. They stop before crossing the old Ministry’s gate, head tilted to one side making the long bangs fall on their eyes. “If you put them back in places they used to like, their memories will come back quicker and maybe they’ll regain some of their humanity. Don’t remove the blindfold yet, the resurrected don’t like it. There’s a reason why Nihil had to wear those stupid sunglasses during the rituals.”

“Maybe, you say?” The leather gloves make a loud noise over the silence when he clenches his fists tight, knuckles turning pale under the cold material. “I sacrificed everything I ever had to the Old One, and all you can give me is a maybe?”

Under his breath, Papa Emeritus IV curses. Why? Why is this happening to him? He was chosen. He’s Papa now. 

 It’s not fair. Life has never been fair to him. Maybe Imperator was right all this time. If you want something, you don’t ask for it, you don’t pray and hope to get it.

No. You conquer, you destroy, you take it by force. That’s how she lived, no fear, no guilt, no shame. And Satan liked it, Copia is sure. He rejoiced in the suffering she caused, fed off the atrocities and sacrifices she offered. Satan is a cruel mouth to feed in the Ministry, a curse that weighs on top of all of them, all the time.

In this world, either you bleed, or others do it. There’s no magical benediction, no way to free the soul from curses. They are all slaves to someone. Perhaps Terzo was also right. There should be no God, and no Satan.

There should be only men, only himself. 

Blown pupils burning holes on Papa’s face, Goore speaks up one last time.  “What can I say? Suffering for the Lord is not an easy thing.”

Copia allows himself to fall to his knees when Mary crosses the gates and disappears into the darkness. Behind his back, the ghouls mutter between each other, words in a language he can’t recognize. If they are laughing or mocking him, he doesn’t care.

In his arms, now on the ground next to him, your body twitches. Copia takes hold of your wrists, pulls them until your head comes to rest on his chest. The tickle of your hair on his cheek reminds him of old, better times. It’s a bitter comfort, a loving touch to his starved skin. 

“Amore, it’s okay,” he whispers over your hair. “You’re home now. I’m here with you.”

There’s no reply. Holding you closer, Copia lets his eyelids fall as he slowly rocks his body back and forth, humming an old song. When your skin begins to retain part of his heat, he feels a smile forming on his lips. The humming grows louder, melody vibrating in his vocal cords. 

Oh, how happy he is. Copia’s mouth opens to let out a joyful chuckle, but only sobs come out of it. The tears fall on your hair, clinging to the strands like dew drops.

“It was commanded to them that they should hurt only those men which have not the seal of God in their foreheads. In those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.”

In the abbey, although now run down by the passage of time and the unforgiving fire, there is a garden.

Long time ago, Papa Emeritus I took it as his job to build an educational area where Siblings could study and research herbs and plants used to treat diseases or to create deadly poisons. The exotic species were guarded by gargoyles and surrounded with beautiful painted tiles, a gift he received from a Bishop resident in northern Italy.

When Papa Emeritus I died, the maintenance of the garden fell on the Siblings. Shortly after, diverse rumors began to be spread, whispered in a hushed voice on the hallways. Some Siblings were convinced the soul of the old Papa was still roaming around, carefully tending to the plants and haunting anybody who dared to disrupt the peaceful and educational nature of the garden.

If the rumors are true, Copia doesn’t know it. The whole yard is nothing but a burned, withering mountain of weeds and dry leaves. There’s no ghost tormenting him, not heavy weight pounding down his shoulders and no promises of revenge coming from Primo.

It’s almost disappointing. Sitting under a tree, Copia wishes Primo could be here. The old man used to be the least bothersome of them all, and also the one who dedicated himself to the church the most. If only he could be near, willing to impart his wisdom for a bit of time, he’d be grateful.

Some kind of ancient rite, a special herb conjunction or even a spell could help him sleep for a whole night, without falling prey to the terrible horrors of his dreams. Copia endures the way his eyelids weigh down, desperate to offer some relief to his weary eyes. His sight is blurry, sclera bloodshot.

Copia is tired, so tired all the time.

There’s no respite for his old soul. He can’t rest, for as long as your situation remains uncertain. Copia knows deep in his heart that you must ache so badly. Still, on long days and eternal nights, he merely wishes to hold onto your body and wrap his arms around you, whispering sweet nothings into your skin. If love could heal and relieve any ailment, if it could become a vital motor of life, then you would live perpetually in peace.

What a selfish idea. And yet, love is such a selfish, cruel thing to impose on others. The crushing weight of it, the brutal nature of desire and hope… Copia is aware of how abrasive his longing is, of how much his love will follow you like a restless shadow. He recognizes, deep down, that he is constantly asking so much. He’s begging for things no one else ever gave him, for him was not even worth the idea of it.

And you didn’t care about it. You never minded his flaws or his ugliness. Instead, you embraced every little detail with the tenderness of a lover.

Love: brutal, wonderful, cruel and tender, both a blessing and a curse. Since that first moment you asked for a dance, he hasn’t experienced peace.

There’s no peace for you either. He understands how being trapped in this existence must hurt you. Still, when the idea of ending it enters his mind, he feels repulsed. No matter how much his hands hover over your neck, wishing to squeeze it until you stop moving, he doesn’t.

No, you must stay by him, love him beyond death. You will come back to him, forever his. During interminable nights, you two will dance under the moonlight and eternal sky. The flames of his desire and adoration will burn as bright as the stars, but not as much as your gaze when your eyes meet his.

You’re his fate. Copia will do anything to make sure no one will ever touch you again. Nothing will happen. Not anymore. He’s not weak, he has found strength and power hidden deep within his guts.

Copia died, the same day he lost you, and now he’s been reborn. Just like Christ.

A whole new figure.

A whole new person.

You’re a whole new person too. Two lovers, different than they used to be but still reaching out to each other, swimming eternally in damnation.

And damned, that you are. In the dark, the earth trembles and crumbles. A deep pit, no bottom to be seen, opens its mouth to devour you whole.

Falling. You are falling away from the light, the warmth. Consumed by the shadows and the cold, your fingers reach for the sky, for whatever vestige of light that your eyes can see.

It’s useless. Heaven has darkened, and wisps of smoke curl around your body, engulfing every inch. It’s freezing, everywhere. The frigid air burns in your lungs, bites at the exposed skin of your cheeks rendering it numb. Gradually, all your muscles become numb, rigid.

Stiff, falling into nothingness, you try to focus on the last ray of sunshine in the distance. Through tear coated lashes, your pupils stare until the smoke completely obscures your vision.

Something wet is on your face. Maybe it’s tears, blood. Or maybe it has begun to rain.

Descending, you close your eyes. There’s nothing to observe anymore. No sound, either. Deep in silence, you wish something would save you. What’s happening? Where’s Copia? Why isn’t he here, with you, holding your hand?

Is this… the end? Just like that? It’s not like falling asleep. No, it’s like drowning in liquid darkness, thick fluid filling your mouth and nose and permeating your lungs.

It burns, so hard. The pain doesn’t feel right. It’s not raw, real pain. No, it’s more like a vague memory, as if you were merely remembering past sensations.

Death, won’t you spare me over until another year?

Someone hauls you out of the dark pond. A frozen hand on your own. Moving your fingers, yanking your wrist. Someone is handling you, pulling, holding. A hand, long fingers, cold skin. Someone is there. Something is there.

Then…

Light, air, it’s too little, too much. Your eyes are open, but you can’t see. There’s dirt on them, something coating them. Blind, you reach out. Your ears ring, loud, so loud. It hurts, and this time the pain is right, raw, pure, vivid. You wish you could go back to where you were before, comfortably numb, lost away.

Who…

Who are you?

Everything is overly bright, too loud. There are voices, too many of them, screaming until your ears ring. Pressing on them doesn’t help. Your nails dig in your scalp, and now there’s warm, fresh blood dripping down your forehead too.

What happened?

Where are you?

Who are you?

Memory broken into pieces, shattered beyond recognition, you try to move but your body doesn’t respond. The voices keep screaming. Or maybe that’s just you. 

“The sixth angel sounded, and I heard a voice from the four horns of the golden altar which is before God, saying to the sixth angel which had the trumpet, “Loose the four angels which are bound in the great river Euphrates”. And the four angels were loosed, which were prepared to slay the third part of men. By these three was the third part of men killed, by the fire, and by the smoke, and by the brimstone, which issued out of their mouths.”

“Have you ever heard of the Codex Gigas, my girl?”

The Nameless Ghoulette stands still, long fingernails going over the edge of the desk. Copia perceives the body heat radiating from her, senses the strong outburst of intense energy that she releases.

“It’s an old tale,” she responds, clicking her tongue. “But humans like to change stories as they please, so I wouldn't know much.”

Slowly, Copia nods. The myths around Codex Gigas, known as “The Devil’s bible”, are various. “Legend says it was written during the 13th century in a Benedictine monastery in Bohemia, by a condemned monk seeking absolution. He admitted having committed numerous sins, including fornication, gluttony, envy and bestiality.”

“A spicy one,” she adds, a smile on her face. The gesture is partially obscured by the black mask, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in her pupils.

The amusement she provides is contagious. Copia allows himself to let out a few hollow chuckles, too. “That’s not what the Abbot thought. They sentenced the monk to be walled up alive, but before the punishment was completed he begged for mercy,” he explains. “They ordered him to make a book that would include all the world’s knowledge, and to do it in a single night.”

The task was impossible. In the secret underground library, Copia’s eyes absentmindedly examine the pages on top of the desk. The manuscript is ancient, faded by the inclemency of time. Next to him, the Ghoulette’s fingers continue drawing lines on the desk, nails following the swirling pattern of wood. “The monk made a deal with Satan. He surrendered his soul in exchange for the book.”

“Our Father is too kind. What use would He have for an old human soul?”

Kindness. If Copia ever had to describe Satan in a way, he’d never employ that word. Kindness is a human emotion, a trace of something He could never comprehend. Much like the infernal creature next to him, the Old One might behave and speak like a human, present himself as he wishes, but he’d never understand the whole spectrum of human emotions.

No, Satan isn’t kind or cruel. Copia used to believe he knew so much about the Lord, about the principles and history of their religion. Maybe a part of him, that intrinsic mortal part of himself, was so afraid of the unknown he clung to whatever could offer him respite. The idea of being watched over, guided, protected by Him…

That idea made Copia feel safe, wanted, needed. Now…

Now he no longer experiences such stupid feelings. “I don’t believe Satan asked for an old soul either,” he carries on, sucking in a deep breath. “I think he wanted the book to be written, shared between humans.”

“He took it as a personal project, then? Was He giving a message to humans?”

The silence in the room is profound when Copia nods, pupils observing the flickering flames of a torch. It’s cold between these walls, incredibly so. Deep in the underground tunnels, he barely remembers the sensation of the sun on his skin, the warmth coming from it.

As cold and dark as it is, Copia would rather spend most of his time there than to adventure to the upper levels, where you are kept under the watchful eye of the Nameless Ghouls. He left some of them caring for you, being unable to face the task himself without his stomach churning and hands trembling.

No, it was too hard, extremely nerve-racking. He’s a coward. Copia knows it, and yet…

Yet he’s only human, weak and flawed. No one could blame him, though. Even the Ghouls appear uneasy to spend time in your presence, flickering their tails and baring their teeth when you make a sudden move. It makes them tense, to be in front of someone who resembles a human but it’s anything but it.

An insistent tapping on the desk plumbers Copia back to the present. “It has all the world’s knowledge, from above and below. It’s a treasure to many, a curse to even more people.”

Everything has a price; Copia has learnt it long ago. Wherever that book went, chaos and blood followed. “The manuscript is now at the National Library of Sweden in Stockholm,” he continues, waving a hand and staring back at the walls. “But it’s not complete. Ten whole pages are missing, and no one knows what they say.”

From the corner of his eyes, Copia manages to catch a glimpse of the fleeting glint on the infernal creature’s eyes. The opaque glass does nothing to hide it. She’s interested in his story, probably more interested than any other ghoul would be.

It’s not a surprise. Ghoulettes are, after all, more ambitious, smarter and unruly.

The words are measured when he speaks up again. “No one but Sister Imperator and me,” he declares, moving the stack of papers closer to the demon. Her fangs glisten under the golden light when her mouth opens, a grin on the lips. “These are the missing pages. They were hidden under the Ministry, behind a secret passage. I don’t know how they came to be here, or who brought them, but whoever that was is now gone and forgotten.”

Gradually, the Ghoulette steps closer. Copia senses the faint whistle of her breathing under the mask, and endures the unmistakable heat of her body. She smells like burnt wood and smoke, a mix of sweet briar and incense coating her clothes. The sharp nails trace the pages, written in neat calligraphy. All the letters are the same size and style, still clear over the yellowish paper.

Copia’s hand darts out to prevent her from tearing the thin paper, but he halts before making contact. Ghoulettes are scarier and more dangerous than their male counterparts. They don’t react well to any aggression.

No. In general, Ghoulettes don’t react well to any man. Since the beginning of the times, they have chosen to aid women. During centuries, only priestesses were able to summon and strike a deal with Nameless Ghoulettes. It was a major surprise when pathetic, poor little Cardinal Copia was the one who without precedence managed to summon not one, but three.

Imperator was immensely proud. She bragged about it to Nihil for days. "I told you my boy is special," she said. "He's the one we were searching for, Papa."

Contrary to his own fears, the creature doesn’t shred it. The pages crack under the soft pressure, but remain intact. “What are they about?” she asks.

“How to summon Satan, the coming of the Antichrist…”

“Beware of the storms that gather in the sky,” the text said. “For the thunder will bloom and the birds will caw. Listen to the moonlit star, the one who exclaims: ‘I see no day, only the cold night that will fall, summoned by your own hand.’”

The story matches that one The Clergy used to repeat. A secretive nun, carrying the old man’s bastard child. Copia heard it a thousand times, without completely understanding all the implications of it. To many, it was just an old scary tale to tell in the dark, some wishful thinking.

And yet…

The crows were incredibly loud the night Goore was born, their file said.

“The Earth will shake and break, and death all around will rise, lifting old hopes from shallow, troubled graves. The estranged son will return, unleashed from the bottomless pit.”

Everything matches. The first time Copia read it; he didn’t pay much attention to it. Now, after everything he has gone through, after studying Goore’s old files and witnessing the raw nature of their power…

Now Copia’s eyes are wide open. Why would Satan choose someone like Goore as The One? He can’t grasp it. Goore is everything The Clergy feared and despised, everything himself tried to avoid. He was devoted, a believer… He gave up everything for this cause, for the Ghost project and the church.

Goore never had to give up anything. Goore only took and brought devastation. But...

“Straight out of Hell, the Antichrist will walk the earth.”

Maybe Copia never truly understood his own Lord. For all one knows, he is and has always been wholly Fatherless, alone.

And perhaps that’s the way it should be.

There is something else in the pages, something no one should ever witness. It’s dangerous in the wrong hands, revolutionary in good ones. And his, his are meant to hold these pages. “The last pages are the more interesting ones. They share the forbidden, necessary knowledge to become Him.”

In a swift movement, the Ghoulette’s nails press harder. Copia looks at her, notes the way her fangs are bared and her pupils are blown behind the opaque glass. “Become Him, you say?”

“Did you know Satan is a given name? Much like Emeritus, it’s only a title. It means adversary,” a pause. “The Satan we serve had this power bestowed upon, at the beginning of the times. But you know how it is with empires. They must fall, one day.”

“That’s a risky thing to affirm, especially to a servant.”

“I always thought Ghoulettes had a bit more independence, but I might be mistaken.”

The Ghoulette thinks, for long seconds. There is a loud rumble coming from her throat. “You are crazy,” she says, at last. “Completely mad, absolutely unhinged. Yet, now I see why my sisters heed your call. You have His fire. I’m curious.”

It’s time. He’s been pondering over it a lot, wondering what his next steps should be. To find himself suddenly lost, no Imperator or Saltarian to tell him what to do and no Dark Father to ask for guidance, Copia has been severely lost. Now, he’s seen the light.

With you back at his side, he can do anything. Even if you don’t completely come back as you were, he can march straight to Hell and recover whatever vestige of your soul might be still lost there.

It all makes sense now. He’s the number one, you’re his number two, and there’s so much work to do. “Are you and your sisters in the mood for some hunting? I think we have to send one last gift to our Father. As a farewell, si?”

“You know us well, Papa.” The Ghoulette leans in closer, a feral look in her eyes, pupils a slit. “Give us the command.”

In her ears, Papa whispers the words he has long wanted to tell. His white eye glimmers in the gloomy room while issuing the command and, with a click of his tongue, all the nefarious Ghoulettes are set loose on earth, to feast and to conquer.

There can only be one architect of the new world, and that is him. 

“The rest of mankind who were not killed by these plagues still did not repent of the work of their hands; they did not stop worshiping demons, and idols of gold, silver, bronze, stone and wood—idols that cannot see or hear or walk. Nor did they repent of their murders, their magic arts, their sexual immorality or their thefts.”

They pass the old ministries' ruins first. Speeding through the tombstones and the raised roots, they run to the left, then right. The starless sky remains calm, motionless and frozen in time, like the rest of the forest.

The smell of rotten flesh is what gets to them, first. It’s a murky and complex fragrance, a mix of sulfur and old blood, of decay and putrefaction. In the distance, the faint grunts and wails become a dull rumble, barely audible over the raging sound of blood pumping in their veins.

It’s natural to run, pushing vigorously until the burn on their legs makes it painful to continue moving. Wherever their feet touch, the ground trembles and shatters open, bones and remaining tissue filling with the impulse of life. Maggots and flies swamp the place, sticking to their hair and clothes, crawling in the dirt and brimming over the air.

Despite their efforts, the flesh puppets don’t last. It makes sense. Necromancy is a fine art, much like playing guitar. You can’t simply grab an old, broken, forgotten instrument from the trash and make it sing. No, you require time to repair it, tune it and make it feel right underneath your fingertips. Just like that, you can’t take a decayed corpse and infuse vital energy and a soul back into it.

And fuck, you definitely can’t do it while running for your life.

A sudden, loud noise forces Goore to duck, rendering them immobile. Their legs tremble, muscles spamming after all the effort. Heaving for air, they pant as their back hits the trunk of an ancient tree. Not too far off, probably near the remnants of the abandoned chapel, the monsters feast and tear the flesh off the undead, their growls echoing into the night.

The smell is always the worst part. Sniffing the air, Goore detects the distant tinge of blood and rain. It’s odd, the sky is clouded but calm, and rain hasn’t fallen in ages. It’s almost as if it is waiting, waiting for something to come, for the hammer to ultimately fall.

The bittersweet stink of Death follows them through the woods and the cemetery. They continue running, escaping in vain. There’s no way they can outrun beasts from Hell, but the rush from this chase fills their body with a thrill.

Yes.

Goore only feels truly alive when he’s about to die.

The path deep in the shadows calls their name. Mary follows it, heavy combat boots crushing the dead leaves. The smell grows more pungent, distinctive, before the glint of a black mask becomes evident in his side vision.

Oh, there she is.

One of them, at least. The other two are apparently still hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce and sink their claws and teeth in skin and muscle tissue. Goore’s boots sink into a mix of mud and leaves, fingers reaching up to remove a few branches off their hair.

Is this it, then?

The Ghoulette’s head tilts to one side by degrees, movement blurry and paused. There’s a loud crackling sound coming from her, a deep growl circling around them. Goore stares, and it resembles the feeling of watching a movie that’s slightly corrupted, all missing frames and delayed noises. In the distance, he hears a final wail, and it’s not hard to sense the last one of their flesh puppets has fallen.

Well, it was fun while it lasted, at least.

“Are we delaying this any further, or…?” They ask, voice vaguely coated with mockery. “Are you supposed to deliver a message?”

No one answers. Those round glasses on the visor glint, mask slowly regaining its original position before tilting to the other side. Mary’s skin shivers when something blows air over the exposed skin of his neck and hell, there is the other one.

Right next to them.

The razor sharp claws dig over their leather jacket, making it creak. The strength is not enough to pierce the thick material, but Goore nevertheless feels the bite. From up close, the glint in the creature’s eyes is almost blinding. Her pupils remain nothing but slits, thin and long, inside the irises. He notices it even through the dark glass.

“No message for you,” a voice says. It comes from within the forest.

Silence grows more deafening in the woods. Not even the bugs dare to disturb it. The only sound comes from their wild, beating heart and from the rush of hot blood, so loud in their ears. “I’m a bit disappointed,” their voice is a growl, a low rumble through gritted teeth. “He could at least curse me, at the end.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll curse you enough.”

Everything goes dark. It’s only a few seconds, a blink it’s all it takes. When Mary opens their eyes again, they are staring right into the clouded sky. The tree tops obscure their vision, leaves falling in slow motion before swirling in the wind. The ground is damp under their back, and something wet trickles down their forehead.

Blood. It tastes like blood when they lick their lips to clean it off. A drumming sound fills his ears, rhythmic and rapid. Mary inhales, snatches a shallow breath before enduring the burning cold of the air. The indistinct murmur of the demons comes from their right, words almost unintelligible.

Fuck. They are awake, but soon it will change. These creatures are hungry for blood and despair, insatiable. Goore fears no death, not anymore, yet the pain stabs their nerves right to the core. Once again, their body grows cold, muscles tense and skin too tight.

“Should we play with it first?”

“Papa said to have fun.”

Mary blinks once, then twice. Each time their eyes open, there’s the same gloomy sky and the tree tops. Their head hangs to one side, body completely limp in the hands of the demons. The stench of blood is extremely pungent, and their clothes are completely soaked in it.

Fuck. The world moves around them in a hazy bliss, almost like a dream they can’t completely wake up from. Midnight has passed long hours ago, and now it’s the devil’s time, the hour for them to rise again and bathe in the perverted lust of gore.

If the glimmering fangs and shiny eyes of a demon it’s the last thing they see, that’s okay. They feel no guilt, no shame. Heart hammering in their ribcage, wild adrenaline pumping along the blood, Goore smiles one last time. They only wonder how long it’ll be until they are reborn in morbidity, just like before.

Until then, they’ll remain as nothing but another bloody corpse, forgotten and buried under an upside-down cross.

“The seventh angel sounded his trumpet, and there were loud voices in heaven, which said: “The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ, and he shall reign for ever and ever.” And the temple of God was opened in heaven, and there was seen in his temple the ark of his testament: and there were lightning, and voices, and thunderings, and an earthquake, and great hail.”

“Amore, careful there, please.”

This place… Copia recalls it as if it was yesterday. He had been ordained Papa, there was a party in his honor and he felt overwhelmed, shaken. Imperator urged him to prance around and talk to people, something he dreaded. He hid underground, in his sheltered place away from prying ears and judgmental eyes.

You were beautiful, as always, but even more wonderful that night. Copia feels his throat tighten at the remembrance, caresses the memory inside of his mind with barely the tip of his fingers. He doesn’t want to stain it, doesn’t wish for it to shatter under the weight of his actions.

Oh, how ethereal you looked, how soft your voice was when you asked him to dance with you. He recalls the fragrance of your perfume, the softness of your hair on his cheek when he leaned his face on the top of your head. How gentle your embrace was, that time. How grateful he felt to be alive, to be able to experience all the wonder of your love, the tenderness of your touch.

Tonight, among the same walls, Copia feels like crying. If it’s out of happiness from having you back or pure despair for all these past months, he doesn’t know it.

“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate"

“Careful here too, my dear,” Copia guides you through the door, eyes buried on the ancient inscriptions that sit at the top of the old stone. Your hands are stiff, and your body moves practically in slow motion, not quite following the same rhythm you used to have.

It’s okay, he understands how tired you must be, how much your muscles and heart ache. Copia’s fingers scarcely trace over your wrists and back of the hands, supporting you as if you were about to break into a thousand pieces with the slight pressure.

Oh, how careful he is, how attentive. He shushes softly, whispering sweet nothings into the air as he escorts you through the place. The black blindfold blocks your sight, but your head follows the sound of his voice and he can almost picture the adoring look in your pupils, the gentleness of your gaze.

If the blindfold is there to shield you from overstimulation or to protect himself from the hate it might fill your stare, he doesn’t recognize it either.

It doesn’t matter. Copia stops in the middle of the ample room, next to the old fountain. His arms embrace you, and you melt into his hold. Copia’s heart stops, restarts at a measured pace, both heavy and pained. You melt into him, between his arms, as if you have never belonged anywhere else. 

Silently, he accepts it. Stiff and frightened, his breath hitches when your hand raises, slow as if someone was gradually pulling from the strings that hold you together.

When your nails hardly caress one strand of his hair, Copia feels like crying again. No, not crying. Breaking down, sobbing, wailing, screaming into the night. He's tired, so fatigued and wounded, but your touch is so affectionate, lovingly. It feels like a dream. Even if it's nothing but muscle memory, you cling onto him just like you did that night, so many years ago.

The world seemed so small back then. 

Copia allows you to card your fingers through his hair like a young boy tasting love for the first time. To the entire world, he might be the terrible and ruthless Papa Emeritus the IV, a merciless murderer, but not to you. To you, he’s sentimental and vulnerable, nothing but an enamored fool.

Not a single sound breaks the calming silence. Standing in the middle of the room, he looks at you with full attention for the first time in forever. You have become a strange and beautiful companion, skin still ghastly but slowly recovering a glimpse of life. Immobile, your face bears a languid expression and your breathing is so fast your chest rises and falls with a tumultuous respiration.

Copia wants to soothe you, to give you the whole world if you desire so. “I’ll ask you something, just like what you asked that night after I became Papa," he whispers, instead. "Can I be the first person to dance with you, now that you have returned to me? ”

There’s no reply. No verbal, at least. Unhurriedly, your arm lifts up in his direction, extended hand hanging in the air that separates both of you. Copia's mouth remains agape, eyes wide open. If you are a serpent of temptation, the snake offering him the apple of sin, then he’s Eve’s trembling hand blindly reaching for you.

He takes it and knows there’s no turning back. Your hands are cold, but he can’t let go. No, there’s no moment to let go. He’s been calling for you for so long, just like he’d call forever. Copia’s face falls on your shoulders, lips trembling as he presses a light kiss over the soft material of your clothes. He chokes on the whimpers his mouth refuses to let out, eyes closing and brows furrowing. His lids stay pressed tight, lashes coating in tears.

A hand on your waist and another holding your wrist, Copia begins to move slowly. It’s like that first time he danced with you, soon after the release of Prequelle. He was incredibly nervous back then, so scared of you. A part of him feels the same now, nothing but old Cardinal Copia clinging to an unknown Sibling of Sin, wishing for the night to never end. 

The air is frozen inside his lungs when your hand moves to his shoulder. Most of your body is still limp, so Copia holds close, guiding you around the place. Eyes closed, he bears most of your weight, experiencing the renewed ardor of a lover. His breath hitches when your cold lips travel along his cheek in the resemblance of a kiss.

Oh, no. He feels like sobbing again, lower lip quivering as he murmurs on your habits. “You are mine,” he declares, placing another kiss. “You and I are one forever.”

Underground, hiding from a world on fire, Copia has never felt more at peace. He is awake in your coiling spirit, illuminated in blood and fire.

It's natural for his hands to tighten on your body. The dancing becomes faster, flowing on the old marble floor. Copia senses how your fingers slowly curl on his clothes too, feet barely gaining a bit more of traction. He hums a song, the same song you hummed for him that time, the same one he used to sing to you on long nights before sleeping to help you relax, or after interminable nights of loving you under the moonlight.

The melody is carried by the air and resonates on the walls before getting lost in the long halls. There’s no one else there, no ghouls or demons, no Satan or human that could ever interrupt this moment. Forever, he’ll dance with you forever, cling to you forever, be with you forever…

There’s a sting in the way your lips graze over his cheek again, barely brushing his own when his head turns around. The bells chime in the distance, coming from a now forgotten chapel. If this is the last time before the end, he just wants to be with you all night.

Below the surface, locked in a loving embrace and following the faint melody of his humming, you two waltz in circles.

“Copia?" You call. There's something wrong, because the sound seems to be coming from far away, anywhere but your vocal cords. It's too rough, full of static. 

Throat dry, Copia struggles to find his own voice too. The anguish claws at his neck, but it doesn't matter. You don't give him time to answer anyway.

"I think it’s going to rain soon.”

Those words. He remembers them. Those words haunted him for days and night. You told him that, the night you confessed to him how scared you were for his safety, how much you feared for yourself too. Oh, he should have heed your words, should have listened to you. 

No, instead he disregarded your worries, ignored your warning. He won't do that, never again.

"Yes, amore," he mutters, this time. "The wind has changed." 

The silence falls upon both of you, once again. He doesn't mind it. It’s okay. No one will hurt you again. No one will bring you any harm. Copia will make sure of it. There’s no one else who could oppose him or challenge him.

No.

He’s God now.

Outside, the first drops of rain hit the ground. Soon, it hails. 

“The lawless one opposes and exalts himself above every so-called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, declaring himself to be God …”

2 Thessalonians 2:3–12

The end.

BONUS CHAPTER

#ghost band #ghost band fanfiction #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iv x reader #cardinal copia x reader #evil cardinal copia #antichrist copia #ghost band angst #my writing #my fics #you forever fic

[neonovember]

Maraschino Cherry

Mafia!au x Steve Rogers

CHAPTERS: 1 2 3 4 5

summary: your escape to Brooklyn was harboured by secrets and a harrowed past, left abused and betrayed, you accepted your destiny of being swallowed by the crowd. Until the King of New York showed up in front of you and wanted a piece of you for himself.

divider by @firefly-graphics​ !

Taglist 🏷️ (send an ask to be part of my taglist for this series!)

@tinkerbelle67 @patzammit @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @nomadstucky @nessie2183 @shamelessfangirl-3 @namelesssav @marvel-phoenix @euphoric-goddess @roseeatta @abschaffer2  @louderfortheback @stupendouslovegardener @wandamaximoff-simp @thedonswife13 @hpsimpspot @samsgirl93

notes: school has been kicking my ass lately, this is quite short, especially for me but part 7 will be out very very soon!

Your heart had dropped into your stomach the moment Rumlow had forced you into a realisation you were foolishly blinding yourself from.

And it had been there ever since.

You can’t remember locking up the diner, can’t even remember feeling the keys between your fingers as you stumbled down the shadowy streets of Brooklyn. The crumpled figures of people sleeping on the streets, the flash of yellow cabs and vendors on the corner, and the never-ending rumble of train tracks echoing under overpasses is fleeting now. Just flashes of colours and sounds you can’t really place.

Your fingers, your skin, the muscle and bone beneath are itching with a need, the relief of liquor pouring down your throat, the burn of its heat spreading through your belly. It’s a relief you know all too well, one you had almost lost yourself too years before, just as your mother had.

But that motivation to fight through the teeth needing desire of your addiction doesn’t seem quite as strong, nothing seemed to matter after Rumlow had told you about Steve, nothing at all. So who was going to stop you from diving into the bottomless pit of pathetic drunkenness? The sobriety chips you stacked over the years should’ve toppled over by now, they were bleak and washed out anyway. So dull under the fluorescent lights of your bathroom when you muffled your cries under the low pressure of your shower.

You are your mothers daughter, and the doors of the bar you enter almost sneer at you condescendingly

We knew you would be back, one way or another.

Drink drink drink until it seeps from your crevices and cracks. Until it pours from within like you're a shattered glass, oh how you had broken years before. How it feels now to fill up those cracks with your pleasure, it’s like a welcoming old friend. You reach out for its hand as you reach out for another glass.

The bartender looks at you in pity, but money is money and he looks the other way as you slide your busted wallet across the counter. It was your fathers one, that you can decipher even through your drunken haze.

You tilt your head forward, and the vibrant LED lights that line the walls of the bar you had thrown yourself in shine so bright, you bite back a giggle as you recall your foolishness. You had been so blind, hadn’t you? You weren’t the type to get lucky, to be protected, your entire life has told you so.

This arrangement between Steve was nothing but a farce, a lie he shoved in your face that he knew you would have no choice but to accept.

The crowd of patrons scattered around barstools and cozy booths cheer towards a large TV bolted to the wall, some sort of sport flashes across the screen, something with a ball and a lot of running.

You hadn’t noticed before but paper ribbons hang across the pine wood ceilings, pom-poms squished into the sides and other cheap decor covers the bar, distinct colours of a team in a sport that was probably showing on the TV you had turned away from.

You shudder into yourself as you look down at the translucent liquid swirling in your cup, the reflection staring back at you is one that’s fuzzy and undefined, with jagged edges and loose ends that a close to unravelling.

It was already the sports season, and you know this only because you had escaped your husband at the end of it, sleeping under bridges and bus stations where those distinct team colours fell from the sky like snow, ribbons and feathers scattered across the damp pavement you slammed your feet into running from his men.

The crowd of sports fans that littered the streets of New York helped mask your anonymity when you escaped, losing your capturers in the thousands of people rushing through Time Square. You suppose you ought to be thankful for them, so you lift your glass and shout a cheer.

You begin to stand onto your barstool, balancing yourself and your drink from spilling over, the bartender is tending to an order, his back turned from your rambunctious behaviour.

“Next round’s on me!” You shout into the crowd of bustling sport fans, there’s a beat of silence, a moment where you fear you’ve embarrassed yourself and they want nothing to do with you, someone who’s been tending to her own lonely drink the entire time she’s walked in. But then this is an erupt of cheer, the crowd going into a frenzy as a burly man lifts you up and throws you onto the crowd.

Your limbs are lifted by the hand of the crowd, surging over patrons and customers you don’t know but have spent the last 2 weeks of your earnings on.

Alcohol made you sweet, it also made you fucking stupid.

The barkeep looks towards you surging the crowd, before being dropped back onto your feet in a not-so-gentle dismount. He looks as if he’s about to say something, mouth opening before a dark figure you can’t see beckons him over, shaking his head before whispering in his ear.

You don’t see the silver card being slid across the bar counter, but you can feel those pair of cerulean eyes burning into you, trailing down your figure as you sway your hips to the music.

Steve.

You want to tease him a little before you would leave him for good, he wanted his own little wife for himself, didn't he? You didn't know why these men were so adamant about making you their wife, wasting effort and bullets for a white picket fence they knew they would never provide. Not in this world. You know its something more though, and the front of your mind screams at you from within, begging to remember.

You shake it off with a twirl of your hips.

You don’t back away when a tall figure dances against you, their back pressed against your body as they grind into you.

Dancing with a nameless stranger wasn’t something you could do, it wasn’t something you had done, your entire early 20’s was a missing piece of memory from your brain. It hurts to remember it in a fuzzy kind of way.

It had been so long since you felt this light, this effortless, you let loose as you feel the brandy to your bones.

Your mind is scattered in a thousand different places, kept sealed in treasure bottles thrown across the ocean, left falling onto the forest floor of your hometown 100 miles across the country.

You don’t notice the man grinding on you disappearing, his warmth ripped from you like he was thrown across the room.

Your trance is interrupted by a strong hand that grips your arm, pulling you gently away from the crowd, you don’t try to fight it, it’s strong the way a current is, and you let the wave carry you away.

Maybe it will wash away everything too, make it clean again in a way you try hard to remember.

You don’t know why, but there’s a familiar warmth that rises from those strong hands guiding your back, like a protective armour against all the bad in the world.

You turn, and catch Steve’s eyes boring into your own, eyes surveying your loopy state that seem to cause your features to sink in.

He's not wearing his usual tailored suit, in fact, it seemed he arrived here in a rush, his white shirt crumpled with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You don’t catch the specks of blood splattered on his collar, nor the shadow of fresh blood he’d done a poor job of wiping off his face.

He looks so different in this state, looks younger too, where his golden locs are ruffled and messed up from their usual impeccable place. Where the role he had to step into, the throne he upheld, didn’t weigh him down like a thousand bricks.

Steve hadn’t noticed it before, but the life forced onto you had aged you in a heartbreaking kind of you, your features just like his, still were young, but they lost that sense of youth, that naivety and innocence that used to soften your edges.

“Where are you taking me golden boy?” You slur in a shrill voice.

Steve grunts before pressing you further to exit the bar quicker, he really didn’t want you here.

“My apartment? Or is that another one of your lies hm?” You giggle the last part, but Steve’s ears perk up and catch it anyway, confusion fills him momentarily before he shakes his head, focusing on getting you out of here as quick as possible.

To Steve’s surprise, you don’t fight against his motion of leaving, and for some reason, it makes a pit form in his stomach, this wasn’t the girl he knew, and he feared what had caused such an abrupt change.

Stepping outside, the breeze of the cold air of the city cools you down as you tug on your jacket discreetly.

A suit jacket seemed to appear out of thin air in Steve’s hand, and he places it over your shoulders quickly, before easing you into the parked car waiting on the side of the road.

“Steve..?” You mumble, before tugging on his blonde roots gently, you per towards him in interest.

“ ‘m right here” Steve replies gently, but his eyes look anywhere but your own.

“You're much better like this hiccup not when you- you lie to mhmme..”

Steve grits his jaw, he has to restrain from running back into the bar and beating the bartender with the edge of the counter for continually serving you despite you increasing drunkenness.

Fucking greedy sons of bitches.

“I mean- I get it, I’m so goddamn stupid sometimes, why wouldn’t you just see me as a means to an end? I’ve always..always been discarded you..know?” You mumble incoherently, tugging on his shirt collar as he places you in the back seat.

“I need to get you safe alright? We can talk as much as you want after okay? Can you do that for me?” Steve replies, gently un gripping yours fingers from his shirt, but making no motion to let them go.

Steve looks at you in desperation, the same unrelenting addiction that found you in a bar is present on his face now. But unlike you, he doesn’t give in, squeezing his eyes shut and shutting the door quietly.

You sigh as you watch him slide into the drivers seat, readjusting his mirror to keep his eye line on you as the rev of en engine fills the empty desolated streets.

Resting your head on the car window, you sink into Steve’s suit jacket that you swim in and smells like tobacco and maraschino cherries.

It's never felt so familiar.

#steve rogers x reader #neonovember #steve rogers #steve rogers fic #steve grant rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #mafia!steve rogers #mafia!au #mafia!steve #mafia!avengers #mob!steve x reader #mob steve rogers #mob!au #mob!steve #mafia!steve rogers x black!reader #mafia!steve rogers x reader #mafia!Steve Rogers x fem!reader #steve rogers x black!reader #Steve grant rogers x black!reader #mafia series #mafia!Steve series #james bucky barnes #mafia!bucky #mob!bucky x reader #mafia!bucky barnes #mafia!steve rogers x woc!reader #mob!steve rogers x innocent!reader #steve rogers x innocent!reader #mafia!Steve Rogers x innocent!reader

[not-she-which-burns-in-it]

OFMD and Breathwork Part 2 - The Kiss Scene

Much later than intended but I’m back, as promised, with the part 2 of my breath and voice work thread, this time looking at the kiss scene in Episode 9.

I really thought this was going to be more fun, but turns out it was mostly sad. Oh no. But before we get sad, let's do a part 2 of the basics. If you’re just joining, please read the other thread (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/not-she-which-burns-in-it/686892030208638976?source=share) for info on where breath comes from in your body (in an acting sense) and how it affects the tension of the scene. This time we’re gonna focus on the pace of the scene, and when in your breathing cycle you begin speaking, and how that reflects the acting choices you make. 

LET’S DIVE IN!

BREATHING 202 - PACE

Ok, we’re working with my crude drawings this time, I’m so sorry. Here is a line of your breath. Line goes up for breathing in, line goes down for breathing out. Pretty self explanatory.

When you’re awake and talking, the breath cycle isn't really gonna look that smooth. The lower line for instance is more like your deep relaxed breath - breathe in deeply, quick at first and then slowing down as your lungs reach a comfortably full level. Then slowly breathing out in a long tail. As soon as you’re done, you breathe back in, no pause. This really makes more sense when you try it. Try breathing in following the lines, we’re all gonna learn today. 

Now here are some simplified spots where you might start speaking in your breath cycle, meaning how much air is in your lungs when you start making words happen. Let’s take a look at them:

So, we put all this together and we get a map of intentions. Especially when we combine this breathwork with the info from part 1, and all the other pieces of acting - micro expressions, body language, non-fluencies (uhms, ahhs, sighs) - we can glean SO MUCH about the acting choices and storytelling. If I ever get around to a Part 3, I’ll do the intro section on Spicy Breath and Vocal Work, I promise. That’s a whole thing. But for now let’s get to the kiss scene. I looked at the whole scene, not just the kiss itself, because the story demanded it.

THE SCENE BEFORE

Ok, in order to talk about this scene we have to go back to where we last saw Stede. Everything starts going wrong right here in this gif. The music that plays at the top of the kiss scene starts 5 minutes earlier in this moment. The second Stede learns that Mary reported him as dead, the smile falls off his face and this delicate piano music comes in (I quit music school to study theater but I can tell you it’s in a minor key). 

That leads us into the bunk bed scene - that music is still playing - where he’s wondering aloud whether Mary really thinks he’s dead or just reported him dead out of spite. He’s flashing back to his family, the worry for his children starts creeping in. Mary is still coded like an antagonist at this point, but the phrasing “do they really think I’m dead”, tells us he’s worried about his children mourning his death while he’s off being happy and falling in love. The music cuts out the second Ed appears. Ed clears away Stede’s troubled thoughts. Awww. But oh no, it’s doesn’t last. This conversation with Ed doesn’t make him feel any better, it makes him feel worse. Look at his face when Ed says “It’s time to accept our fate”

Stede is so upset he literally runs away. He darts out of the dormitory out toward the water leaving Ed sitting on his bed. And Ed is not oblivious to this, he’s worried. His mouth is tight, his brow is furrowed, and his eyes are casting down and around as if looking for an explanation. He’s upset, why?

Now, Ed isn’t stupid, he can think of a bunch of reasons why Stede might be upset, they’ve been captured and are losing their freedom. Of course, Ed has missed the key element here, which is Stede’s bottomless pit of worthless self-image. So what does Ed gather from this - Ed is ok with his adventurous life being over, but Stede is not. This is a good theory from Ed’s perspective, he is ready to stop being Blackbeard but Stede just got started as the Gentleman Pirate, it makes sense for him to be not find joy in moving on from that life. 

SO. The beach. We start with the same melancholy piano music picking back up. More flashbacks to playing with his children. Look at his body language, he’s curled up staring out at the sea. His knees are pulled up like they were when Ed left him for Calico Jack. His hands are on his knees holding himself together, and his thumbs are gently sweeping back and forth across his kneecaps - trying to sooth himself. Honestly he looks like he’s about to cry, his lips press together and he breathes in deep. There’s no one for him to speak to, he’s alone, the breath is to either tamp down the wave of emotion or let it out. But whatever he’s about to do, Ed immediately derails that plan.

And this takes us into the kiss scene. Stede is wallowing in guilt over his family, and guilt over dragging Edward into all this with him. Ed is looking to convince him to look on the bright side. Now you can “look on the bright side” of loss especially if you’re gaining something else. “Hey you can’t be a fancy pirate, but maybe you can have me” Excellent proposition Ed, well done. Tragically, that’s not the problem. You can’t cheer someone up from guilt and feelings of worthlessness, it will in fact make them feel worse. “Hey you feel bad for being happy while your family is in trouble, what if, we had even more happiness together?”

THE SCENE

“There you are” implying he’s been looking all over for him. And look how close he sits. They don’t appear to be touching, but it’s a couple inches at best between them. Now it’s Ed’s turn to let out a breath. He settles himself with it. It’s not clear whether it’s relaxing, now that he knows Stede is ok, or if it’s a determined breath because he has an idea of how to fix Stede’s sadness and he’s come looking for him to do just that.

He starts with a joke, but this isn’t his boisterous joking voice, it’s not even his normal speaking voice, it’s soft, gentle, and from the throat (check part 1 for what that means) it’s very similar to the way Stede speaks to Ed in the moonlight, or in the bathtub scene. It’s soothing and intimate. Given the sudden breath in and out before he starts, I’m guessing the intention was to start with a “tell me what’s wrong” sort of approach and he chickened out and went for a joke. But his voice is still in the soft “tell me what’s wrong” tone and volume. Adorable. But Stede brushes it off, “Oh come on, stupid idea”. It’s even softer in vocal quality than Ed. But somehow it’s not increasing the intimacy, it’s creating distance. How? Because the lack of volume and vocal support isn’t to draw Ed closer, it’s because Stede isn’t really talking to him, he’s talking to himself. As soon as he says it, Ed looks down and stops smiling. It’s hard to catch because he’s blurry in the foreground, but you can see the concern immediately rush back in oh this isn’t something easily fixed. Here’s where I get sad already. Stede looks at Ed to gauge his reaction before doubling down on the negative self-talk. By the time Stede looks at Ed, Ed is no longer smiling gently at Stede. All Stede sees is a concerned frown. He’s concerned for Stede, but Stede’s never gonna see it that way. The “Oh shut up” response is so quick, it’s reflexive. I’d bet anything it’s a #1 (Speaking before you breathe in) but I can’t tell where he is in his natural breath cycle to say for sure. But instead of engaging with his own emotions, Stede pivots to Ed’s emotional state instead. This is a recurrence in their relationship where Ed is emotionally vulnerable and Stede provides comfort and support. Stede is much less willing to share his own feelings - so much for his “talk it through as a crew” motto. Ed unfortunately (fortunately?) takes the bait.

Stede’s at a normal breath placement (either a #2 or #4), but listen to his emphasis “how are you handling this so well” - compared to Stede handling it very poorly. But again, we’re not saying that outloud.

Listen to Edward’s speech here, this is a great example of using breath to pace a speech where your character is discovering each piece of what he’s saying as he’s saying it. He’s taking small breaths in between each new idea. I’ve added tally marks here to visualize it. “I don’t know [///] It’s kinda nice just to take a load off [//] Just to [/] Just to be [/] Edward [//] I don’t know if I wanna go back to the old days [/] just drinking all day and [/] biting the heads off turtles or [/] making some poor bloke eat his own toes as a laugh [//]” 

Notice how the word “Edward” is completely isolated by breath. It’s HUGE for him to acknowledge Edward’s desires are different from Blackbeard’s. It’s something Izzy seems to have been aware of from the beginning, but Edward really only realized once Stede came into his life. Stede, bless his refined little heart. Takes a full breath in to not respond to the “eat his own toes” comment. Because he’s polite, and loves Ed, and doesn’t want to derail the emotional sharing by over-reacting. But you can see it in the immediate and deep furrow of his brow.

When Ed starts speaking again, he’s a little more hurried to get the thought out. The biggest note is the separation of the word “Ed” again, it’s revelatory to not just recognize the parts of him have different desires but that he should prioritize Edward’s desires and needs over Blackbeard’s. And BOY OH BOY does he act on that realization immediately. Because what Ed wants is 1,000% clear to this man. 

BUT STEDE MISSES THIS DISTINCTION. 

Listen to his emphasis. He matches the structure but he puts the emphasis on happy not on Ed. 

“What makes Ed happy” vs “What makes Ed happy?” It’s a subtle difference but extremely important. Because Stede thinks he’s saying 

“Pirating has made me happy until now, but I guess, since there is no escape, no way back to that life, I want to be as happy as I can…” But in reality he’s saying “Pirating made Blackbeard happy, but for the first time, I want to focus on what makes Ed happy, because I enjoy being Edward…” But let’s finish that thought and really cry. More breath tally marks, because they’re important.

“[//] These past [/] few weeks [//] have been [//] the most fun I’ve had in ages [/] years [/] maybe ever. [///] so [//] so uh [/] I reckon [/] what makes Ed happy [//] is [///] you.” Again, we’re getting breath in between each new thought, or each moment where he needs to gather strength to get these words out. This time instead of “Ed” being isolated by breath, the word is “you”. Stab me in the heart. Confessing your love for someone is hard, oh wow it’s scary, and Ed needs all the breath support he can get. He’s also not speaking very loud. They’re so close to each other, these breaths are tiny little snatches of air. That last phrase though. “What makes Ed happy is you” Why does it sound so breathless if he’s taking so much time to breathe? Let’s Map It Out! (THIS IS THE GOOD SHIT)

Ed getting that last word out with the last bit of air in his body is EVERYTHING. It’s desperate. It’s vulnerable. It’s so unsure of what happens next or if he should be saying it at all. It’s taking a huge chance because this is the moment things between them go from subtext to text. This isn’t just saying “Hey, let’s bang” it’s saying “I have soft squishy feelings for you, and maybe that makes me weak but I don’t care because you make me happy”. And Stede is FLOORED. The Gnossienne No 5 comes in, and everything is good. His whole face lifts up like the simple act of making another person happy is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him. Especially since he started out this scene dwelling on how much he’d disappointed his family, his parents, how he’d made this difficult for his crew and Ed, and everyone in his life. For Ed - glorious, wonderful, legendary Ed - to say that Stede is what makes him happy. Holy Shit. That’s groundbreaking for Stede. This is the first and only real smile we get from him in the whole scene. You can see the worries lift off him for a second. And before he can say something stupid: the kiss. 

THE KISS

Ed reaches around to anchor Stede’s opposite shoulder as he presses in - both to angle him properly and to stop him from startling away. Not in a forced manner, his touch is gentle, moreso he’s aware that Stede’s not experienced at this and he’s guiding the moment. So thoughtful. Also, so soft, my god.

Stede responds to the kiss immediately, he’s not just passively being kissed. Eyes closed and lips pressed forward, he’s about it. And he moves his lips on Ed’s to find a better position. As Ed shifts forward more and brings his left hand up to Stede’s shoulder he’s turning his whole body into the kiss, gently stroking his right hand down Stede’s back. The rustle sound you hear is Ed pulling his leg up in the sand to get better leverage turning to Stede. Stede meanwhile sweeps his arm forward toward Ed. I can’t see where his hand lands, but it looks like it’s going for Ed’s knee. 

Ed breathes in before he kisses Stede, (part one call back) but it’s hard to catch because he doesn’t do it until he starts moving. I LOVE this because it implies he didn’t decide to kiss Stede until he was already doing it. It’s a small catch breath, not much air, and certainly not enough for a big romantic kiss. So we hear Ed breath in bigger through his nose as they kiss - breathing is not important enough to stop kissing Stede - right before he starts shifting his body. After he shifts you hear him breathe out, again through his nose because he’s not stopping this kiss for any single reason. But it comes out slow like he’s sighing into the kiss. 

They are both pressing forward, despite the shifting bodies and sweeping hands, their lips don’t part. After they reposition their bodies, Ed turns his head to deepen the kiss just a little and we get that tiny tiny whimper noise from Stede and all my braincells explode into gay glitter. 

I’m not sure Stede is breathing at all here. He might breathe in a bit when they shift, but I’m not sure. I think it’s just internet start-up noises in there. Which might add to his dazed expression and whispered response post-kiss. When Stede opens his eyes he’s looking at Ed’s lips, briefly, before his glance goes back to Ed’s eyes. This moment is pure joy. Even if the guilt comes rushing back in, this moment is golden.

POST KISS 

Stede’s line “You make Stede happy” is in the softest whisper. And they stay at this intimate whispered level until Ed’s plan starts to form. We really hear Ed’s voice come back on “There’s always an escape” while Stede responds in a whisper, not yet bought into this plan.

It’s not until “China” that things start to go wrong. As soon as Stede says China, his glance skitters away and down. He hedges, “That’s quite far away.” Ed interprets this as “Can we get that far” when really Stede means “Maybe we shouldn’t go that far.” But alas, Ed doubles down on the thing Stede is most worried about “Our old lives will be gone, never were.”

Stede looks down again, to the same spot, and the cut away tells us he’s thinking of Mary. And the clip is significant here. It’s both a refutation of Ed’s point “We can start a new life” vs “We only have one life.” And the bits about “We never would have chosen each other.” relay strongly to themes of found family. Because Stede wouldn’t just be abandoning his family in Barbados by running away to China, he’d also be abandoning his Found Family on the Revenge. I genuinely wonder if we would have gotten this anxious guilt reaction if Ed had simply proposed going back to The Revenge. It would have felt less like an abandonment to Stede, and “now or never” in getting closure with Mary and the kids. But. We’ll never know. SO. We’d looked at Ed’s breath in his decision moment, now let’s look at Stede’s. Right before this cut away to Mary, Ed asks “What do you say?” Stede breathes deeply in and out. We come back from the cut away to see him finishing that exhale as he looks out to the ocean. He doesn’t breathe in. He presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t breathe in. He swallows nervously and looks back at Ed. He STILL doesn’t breathe in. “Yeah.”

https://youtu.be/cQC_7HAMza4

He’s 100% speaking with no air. He desperately needs to breathe in and feel steady, get support for his words, and think clearly, but no. The word just escapes him in this desperate whisper. It sounds like somebody punched it out of him. I think Ed misses it because he assumes Stede is nervous for the dangerous escape, or just flustered from the kiss. But folks, if you’re asking someone something really important and they say Yes in that tone, and then make THIS face.

Stop and clarify that they’re ok, and that they actually want whatever it is. Because wow, this is a cry for help. Also, listen to the music at this exact moment, it does this discordant little minor trip that just SOUNDS uneasy. Brilliant music design here folks. It trills up when Ed realizes Stede is saying yes, and then comes jarring back down when Stede makes this face. OUCH.

I love the mirroring of breath between Ed’s “...you” and Stede’s “...yeah” - one is so full of hope while the other is so full of despair and yet they are physically executed in the same way. Brilliant, so painful, thank you David Jenkins. It’s also further proof that Stede’s breakdown was not just from Chauncy, but a crash and burn that he was headed to from the moment they got to the island. Ed’s phrasing here also mirror’s the bathtub scene “I was suppose to kill…. you” as many people have pointed out. But here’s the thing, that scene brings them closer together because Ed is being vulnerable and Stede is providing support. Stede is comfortable with that role, because he doesn’t have to examine any of his own feelings and desires. This scene is the opposite. Despite Ed making the love confession, this scene is about providing Stede emotional support. Stede is ZERO percent ok with openly acknowledging what he wants or needs, which again leads to this face. 

I don’t think he was planning on ditching Edward the way he did though. Not based on this physicality. This SCREAMS “maybe if I just keep pushing these bad feelings down they’ll go away.” Thank you Mary Bonnet for shaking that out of him with a well-placed skewer to the ear hole. Therapy for everyone in Season 2!

Part 3??

Someday I’ll make a part 3, I’m not making any promises of when this time - I’ve learned! But I really want to look at Ed’s physicality around Calico Jack vs his physicality around Stede because it’s fucking fascinating. As I said at the top the intro lesson will be on intimacy work because SPICY.

Anyway I’ve written like 3,000 words at this point and I have to stop. Likes and comments really make my day - thank you all for the interaction from part one (which is here if you need it:

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/not-she-which-burns-in-it/686892030208638976?source=share

)  And come follow me on Twitter @/shewhich that’s where most of my brainrot content lives these days.

#our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd meta #blackbonnet #kiss scene #This lived in my brain for too long #useless skills from working in theater #watching actors is my day job #Taika waititi and rhys darby live in brain completely rent free #taika waititi #rhys darby #this is a cry for help #shewhich stuff