#punk's like we hated each other!

[biancabelairs]

watched the video wwe put up of punk and orton watching their mania match and i'm crying at how it's part two old dudes talking about wrestling like you'd expect old dudes to and part couples therapy

#punk's like we hated each other! #and orton goes well no i didn't hate you it's just that i was insecure back then and had inner demons #i'm crying #he also claims he texted punk after all in telling him to come back and idk if it's funnier if that's true or a lie for the video lmfao #wwe #text post

[headofocs-inklesspen]

I successfully convinced the punk teenager I work with to listen to Against Me! and the reaction I got was on his 30 when he went over headset with no warning “I am very much enjoying this music right now”

#crow rambles #we’ve finally talked about music enough that he’s realized that I actually listen to punk music and am not like the kids at his school #who claim to be punk but hate the music #so now we drop each other artist recs #which is great because it means I finally have someone at work to talk music with #because I love my work besties but hir genre is solidly deathmetal which is not a scene I frequent

[yawnzune]

morning serenade | cbg (m.)

pairing: beomgyu x reader

genre/au: smut, punk band!au, frenemies?, college setting

warnings: morning sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise kink, marking, fingering, orgasm delay/denial, creampie, he’s a lil possessive but wbk he’s just crazy lmao

a/n: barely fics are posted when it’s his birthday today so it made me whip this up rq since i was seeing random shits anyway after waking up. ily baby gyu, happy 23rd mwah <3

you're waking up to something heavy crushing your body on your bed.

that can’t be right. or this could be one of your sleep paralysis demons tormenting you again?

when you open one eye to check, it’s almost comical how the gurgling scream was gonna come out of your mouth but it didn’t.

grogginess from sleep mixed with shock rendered you speechless after finding a demon in the form of Choi Beomgyu, the lead guitarist of your school's punk band.

butt-naked between your legs.

“hi” his even deeper voice rumbles against your chest. it sends vibrations against your bare skin, particularly in your pussy where you're feeling a bit sore.

naked. you both are naked.

you try to remember what happened the night prior. memories start to resurface the more you stay in focus despite the man scanning your face on top of you. neither of you drank for sure but you remember kissing him which lead to a whole night of non-stop fucking.

beomgyu nuzzles your bare tits when you didn’t respond but you’re still focused on how good his messy red-bronze hair looks under the sunlight.

“what the fuck are you doing here punk?”

you tend to say the opposite of what you actually wanna say. just like you’re letting him stay on top of you instead of pushing him off.

“isn’t it obvious? we fucked” he states, a bit maniacally which should’ve concerned you about what he’s planning right now.

he giggles when you don’t rebuke him, leaving kisses around your chest.

this earns gasp from you, causing him to chuckle. you couldn’t even look at him, already closing your eyes as he continued to pepper your skin with more messy kisses until he reached your nipples, encircling his mouth briefly on both before releasing them with a pop.

“scratch that, i fucked you” he grins as he pulls himself up, allowing him to see you underneath him in full glory.

“and i’ll fuck you again”

beomgyu leans on one elbow against the mattress, his other hand touching whatever he can of your body. holding your cheek then briefly squeezing your breast down to caressing the side of your tummy.

“but..” you’ve been squirming under his touch, only halting when you feel his fingers in your cunt, checking to see how swollen you are.

“you’re soaking tho, you sure you don’t wanna?” he asks in a playful manner, fingers running through your folds and you wanted to scream.

scream his name that is, like hours ago.

your resolve's giving in, with how he’s looking at you like he’d been the whole night not helping your current predicament.

“beomie..” your legs absentmindedly close due to the sensitivity but he slaps your inner thighs, eliciting a whiny moan from you.

“go on, ask” his smile widened and you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes as your gaze stayed on them.

“f-fuck me?” you’re not used to this, asking him of all people but maybe this is why he wants you to say it more.

“that’s it? no please…” his smile turned wicked as he plunges a finger into your pussy slowly and added another one, much to your displeasure.

“fuck, please fuck me” you squeal, ignoring how pathetic you sounded. he’d tease you nonstop after this like he always does since you’ve known him but you don’t really care.

you just want his dick again before you both can go back to hating each other temporarily.

he brings you back by pulling his fingers out and you’ve never felt so empty. beomgyu adjusts himself, his length brushing against your thighs that had you whining again.

“tsk tsk, too impatient” he huffs, grabbing his dick to line it up against your soaking folds.

“n-no more teasing..” you plead again because you don’t know how long you can endure his teasing. he surprisingly obeyed, pushing in until he filled you up to the brim.

your sensitive walls couldn’t stop clenching around him, making him weaker than usual. he hates it, hates how you could reduce him to this.

“still too tight, ‘s like i didn’t fuck you a lot” he hisses as he moves his hips, increasing his pace at once. he wants to hear you moan louder for him, want to hear it as long as he can.

“gyu..too much” you’re babbling and moaning, can’t even tell him which one’s too much but you're gripping his back with so much strength to keep him closer to your body. he relishes it though, the scratch from your nails that will surely leave red marks against his skin.

“too much but you like it?” he asks and you nod, biting your lips and curling your toes at how much pleasure he’s giving you.

you’re supposed to be tired from fucking for hours but your body seemed to want more. more like you want Beomgyu more and that scares you.

he knew he found that soft spot inside you the moment your back started arching, almost hitting his face while he watched you under him. he leaned down to trail kisses along your neck, hearing you giggle each time his long hair brushed your skin.

you keep moaning Beomgyu’s name and he’s tempted to tease you just to hear you more. but he’ll take pity, you’ve been so good to him so far. he was actually worried that you’d push him away earlier that’s why he tried his best to distract you.

“..more..more..shit” your words spur him to grab your face, to keep you steady while he gives you what you ask.

“i’ll fuck you more don’t worry, after this i will” he starts, caressing your cheek, and your bleary eyes are having a hard time paying attention to him.

he’s so pretty and you suddenly wanna kiss him. grabbing his mullet, you try to pull his face into yours but he’s firm in his hold on your neck keeping you in place.

"will you let me? will you huh y/n?" he leans in as he says it, mouth open as he moans against your lips but not touching them. they're touching the side though and one small turn from you would allow that.

but his question irks you, no, his whole being does.

all you can do is nod, releasing a series of wanton moans of his name which causes satisfaction within him. beomgyu was gonna kiss you but that’s too much of a risk so he buries his head at the crook of your neck instead.

"i'll be good, so good you're never gonna fuck the others" he whispers by your ear, accompanied by a couple of desperate grunts that you’ve never heard from him before.

"good..mhmm..so good"

"yeah good? you like how i fuck you?" he goads, eager to hear your praises again like he can't get enough of it.

"yea-hngh, gyu omyfuck!" the band on your lower abdomen unexpectedly snaps, leading Beomgyu to fasten his pace even more to reach his own end.

he’s not far and seeing the pure bliss in your pretty face is enough for him to reach his peak, groaning loudly as releases inside you.

you’re both panting from another mind-blowing orgasm and eventually, he drops his body against yours.

this time, you push him off completely which earns a complaining whine from him.

“where are you going? can you even walk?” he taunts, still breathless but his tone irritates you because he’s right.

“shut up you fuckass!”

as soon as you tried standing, your legs gave away and Beomgyu started laughing. his annoying laughter echoes around that you tried ignoring even if you had hopes of him getting off the bed to hoist you up.

but of course he wouldn’t.

instead, he peeks by the edge of the mattress with that stupid mullet hair of his before he reaches out to grab yours gently. he tugs it to turn you to him, pulling your face closer and then leaning in while you stupidly do the same for some reason.

no kiss or anything, just him stopping right before your lips are about to touch. a taunting smile graces his in response to the frown etching on your face.

“awee don’t tell me you’re giving up already”

if he meant your stamina or something else, you don’t ever wanna figure it out.

.

e/n: i’m kinda out of practice for smut lmao + this is unedited so excuse 🤧. also i did not expect to post him first in this blog when i had yeonjun and soobin drafted first 🤡

#tomorrow x together #txt smut #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu smut #txt x reader #txt #txt hard thoughts #txt hard hours #txt beomgyu #beomgyu #choi beomgyu #txt imagines #txt fanfiction #txt fanfic #txt scenarios #kpop x reader #kpop scenarios #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #kpop imagines

[redstarwriting]

the clash | i. hey, ho! let’s go!

hobie brown x goth!reader

word count: 1.1k

genre: enemies to lovers

warnings: language, insults, hobie hating you, you hating hobie

a/n: it’s here 😎 no but fr, i proudly present a new series focusing on hobie brown, loml. i‘m trying to make it gn, so if you spot anything that needs fixing lemme know. i also did include a bit of a description of what you look like, but it’s mainly just to affirm the gothic spider-person look. and if you don’t like it, you can just pretend it isn’t there, my character designer brain just took a hold while explaining lol. enjoy y’all, there’s more where this came from 👀

now reading: i. hey, ho! let’s go!

next chapter: ii. time bomb

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In theory, the two of you should have been great friends. Best friends, even. He’s called Spider-Punk, and you’re called Spider-Goth, this alone made Miguel assume the two of you would get along better than all of the Peters. Unfortunately for Miguel, he was dead wrong. It was fine at first, a good introduction. “Spider-Punk, meet Spider-Goth,” Miguel says, motioning to the two of you. You simultaneously turn your heads towards him, “Don’t call me that.” You look at each other, seemingly sizing each other up after speaking the same words at the same time. In reality, the two of you were checking each other out, but no one needs to know that. “Fine. Hobie, meet (Y/n). (Y/n), meet Hobie,” Miguel says as Peter B. Parker hops next to him, excited to see the two of you interact. Your gaze first fell on his many piercings, which suited him very well. Almost as well as the spikes coming out of the shoulders of his tattered denim vest. “See somethin’ you like?” you hear his thick cockney accent, and you shrug. “The constant changing makes it difficult,” you say, causing him to shrug. “I hate consistency,” he says, staring you up and down. “I like the guitar,” you say, and he nods. “Everyone does.” You raise an eyebrow, and he takes in the way your heavy black eyeliner makes the expression look more exaggerated than it is. His eyes go down, taking in your outfit, which seems to be varying in different gothic styles, but overall is all black with silver studs, spikes, and charms sticking out everywhere. He notices the two of you share a liking for combat boots, and perhaps his favorite thing about you are the intricate and all black spider-web tattoos on your hands crawling their way up your arms. Hobie clicks his tongue. “Goth, eh?”

“Yeah. Is that a problem with you or something?”

“Feisty for a goth.”

“Instigative as all punks are.”

“What… is going on,’ Peter whispers to Miguel who shakes his head. “I thought they would be best friends?” Peter suggests as he places a binky in Mayday’s mouth. “I did too…” Miguel says, “Maybe this is just a way these types of alternative people talk?”

“Tal vez tengas razón… Hobie does love to be abrasive for no reason,” Miguel concludes, and Peter shrugs and they zone in on the two of you again. “...I don’t suppose there’s no reason we shouldn’t get along,” Hobie suggests, raising an eyebrow at you. “I agree. We probably think similar things… for the most part.”

“For the most part, huh?”

“Just that we have similar ideas, but most likely not the same,” you respond, and he crosses his arms, his guitar moving loosely behind his back. “Opinions on anarchy. Go.”

“It’s the ideal society—”

“Good start—”

“But completely unrealistic.”

“Excuse me?” Hobie looks at you with a glowering expression. “Humans are inherently assholes. Selfish, shitty, assholes. As amazing as it would be to have anarchy running rampant,” you shrug, “It’s unlikely it will ever happen.”

“You can’t actually believe that,” Hobie says, exasperated, “I mean you actually think that we can’t achieve it? You get enough people angry, and they rebel, they push for anarchy. I’ve seen it happen; I’ve led a rebellion.” You roll your eyes. “And do you live in a perfect anarchical society now?”

“Not yet, but we’re gettin’ there,” he clenches his teeth, and you sigh. “I admire your blatant idiocy disguised as an ambitious dream,” you say, and he huffs. “Would you just talk like a normal fuckin’ person and stop usin’ these dumbass words and shitty poetic language?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, or are you as deaf as your ideologies?” This time you scoff. “I don’t have the time to be berated by someone who lives in their own delusions to try and feel the slightest bit less angry at the world for giving him the shitty cards he was dealt.”

“And I don’t have time to listen to the rubbish ramblings of a miserable twat who digs desperately into their black hole of a heart to try and feel somethin’ when the truth is they don’t even know what they stand for,” he fires back. You glare at him. He glares at you. As if on cue you both flip each other off before you web away. Peter’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Well, that went horribly!”

Miguel punches him on the shoulder, resulting in a soft ‘ow’ and a tiny angry noise from Mayday. “What the hell was that Hobart?” Miguel nearly yells and Hobie snaps his head towards him. “Don’t call me that, neither! They don’t get it. It’s not enough to want to make a difference in the world. You need to take action. Goths love to sit on the sidelines and lament instead of playing the offensive,” Hobie explains, a deep frown on his face, “Watch out for them. They might not be able to do what it takes when it counts.” Miguel sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hobie, you’re supposed to show them around—”

“No, fuck that. I’m not goin’ anywhere near that gothic monstrosity,” Hobie says shaking his head in defiance. “We made a deal. You would show all the younger spider—”

“Yeah, well you can shove that deal up your fuckin’ ass, mate, I’m not doin’ shit for them!”

“Okay, okay, calm down there, man. Why don’t you just ask Gwen to help you? Maybe Miles and Pavitr too? That way you fulfill your promise, 'cause I know promises are important to you, and you won’t have to talk to them!” Peter reasons and Hobie looks over at him. He furrows his eyebrows. That would help the situation. And maybe he’d be able to help you see just how garbage your take was with Gwen on his side. “Fine. But I’m not doin’ it cause I need help, and I’m not doin’ it because you told me to. I’m doin’ it cause it’s the last thing that they’d want,” Hobie says, pointing at Peter while saying it, flipping Miguel off, and then webbing away. Peter looks at Miguel who is clenching his fists… and his jaw. “You seem stressed, but don’t worry about it. Not all of us need to like each other, I mean there’s so many there’s no possible way we all could and look at you, you hate Miles even though he’s awesome and—”

“Shut. Up. Peter,” Miguel growls, stalking away while mumbling various things in Spanish. Peter looks down at Mayday. “Tough crowd,” he says as she giggles up at him.

───────────────────────────────

『 tag list 』

@casmosmoon* @khaleesihavilliard @sparklyphantom​ @weyrrii* 

*if you are italicized - i am unable to tag you for whatever reason, feel free to reach out and see if we can fix the issue

#hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x y/n #hobie brown x you #spiderpunk x reader #spiderverse x reader #hobie brown #spiderpunk #spider-punk #spiderverse #theclashofthespiderverse

[apocalypse-shuffle]

HOBIE BROWN | SPIDER-PUNK (atsv)

─────────────────

─────────────────

“Brand New Metal” (Hobie Brown & Fem!Reader)

| Hobie helps you pierce your nose.

| SFW, piercing description, needles

| Featuring almost the entirety of my own piercing experience. (Pic source: Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse (2023) movie)

You pull away for what feels like the hundredth time in five minutes and Hobie’s hand moves outta the way even faster, barely a blur of movement before it’s back within his bubble of space.

“C’mon, Mama, I can’t do this if you keep jumpin’ away from me.”

You shift in place where your butt is planted beside the hard water stained sink. Shoulders dropping you rub your hands down your face.

“I know that,” you grumble.

Problem was, knowing barely qualified as a quarter of the issue, and whoever said knowing was half the battle clearly hadn’t been staring down the point of the thickest needle you’d ever seen in person.

You wave your hand to the metal rod with a grimace. “But look at the size of that thing, Hobes. That’s gotta be overkill.”

Hobie’s accent seems to get thicker as he hits you with a deadpan tone, full brows shading his eyes.

“This’s a twenty gauge needle. I’ve seen you ’old your guts inside you and still make time to bash in some fascists, this’s nothin’.”

In response you flip him off but Hobie - perfectly unfazed - only starts twirling the needle around two latex glad fingers.

His own piercings - of which there were plenty - glint off of the dim yellow lighting of his bathroom like a taunt. Or at least it feels like that to you.

“Look, I already told you piercings ain’t some crucial part of the scene, Mama. You don’t have ta do any of this. It’s all just boxes and labels, the lot of it,” Hobie points the blunt side of the needle at you. “And you know I hate labels.”

“Yeah, Hobes, the whole of Camden knows. Besides, I want it cause I think it looks nice not cause of capitalism’s agenda to make us buy shit instead of looking at whatever human right of the day they’re doing away with,” you shrug and Hobie’s mouth twists to the side for a second before he’s shrugging too.

“Great. Point’s been made then. Pick a struggle.”

“Fuck your struggle,” you frown. “It’ll hurt.”

“Hn,” he scoffs and shakes his head. He’s giving you this narrow look like he’d let you keep this back and forth up for the rest of the day without any complaints though. “Fake ones exist for a reason.”

“Fake ones won’t give me the satisfaction of a real piercing though.”

“The lie that we need to feel pain in order to be worthy of livin’ is also capitalistic propaganda, Luv.”

Now it’s your turn to give him a look; face dropping and one brow rising.

Hobie chuckles.

“Fine.” He grins, sharp. “We both know I know exactly what it is you’re sayin’. I just can’t tell if being an accomplice to yer masochism is fair to me.”

“You wouldn’t deny a woman her creative outlet, would you?”

“S’pose not,” Hobie agrees, taking another alcohol swab and disinfecting the needle again for extra measure.

He eyes you up and down and you smile, fluttering your lashes at him and kicking your heels into his cabinet doors. You needed Hobie to be the one to do this. For one, because you were not going to be able to do this yourself, and for two, because he was really the only person you trusted to puncture a literal hole in your body.

You take a deep breath, now if only you could chill the hell out.

Hobie shakes his head, wicks flopping around and knocking into each other languidly.

“Yer one ‘elluva reluctant participant to this for someone agreein’ they’re a masochist,” he nods to the needle while brandishing it like a knife. He knows you're full of shit, but he’s not about to make your decision for you. “You gotta stop flinching every time light just glints off the needle if you really want this.”

You lock eyes with him, sitting up to your full height and trying not to back away from the metal rod. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the adrenaline rush to kick in.”

“Pretty sure that happens after the pain, yeh?

A huff and your fingers curl over the edge of the counter and squeeze.

“Just…get it over with, Hobie.” You take a deep breath. “Please?”

“Alright alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Hobie eases a hand around your jaw and raises the needle. “You know I’ve got you. Now keep still.”

Another deep breath from you and Hobie meets your eye for a second time.

“On three,” he grunts. With your head in his grasp you can’t physically nod so you use your eyes to convey your agreement.

Hobie takes a breath to start the countdown and you inhale with him. You’ve gotten your ears pierced before, you could do this. It was fine. Plus you’ll have a few seconds to prep yourself before he gets to number three. You got this. You both exhale.

“Three,” he states.

Without a second to spare the needle pierces through the squishy cartilage of your nose and your breath catches in your throat. Instantly tears well in your eyes and your face heats up something fierce - like somebody’s holding a blow dryer on the highest setting up to it with zero mercy. Your joints pop, grasp on the counter growing tighter in your attempt to keep yourself from jerking out of Hobie’s hold. The sheer need to not garner an actual injury from the metal is almost solely what keeps you in place.

This wasn’t like an ear piercing at fucking all. Fuck this septum piercing and fuck Hobie too. What the fuck?

“Ow! You motherfucker!”

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!! I only wrote his accent clearly some of the time; you’ll have to forgive me. I was confusing my damn self, okay? I did my best.

Also what I said about how adrenaline works isn’t really correct so don’t take that as gospel.

Edit: Had this labeled gn!reader on accident at first y’all, that’s my bad. Sorry for any confusion.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it. this is a sideblog tho so I won’t respond.

#hobie brown #spider-punk #black!reader #black y/n #hobart brown #hobie brown x black!reader #hobie x black!reader #spider punk x black!reader #black female reader #platonic!black reader #hobie brown & black!reader #hobie x reader #spider punk x reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown & reader #across the spiderverse #spider man across the spider verse #atsv imagines #x black!reader #spiderverse imagine

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

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

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

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

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

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

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

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

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

"I said you have good taste."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's my scene," you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

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

You panic slightly. "I need a minute." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's multi-faceted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's dramatic." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do we know those guys?" you ask. 

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

Ananya turns off the TV. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–" 

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

"Shithead." 

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

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

"You'll sneak out." 

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

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

"You know this is stupid." 

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you losers doing?" 

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

"You're disgusting," Eddie says. 

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

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

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

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

"I can't shower, I'm watching him." 

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

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

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

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats. 

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

"Jame," he protests. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Whose house are we in?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

I need to get paid. 

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

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

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

You blow it away from her. 

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

“The floor’s fine.”

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

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her. 

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

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

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

You find you aren’t asking Morgan. 

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

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

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

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

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?" 

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

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

"You look familiar," he says. 

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?" 

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

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

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joan, you could hit him.

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

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

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

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

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?" 

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

"No, that one passed me by." 

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

You take it. You tell him your name. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why's she so upset?" you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The subtext isn't important. 

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

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This tastes awful." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist." 

"The loud one." 

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

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

"Can you get me something from the minibar?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got." 

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

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

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

A familiar scent pricks your attention. 

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

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

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

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

"Hey, sweetheart." 

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

"Have we met before?" you ask. 

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

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

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

"You look exactly the same," you say. 

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

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

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

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

"You'll catch flies." 

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

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek. 

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

His lightness fades. "Nice." 

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

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I help you?" he whispers. 

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

"Fucking move," she says. 

His expression flickers. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

"She's hot," he furthers. 

"Jesus, Gareth." 

"What? She's fucking hot." 

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser." 

"I was just asking." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I did." 

"And only that." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck it, he thinks. 

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

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

You appear and blitz past him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah." 

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

"She's a piece of work." 

You shift uneasily. 

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

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

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

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

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

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?" 

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

"Fuck you, I do not." 

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

"What would you know?" you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

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

"They're hardly desperate." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?" 

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

"It doesn't." 

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

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

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him. 

"And Cindy." 

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

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

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks. 

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

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks. 

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

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

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

"Because she was jealous of my success." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly. 

"Sorry." 

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

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

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

"You're American?" the cashier asks. 

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

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

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

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

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

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

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

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

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

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

"What were you really gonna say?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can't be serious." 

"I'm so serious," he says. 

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

"You're hot when you're mad." 

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

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

"I thought that too," you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Seriously, come on." 

"No." 

"No?" he asks. 

"No. I don't have to listen to you." 

"You're being stupid." 

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

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

"What do you get out of this?" 

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

"Tormenting me." 

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

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

"You started it." 

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

"Don't touch me," you say quietly. 

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

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

You're infuriating. 

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't do that. 

You wave. 

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

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

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

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

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

A wooden board creaks. 

You look up. 

"Hey, you–" 

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

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

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

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

"What's wrong with me?" 

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

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

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

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

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

You lift your chin. 

I dare you. 

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

"Are you going to–" 

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

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

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

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

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth. 

"Don't play games," he says. 

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

"You like games," you argue. 

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

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

"Stay still." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You'll have to be better. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

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

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #fem!reader #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst #bite the

[jockfootstories]

Billy semi-hated his sisters new punk boyfriend. There was just the cocky attitude about him that he didn’t care for not to mention that he was only 5’10 and his sister’s boyfriend Luke was 6’4, always towering over him. The only thing Billy was drawn to was the 19 year old’s size 12’s and his foot smell. Every time Luke took his shoes off, the smell would fill the room. His sister had complained a couple times on it but Luke didn’t seem to take notice or change his behavior.  The three of them were in the den area with Jenny, Billy’s sister, coming in and out of the room to help their mom in the kitchen. Billy was originally on the couch watching some movie when Luke came in and sat down opposite of him. He had slipped off his shoes and after a short while, after Jen had exited the room, lifted his big bare feet up, and plopped them in his lap.  Billy could already smell them after the shoe were slipped off but it was now more apparent as they were right under his nose. Luke lifted one foot up, pushed it against Billy’s chest some, and said,”Hey, my feet are kinda tired. I need a foot massage.” The smell already getting him exited but he couldn’t blow his cover, responded,” Hell no, I’m not rubbing your rank feet.”  Luke grinned, easily lifting one foot up, and pressing it against Billy’s face. Billy watched the hulking foot press against his nose, pushing him back into the armrest as he heard Luke sarcastically say,”Awe, you mean this foot? Guess you want me to rub them in your face then since you don’t want to give them a massage.” Billy pushed the huge foot away but Luke quickly brought it back, lifting his other one up, pressing both against his face. Billy felt the pressure and his nose rub against the soles as his view was engulfed. He breathed in the baked foot smell of the HS senior as he felt the bare soles rub over his face. Billy grunted out and Luke responded,”How do my feet smell?” Billy managed to pull one of them down and croaked out,”Fucking stink.” He then saw his sister come back into the room and grab a chair. Billy tried to put up more of a fight against the huge feet as Luke wasn’t letting up. She looked over at Luke had said half teasing,”You know your feet stink and you’re going to make him sick right.”  He responded,”Hey, he didn’t want to give me a foot massage so he opted for this instead.”  Billy wrestled with them for several more minutes and managed to keep his feet down in his lap just as their mom popped her head in asking for Jenn to help her with their neighbor next door. Jenn looked over at Luke and said,”Give me like 15 or 20 min then we can go.”  She got up and followed her mom out as Billy slightly relaxed. Luke turned his attention back to him, quickly shoved his 12’s back into his face, and said,”Keep smelling.” The soles consumed his entire face, covering him in foot odor as he lay there letting the bottoms rub against his nose. Billy inhaled as Luke rubbed his toes against his nostrils. ”Yah, fucking like that don’t you? Like my foot smell all in your face.” Billy got momentarily scared and tried pushing one foot away, stammering,”I don’t…” Luke quieted him up by covering his face again. “Shut up. Anyone would have bolted from the couch by now but you’re just staying there taking it. You’re loving this.”  Luke rubbed his bare feet into Billy’s face more persistently waiting for confirmation. When he didn’t get one, he squeezed Billy’s nose with his toes, and asked again. “Yes,” Billy reluctantly answered. Luke laughed at him and moved one set of toes down, slightly pushing them against Billy’s mouth. “Lick.” He licked between the punks toes, tasting the saltiness of them. Luke continued teasing him for several more minutes till he ordered him to put his shoes on. As Billy did, Luke said,”Looks like I got myself a new slave.” Luke stood up and looked down at him and ordered,”Get down and kiss my feet good bye.”  Billy knelt down, replying ‘yes master’ , and gave each shoe a few kisses. “Good slave boy. You’ll be worshipping them again soon.”

[gunthermunch]

[Transcript under the cut]

Billie: Max. Billie: Maaaaaaaaax Max: WHAT!!!!!! Billie: could you PLEASE get your phone? i'm trying to sort my stuff here and you know i need extreme concentration Max: can't you just- slam it against the wall or something? i'm drawing. Billie: just pick up your phone girl it's as hard as taking a couple of steps [door slams open] [quick angry steps] Max: you know what? i'm picking it up. but not because you told me so. Billie: sure, it's over there. um. are you trying to drive someone insane? because it sounds like it Max: i am. Randy's been a complete bitch these days and won't leave me alone. Billie: all this just for that punk wannabee rat man? Oh my god you could've told me sooner so i can have an excuse to dislike him coming over. Max sighs Max: … Billie: …soooo Max: shit Billie: shit? Max: it wasn't Randy. It's Lucas Max: i completely forgot to text him back Max groans Max: --and Randy junk. Told you. Billie: i don't see you texting him back Max: Randy? eh, i'm calling him later. Billie: you know which one i'm talking about, boy Max: yeah, yeah… Max: …nooot now. Billie: just like that?? Max: i just think he can handle himself! c'mon, he's a big boy, not a whiny little baby. Billie: hmm that's something Elsa would hate to hear Max: oh come ON!! I'm just kidding! besides, I'm… doing other stuff Billie: if that's not the shittiest thing you've said this week Max: he knows me. nothing has changed since the last time we saw each other Billie: man i sure hope so! Billie: hey are you doing something tonight? thought we could reschedule tommorrow's movie night. Max: i am, actually. you can stick along tho Billie: no thanks. i'm playing Titania Summerdream in like three months and i need to get eerie and whimsical soon. Max: what does that have to do with anything? Billie: the proccess! it's theatre babe.

#HI MAX HI BILLIE #ts4 #munch #ts4 story #max villareal #billie jang #billie remembered she needs to use her spare time to become eerie and whimsical

[markdelonge]

can you do an eminem hc in which his gf is in a band/ a rock artist?? strong gjrlboss vibes that matches his attitude :)

not my gif

...

title: em's punk gf

req: yes

warnings: blood mention and cussing

eminem masterlist

...

• alr so, she's prolly into punk

• dark blue hair and baggy clothes omg

• no one has ever seen her in a dress

• she's in a band too

• like a band that's as big as blink-182

• she can drum too

• ex drummer turned bass player omg

• huge stage presence, she walks on stage n the crowd goes crazy

• her and marsh met on the warped tour back in '99

• he had came up to her to ask if she was alright bc while she was on stage, she somehow busted her face open

• not really, but it was a big gash on her eyebrow

"yo, are you alright?" the bleach blonde went up to the bleeding girl.

"yea, i'll be fine, it's just a cut" she smiled

"y/n ... you're literally about to go get stitches" her bandmate chimed in

"yeah, but still, i'll be fine" she reassured.

"it's gonna make a dope scar, too" she joked, turning to the blonde guy.

"hey, you're that slim shady guy, right?" she asked, wiping some of the blood off of her eyelid with the back of her hand

"yeah" he half-smiled, still worried about the girl

"dope ... i like your music, i'm y/n" she introduced herself, sticking out her right hand that was covered in her blood before switching to the left one, which had none

"i'm marshall" the rapper shook her hand.

"are you sure you're good?" he asked once again

"yeah, i'll be fine, this happens a lot" she said while grabbing a towel to put on her wound

• the only shoes she wears are beat-up vans that has all her friends signature on it

• she looks like a skater but in reality she can't skate to save her life

• reappearing guest on jackass

• she has a lot of tattoos

• like amy winehouse type tats

• chipped nail polish

• she only ever paints her left hand nails because she's not left-handed and refuses to even try

• middle finger up in almost all her pictures

• anti-paparazzi

• she hates paparazzi

• and interviews

• mostly because they say shit like "why do you dress like a boy" "have u tried wearing clothes your size?" "are you dating one of your bandmates?" "are u gay?"

• she keeps a lot of her life in private (does that make sense?)

• like relationships n shit

• interviews like:

"so, we see that you hang out with eminem a lot"

"yeah, he's really cool"

"is there anything we should know?

"what do you mean by that?"

"like are you seeing each other?"

"why would that be something you need to know?"

"girl, just tell us! is there anything? do you have a crush on him?"

"no. do you?"

• she's in the punk rock genre but her favorite artists are mariah carey and beyonce

• marshall fell in love with her the day she sang an entire beastie boys album by heart

...

thats all i got bye

#omg this literally took me 5 months #eminem imagine #eminem x reader #eminem imagines #marshall mathers imagines #marshall mathers x reader #marshall mathers #eminem #eminem is the queen of rap #slim shady #slim shady x reader #slim shady imagines

[katarasmomsnecklace]

I wanna talk about all my fav ATLA ships cuz being a multishipper can suck sometimes

I wanna look at ship tags and not see hate for another ship in them

SPREAD THE LOVE

KatAang: Classic friends to lovers. Couples who commit ecoterrorism together stay together

TAang: She was a punk He did ballet what more can I say. But like actually they're so fun to analyze with what we have in canon, they legit give soulmate vibes.

ZuTara: SHOT THROUGH THE HEART another fun one to analyze, opposites attract/enemies to lovers it's a good time

KaToph: They're defined by overcoming their "weaknesses" Katara fought for her right to be a master despite her gender and became one of the most powerful benders because of her will to fight. Toph literally invented a whole new bending style BECAUSE of her blindness. Love them

MaiLee: Bad bitches deserve bad bitches, we love a sunshine and sunshine protector. Their fighting styles compliment each other as do their personalities

MaiKo: 'I love Zuko more than I fear you" will never not be the hardest line in the show. *doesn't care she got pickles* "HOW FUCKING DARE YOU SHE SAID NO PICKLES"

Ty Luki: I just want Suki to show TyLee the ropes of being a kyoshi warrior. They have so much they can teach each other also if you like the Airbender! TyLee headcanon there's something poetic about her unlocking her powers with kyoshi's fans

YueTara: MOON AND OCEAN NEED I SAY MORE

ZUe (I actually don't know their ship name) we in rare pair hell but SUN AND MOON NEED I SAY MORE also applies to Yue x Azula you guys come up with the coolest scenarios that put either of the fire siblings in the north pole, this fandom is so creative

ZuKKi: Let Sokka pull lol but actually a King and His Guard and King and his Ambassador, it's like Sukka is great but make it better

Mai TyLee and Suki should be a bigger ship cuz I swear I'm the only one that sees it (help me name them)

Tell me about your favorite ATLA ships I freaking love these characters and I love when they love each other

#katara #zuko #aang #toph #yue #sokka #suki #mai #ty lee #azula #rare pair #ot3 #ships #multishipper #atla #avatar the last airbender #ship analysis #kataang #taang #katoph #zutara #mailee #maiko #ty luki #yuetara #zue #zukki #zuki #sukka

[cursedkeyboard]

PAY ATTENTION ● Older brother Suguru & Younger sibling!Reader

what happens when suguru's cute younger sibling, who'd usually talk his ear off and cling to him, suddenly starts to... do their own thing?

Pairings: Platonic Suguru Geto x Younger sibling!Reader

As we know, Suguru is a rather mature teenager

He carries this air of elegance, always putting on a polite smile and spilling pleasantries past his lips like sweetened lies

But we also know that Suguru can be childish around the right people

So it's not a surprise to anyone close to him that when his younger sibling, you, stops following around like a lost puppy, Suguru immediately starts to sulk

You're only three years younger than Suguru, fourteen to his seventeen

You two always had a close relationship, closer than most siblings tend to have

Suguru loves spending time with you, to him, you're easily the funniest kid he knows

It's hard for him to ever calm down completely since he's constantly stressed with the sorcerer world

But every day when he goes home and you're in the living room or in your room, it's like he can finally breathe

Because before Satoru, you were Suguru's only friend

His little mini-me, partner in crime, best friend

You two clicked and moved like one, so in tune with each other he always marveled at how most siblings tend to hate each other

Of course, the two of you do fight sometimes

Over who gets to take a shower first, who ate the leftovers, who gets to watch what on TV

"Did you use my shampoo?"

"The one you keep hiding from me? Yeah."

"You little– That's expensive."

"That's why I used it, Suguru."

You two are siblings after all, what kind of siblings never fight?

But he never felt the kind of animosity and distrust so many brothers and sisters feel around each other, the kind that made them roll their eyes whenever they even got close to their siblings

To Suguru, you're his little sunshine, someone he'll protect until the day he keels over and dies

Not that he'll ever tell you that

(number one rule of siblingship: Never be too touchy-feely)

So imagine his surprise when the little punk who usually follows his every step, always under his elbow, asking him to hang out or help with homework, stays glued to the phone even when he sits in the same room

Like.... what?

You barely greet him, a half hearted "Hey, you're home." falling from your lips without even looking at him, and he's offended and hurt at the same time

You're fourteen, sure

He knows you'd start pulling away from him now that you have more than a couple of friends, more subjects to study, and... uh..

Puberty

But he thought it'd go away after a bit, that you'd go back to being his cute little sibling once you realized he is so much cooler than the kids your age

He'd walk past your open door multiple times a day after coming home, trying to see if you were going to invite him to hang out

He'd make tea with a mouthwatering fragrance, put on your favorite show, talk to your parents about going to a very trendy and fun place you'd surely want to go with

Damn, at some point he'd probably even talk to Satoru on the phone, loudly, because he knows you're curious about the pretty white haired teen who always teases you whenever he sees you around Suguru's home

But even then, nothing

Nothing at all

Suguru feels like he's watching the baby he helped learn how to walk turn into an adult and leave him behind

And as a big brother, he's upset, a little petty, and worst of all;

Sulky

Of course, Satoru and Shoko definitely notice, because although Suguru is quiet, he's not staying in a corner looking out of the window while listening to sad music and reminiscing quiet

And of course, they both make fun of him when he explains the situation

"And here I thought Gojo was the unreasonable one."

"Hahaha! I– I can't believe! You're sulking because the little brat isn't talking to you?!"

"Shut up, Satoru, and don't call my baby sibling a brat."

"Hah! You're such a loser, Suguru!"

Needless to say, when Suguru comes home and you're still glued to your phone in the living room, he's not in the greatest of moods

You barely look up when he drops his bag on the table

"Welcome back, Susu."

And because no one ever made a law saying Suguru can't act like Satoru sometimes, the teen flops on the couch and hugs a pillow, not answering you

That, you notice

Your brother always talks to you when he comes back home, even when he is all banged up from whatever they do at school

The sight that greets you is... something

Embarrassing, endearing, definitely pathetic for your big brother

Suguru is pouting, looking down at the pillow his strangling to his chest, his knees pulled up to make himself smaller

Not that it works, he's built like a bean pole

His shoulders brush yours, because even though he's mad, he still misses his cute– annoying little sibling

"Suguru?"

...

"Mr. Suguruuuu....?"

...

"Hey, what's wrong?"

He turns his face away, his hair slapping your face, and pushes more of his body against yours

"What the– Dude, you're squashing me! Suguru, what's wrong with you?!"

Suguru still says nothing, silently letting more and more of his weight to lower on top of you until you're smushed against the couch

Once you're a baby sibling pancake, Suguru finally opens his mouth

"So now you're paying attention to me, huh?"

... Huh?

"Huh?"

Suguru huffs, his hair all over your face, body much bigger and heavier than yours not allowing you to move an inch even though you struggle, and squeezes his pillow

"No, it's fine. Go ahead, ignore your big brother all you want. It's not like I helped mom and dad raise you."

"... Are you kiddi–"

"Yeah, keep your eyes glued to your phone, don't need to talk to me or don't hang out with me– actually, don't even look at me at all, since I'm sure you'd much rather look at your phone."

"You're being such a chil–"

"No, no, by all means! It's not like I miss you or anything."

You sighed with some effort, because Suguru is still on top of you and he's not a lightweight, and thump your head against the soft couch

Sure, you know you've been a little distant from your big brother

But, hey, you're fourteen now!

You have your friends and stuff you wanna do without your brother around

And, really, Suguru is a hypocrite

Ever since he started high school he wouldn't stop talking about the white haired cutie

Which you understood, if only visually because Satoru would often call you pint-sized Suguru

But he also spends time with other people!

"You do know I have other friends."

"So I don't matter to you anymore, is that it?"

"No, I'm just not gonna hang out with you all the time!"

"Well, you haven't been hanging out with me at all."

"Urgh!"

"Yeah, urgh."

God, you really wish more people knew about how pouty and clingy your big bro can get

Maybe they'd stop thinking he was this mature and chill guy

You groan against the couch and your brother presses his back down, pushing the air out of your lungs

"You're so annoying!"

"You used to say you wanted to be just like me when you grew up."

This guy...

You sigh, relaxing and surrendering

You're supposed to meet up your friends this weekend to watch a movie, but two of them can't make it so everyone gave up on it

Might as well use the opportunity

"Fine– I'm sorry, okay? Do– Do you wanna watch a movie this weekend? The one that just came out?"

Suguru stops for a second, letting some of his weight off of you and allowing you to breathe properly

He mutters the name of the movie and you confirm it

"Hmm..."

You can hear the smile on his face and you scoff, the exact same smile pulling at your lips too

"If you promise you'll pay more attention to your neglected older brother, then yeah."

Oh, you so want to take it back

But then again, now that he brought it up, you also miss him

If only a little

Like, a smidge

"Fine, I won't ignore you anymore. Happy?"

Suguru took a moment to answer before turning around to press a loud and gross older brother kiss on the back of your head

Now you have to take a shower

"Very happy."

He sounds smug and satisfied, finally a little more relaxed

He really did miss you so much

You're his baby, okay? Growing up too fast will only give him heartaches

And now Suguru can tell Satoru that you don't hate him

Everyone wins

...

"Hey, can you get off now?"

"Hmmm, no, I'm comfortable."

"Well, I'm not! Get off, Suguru!"

"Don't feel like it."

"Suguru!"

#geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #jjk suguru #geto x reader #platonic geto suguru x reader #younger sibling reader #platonic #sibling reader #jujutsu kaisen #suguru x reader #gender neutral reader #gn!reader #suguru x gender neutral reader

[safety-pin-punk]

hey queer nd teen here i've been really interested in punk culture and the message drives me to tears but i'm scared of being called a poser because i feel like a coward

i hate cops and i think they should fucking die and the government is fucked and we have to look after each other. but i feel backed into a corner because i'm surrounded by family who would laugh at me and just wouldn't understand and i don't feel like i can Handle it but i Want to

as a shy and nonconfrontational teen with a shit ton of anxiety to boot i dunno. i admire brave hardcore punks who beat up cops and nazis but i Can't Be That

no need for a response but it would be nice

When I was a teen, I was told by my best friend that I could never be a punk. That I would never be a punk. But here I am. I was a shy quiet kid, and I’m still pretty quiet and prefer to avoid confrontations when I can. My point is, these things don’t prevent people from being a punk if its in their nature

Not all punks are the big tough punks who can physically fight those fights. Though they are a very important part of our community. But we also have plenty of disabled, neurodivergent, and chronically ill people who are just as punk, and even people who are just not into violence. They are advocates, they are researchers, they are community care takers. Being a punk isnt all about fighting evil. I actually think thats not the best way to look at it at all. Being punk is about caring for your community. And while ‘fighting evil’ is a part of it, there are a lot more things that entails.

If you truly want to be a punk, it seems like you are already going down the right path. You alluded to a not so great home life where it might not be the best idea to dress in alternative styles. You could always start with smaller, more subtle things. Or you can just wait until you can move out to start exploring that. Remember, being punk is more than just an aesthetic, and while the aesthetic may look cool, it is by no means a requirement to be a punk (honestly half the time I run around it cowboy boots and a flannel - in the winter I usually add the hat too)

You are a teen still. Growing and learning about yourself and the world around you. And so are your peers. Any teen who calls you a poser is being a jerk and doesn’t know all that much about the scene. Any grown adult that calls you a poser is probably a poser themselves who refuses to acknowledge that not every person comes from the same background. But I also feel like it’s important to tell you that what anyone else says shouldnt matter that much. Even if it feels like it does, if you let their words matter to you, you are giving them all the control.

Its okay to be young and not know a lot. Its okay to not dress alternative for any number of reasons. Its okay to not feel like you could go off and fight bad people. None of those things make you a poser.

#mail tag #punk #punx #punk culture #puppy punk #baby punk

[mewhenimanangel]

arrogant, hobie brown

pairing: hobie brown x reader

synopsis: you couldn’t stand hobie. he was so arrogant and always thinks his way is the best and only way

wc: 2.0k

warnings!: swearing, weed, nsfw, oral sex (f and m receiving), face sitting, unprotected sex

currently you were curled up on hobie's couch watching as miles and pav played one of his dimensions’ video games. you giggled at how rowdy they were getting while gwen tried to calm them down. hobie dangled upside down on his chair telling them they were doing it all wrong.

you became a spider person not too long ago, about ten months now when a spider fell on your arm and bit you while you were out shopping. when your uncle ben died you were devastated until you had to fight his killer. except it wasn’t his killer from your universe. an orange and purple wormhole popped in out of nowhere and a muscular man jumped through to help you defeat him.

after that he told you all about spider society and invited you in. you quickly became the best of friends with miles, gwen, and pavitr. hobie, not so much. you wouldn’t say you hated him, you still considered him a friend but he was annoying. so caught up in his punk way of life he always thought what he was doing was the right way of doing things. it even caused a bit of trouble on missions.

speaking of mission…”nah mate, i took goblin down like bang! so quick no problems” hobie told pav. you scoffed at his retelling of the story. “something funny, love?” hobie glanced at you. “yeah, that lie you just told” you chuckled. “pardon?” “there was not ‘no problems’! we almost blew the mission thanks to your arrogant ass” you rolled your eyes sitting up right.

“arrogant?!” hobie exclaimed, rising from his chair. “yes! you literally threw the bomb at goblin even though it could’ve killed all those people!” you said getting up from your chair as well. “oh my days! but i didn’t. cannot believe you are still stuck on that” he moved closer to you. “i know what i’m doing sweetheart” “yeah i’m sure you do” you scoffed staring up at his face. you two stayed like that for a minute, silently challenging each other to say something until gwen coughed making you snap out of it.

“i’m going to the bathroom” you rolled your eyes moving through hobie’s hallways. when you got back from the bathroom the rest of them were gone and hobie was on his couch tuning his guitar. he was leaned back with his long legs spread, joint in hand. the way his dim lights casted a shadow on his face and over his faded eyes made him look so fucking sexy. “i got something on my face?” he chuckled, looking over at you.

you rolled your eyes “where’d they all go?” you asked him. “went back to their dimensions, gwendy had bit of an emergency and miles needed to get home ‘fore those parents of his chew his head off” he answered, taking a hit. “okay, well bye then” you mumbled about to open your watch to tune it to your universe. “hold on, you don’t want a smoke?” hobie asked holding out the blunt to you. you thought it over for a moment before taking it from him.

“knew i could get you to stay” he smirked as you sat down next to him. “whatever” you said taking another hit, leaving lipgloss on the blunt. “why d’you hate me so much, love?” he turned his head to you leaning it back on the chair. “cause you’re annoying” “think you’re just uptight” he teased, taking the blunt from you. he loved to upset you you were so cute when you were mad, it did something to him.

“god you’re so fucking a-“ “arrogant? yeah what’s all that about, you really think i’m arrogant princess?” he was getting closer and closer to your face, eyes flicking down to your lips that were positioned in a scowl. “yes, you’re an annoying, arrogant, thinks he knows it all son of a bitch-“ you were interrupted by hobie’s lips crashing into yours.

his guitar was discarded to the ground as his hands snaked around your neck. “love it when you degrade me princess” he whispered, catching your lips again. “you’re sick” you spat, feeling him smirk against your mouth. he pulled you on his lap and pulled away from the kiss to take a hit from the blunt. he put it to the side in an ashtray and grabbed your face bringing it closer to his mouth. he shotgun the smoke into your mouth before pulling you back into the kiss. “why’ve we never done this? i would have my tongue in your pretty mouth 24/7 if i could” you hummed a little hearing his words.

you weren’t in your spider costumes so it made it so much easier for him to rip your t shirt off throwing it across the room. you were left with your bare tits and hobie was staring at you like it was his first time seeing a woman. “fuck babe you been hiding all this? you’re fucking fit” he said moving a hand out to fondle your breast and tug at your nipple, earning a moan from you.

he smirked before pulling your chest closer to his mouth, latching onto your boob while his fingers groped at its twin. his hand was so rough against you, squeezing tight while his teeth grazed against your nipple. you moaned out in ecstasy, hand shooting out to his hair. you felt his dick growing stiff underneath you and you leaned back to climb off his lap and on your knees.

you reached out to undo his layered belts “do you really need all this?” you rolled your eyes pulling down his jeans. “you keep rolling those eyes like i won’t have them rolling back in a few minutes.”

he said pulling his shirt off. you admired his soft ab line littered with scars and tattoos, his veiny v line on display. you tugged his penis out of his boxers, dick springing to life standing at seven inches. you ogled at its pretty dark skin color with a blush colored tip, veins stretching down it with a very slight curve to the right.

“pretty, innit” he chuckled. he loved the way your pretty manicured hand tightly wrapped about his length. you licked his tip, smirking at the sharp inhale you heard from him. you sunk your mouth down the head of his dick, using your hand to jerk him off. his hand snaked down to your hair, grabbing a handful and using it to push your mouth down further. it threw you off a bit but you found your footing again letting your tongue work over him. you moved your other hand to squeeze at his balls, taking his whole length into your mouth.

he jumped a bit feeling his tip hit the back of your throat, was that a whimper you just heard? he brushed your hair out of your face looking at your sultry eyes staring back at him. “you look so good like this, with my cock in your mouth. taking me so well, keep that up i won’t be able to last much l-longer”

you felt proud that you had this effect on him, the ability to make him stutter. “i bet this what you wanted the whole time. all that barking when all you really wanted was a good fuck” he pushed your head down further, the tip of your nose brushing against his pubic hair. “f-fuck keep working that pretty mouth baby, m’close” he groaned. “fuck pretty girl, m’gonna cum” he moaned out. and so he did, you took your mouth off him watching as his cum flowed down his dick.

you stuck your tongue out licking up and down his dick, taking any last drop of cum into your mouth. “bloody hell y/n, who knew you were so slutty” he teased, pulling you back in his lap. he pulled your head smushing his lips against yours, tongue slithering its way in your mouth. you reached for his hand and brought it to the top of your shorts, moaning when he pressed on your clit through your clothes.

“tell me what you want, love” he whispered against your neck, sucking to leave a bruise. “fuck hobes i want you to touch me!” you whined, grinding against his dick. “‘course you do baby, who wouldn’t” he smirked pushing you to your feet, laying back on the sofa. “what are you doing?” you furrowed your eyebrows at him. “want you to ride my face, doll” he smirked at the way your face got hot. “a-are you sure? what if i suffocate you or something” you giggled. “then i’ll die a happy man” he smiled.

you pulled off your shorts, panties coming down with it. “damn you’re perfect. don’t get me wrong that spider suit makes you look fit but damn the real thing is even better.” he grabbed your hand and pulled you to straddle his waist. “just come ahead baby, i’ll be fine” you followed his instructions and crawled over his face, hovering in nervousness. he grabbed your hips and pulled you down on his face, burying it deep in your cunt. a moan ripped out you when you felt his tongue lick against your entrance.

you resisted the urge to grind your hips against his face but he roughly gripped your hips forcing them to ride. he licked and sucked at your pussy while you subtly rode against his face. he squeezed against the curve of your ass pushing you down as far as you could go as if you could fuse to his mouth. you felt so vulnerable sitting above his gaze, perfect view of your tits and your squirming face.

the way his nose pressed against your clit while his tongue lapped at your pussy was sending you over the edge. “h-hobes m’gonna cum!” you moaned out. he rubbed circles against your thigh and you reached your orgasm, sending cum all over his mouth. you caught your breath, leaning over on the chair bar before you crawled back down to hobie’s waist. “you’re fucking delicious, love” he leaned up to catch your mouth in a kiss.

he held you in his laps, arms wrapping around you while your tongues danced around in your mouth. he flipped you over to lay you down on the couch, fully removing his boxers. “ion got rubber though” he told you “just pull out” you told him. he was still hard and he lined his dick up with your entrance, gently pushing himself inside you.

it got less gentle from there, skin slapping and your loud moans drowned the noise out from hobie’s noisy world. “fuck babe, you’re milking me dry” he groaned, reaching his hand down to play with your nipple other hand on the chair bar to hold him steady. he leaned down to kiss you again and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. the new found angle made his dick hit right on your g-spot. “fuck hobie! harder” you cried out in his ear. he roughly thrust into you making the couch squeak. he was sure he’d hear some complaints from his neighbors, but what the hell does he care.

your nails dug into his back leaving scratch marks down it. “h-hobie, i’m gonna cum” you whined. “go ahead beautiful” you came, eyes rolling back in your head as you heaved out a satisfied sigh. “not done yet babe” hobie kept going, quickly pulling out when he felt himself close.

he jerked himself for a second before shooting cum on your stomach, throwing his head back in satisfaction. he smiled back down at you “still hate me love?” you scoffed hiding the smile that dared to show on your face. “i’ll let you think that over” he laughed getting up and tugging his boxers back on.

he came back to clean the cum off your stomach and wipe the smudged lipgloss and runny mascara off your face. “you want a shower?” he asked holding your hand and helping you up. “that’s okay, i should head home anyway.” you answered putting back on your shorts. “if you say so. should do this again, like all the time” he smirked at you. “thought you don’t believe in consistency” you teased him tugging on your t shirt.

“only if it’s with you” he said as you opened the portal to your dimension, walking in.

#NIA WRITES ࿐ #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown #across the spiderverse #hobart brown #spider man: across the spider verse #hobie brown smut #oneshot

[hobie-enthusiast]

hiii !! if it’s not too much trouble, could i request a comfort one-shot for hobes ? basically reader is at a pub watch one of hobies friends play, and there’s just too many people around and they start to have a panic attack, hobie pulls them to a quiet spot and helps them calm down. it’s okay if not, i’m just such a sucker for comfort things, especially w my bf, it’s ok if not tho !! hope ur having an amazing day/night :D

FIVE COLOURS !

— hobie brown x anxious!gn!reader

— comfort, panic attacks, implications of drinking, implications of injury, petnames, hobie being the best bf in the world, anxiety and mentions

— you truly thought you could make it, so you asked hobie to take you to a concert

— happily! this is based off my experience (i have anxiety with crowded public spaces), so apologies if it doesnt match what u had in mind 🫶

Hobie carefully led and maneuvered the two of you inside the pub, right by the stage. The lights were colourful shades of blue and purple as the band onstage set up. Hobie called out to one of them, prompting the singer to come over to him.

You look around the venue instead of listening to the conversation. Everyone seemed happily relaxed before the show started. More continued flowing in, greeting each other like old friends.

More.. and more people..

No. You told yourself and Hobie you would be fine tonight. You assured him that you wanted to go, wanted to support his friends and hang with them. This was something you wanted to do.

“Yea, ‘s my partner.” Hobie’s voice suddenly brings you back as he slings an arm around your waist. “[Name]. Brought ‘em out tonight t’ see th’ group.”

The friend turned to you, eyes lighting up. “Righ’, heard ya talking about them. Nice t’ meet you.”

You give a small wave before turning back to analyze your surroundings. Hobie glanced at you before dismissing his friend to finish setting up.

“Aye, we can go t’ the back if ya want.” He says once you face him again.

You quickly shake your head. “No. I said I could do this. We’re here to support your friend, don’t worry for me, okay?”

As much as Hobie wanted to protest, the lights started to flicker in the pub. He sighed and gave you a nod, yet never letting his hand off of your waist.

He wouldn’t tell you, but Hobie was very worried about you. He knew what your needs were; you were someone who needed personal space and hated when strangers touched you. It was something that spiked your anxiety, leading to pretty bad panic attacks.

Hence why he was so hesitant to bring you here. But he knows. He knows how guilty you feel about it. He knows that you feel like you owe him something.

So when you asked him to bring you tonight, he reluctantly agreed.

Before he could think further into it, the band finished setting up, announcing they were starting. The music began playing and everyone around followed; singing and dancing with each other.

Hobie smiled down on you, taking your hand and twirling you in a circle gently to the music. His friend wasn’t in a heavy punk band, but rather a more mellow rock type. Hobie thought it was perfect to take you to for your first time.

A laugh escapes your lips as you spin into him, his arms encircling your waist. “Doin’ alright, sweetheart?” He whispers in your ear, loud enough so you can hear.

You nod as the two of you dance to the music together, smiles etched on your faces. You both were enjoying yourself, song after song, listening to the talented band.

At least, you were.

As the night went on, more people continued to shuffle in the pub. There was less room, and honestly you wouldn’t have noticed. But then a guy roughly shoved into you, causing you to trip right into Hobie.

He immediately sent a glare the guy’s way. “Aye, the hell’s wrong with ya?”

The man, clearly to have been drinking, responded with something about you being fine, but you couldn’t hear. You were suddenly becoming very aware of the amount of people, and how many were close to you.

Your eyes widen as you feel that all familiar feeling of the air leaving your lungs. You gasp, turning yourself to be able to reach Hobie’s hand, tugging at his fingers.

Hobie’s mind wants to immediately talk down whoever had the audacity to touch you like that. But his anger dissipated when he felt your hands tugging on his fingers and rings.

He requested that the two of you have some kind of non-verbal signal that your nerves were rising. Something he can use to easily identify the panic. And you both settled for tugging his hand, pulling in a one-two motion so he knows.

He knows you’re about to have a panic attack.

His hand immediately moves to shove the guy out of the way, tightening his hold around your waist. He quickly ushers you through the people to try and get to the door. It’s not practical, but he can’t get out otherwise.

The more people that touch you the more you spiral. It’s disgusting you. The way they all just slam into you makes you wanna scratch your arms till there’s nothing left. Just to get rid of their lingering touch you feel.

Finally Hobie makes it to the door, shoving it open and you out. You’re hyperventilating at this point, breathing erratic as you grasp onto Hobie’s vest with your free hand in tears.

Hobie leads you to the back alley behind the venue. “Shh, I know I know.. give me a second, please darlin’.”

Glancing around, he ensures the coast is clear before shooting up towards the roof of the next building, taking you both up there. He knew it was quieter than the back alley, perfect to try and help you best he can.

“Alright alright..” He whispers, keeping his tone quiet. “‘m ‘ere with ya, okay?”

Hobie’s words were there, but not quite there. You were off in your own world of panic, breathing heavy with jumbled thoughts. You instinctively fall to sit on the rooftop, hands harshly rubbing your arms to try and get the disgusting feeling away.

“No no.. aye..” Hobie speaks, taking a seat next to you and gently placing his hands on yours. “Can’t do that.. gonna hurt ‘urself ‘f ya do..” He pries them away from your arms to hold them.

You shake your head, more tears coming to your eyes. God you hated this. More importantly you hated how weak you were. Couldn’t go a single night without freaking out.

Hobie uses his hold to pull you forward, right into his lap. “Shh, ma’ch m’ breathin’.. ‘u’re safe, yeah? Safe up ‘ere.” He assures continuously.

“Aye, ‘member our game?” He whispers, hugging you close.

You’re too far out of it to form actually words right now, so you nod. Of course you remember. Accordingly he used it on anyone he helps, if they truly need it.

“Alrigh’ good.. I need ya t’ play with me.. name five things ya see, ‘kay?”

Your vision was oh so blurry, you couldn’t see anything. This made you panic more. You shook your head, sobbing into Hobie’s vest as you cried out.

He mentally slaps himself. “righ’, ‘m sorry.. ‘ow ‘bout we try..” He thinks for a minute, trying to figure out a way to ground you. “Give me.. five colours you see, ‘mm? Can ya do that, darlin’?”

Now that was more achievable. Blinking rapidly, you peek out from your closed eyes, forcing words to come out.

“Black..” You start, latching onto the colour of Hobie’s vest-jacket first. “Uhm.. B-blue? Wait no.. I..”

You feel yourself start to slip but Hobie is quick to catch you with his voice. “Stay wit’ me, mmkay..?” He whispers, hands moving to gently rub on your arms. “Three more, please sweethear’. ‘ur doin’ amazin’.”

Soon enough, you manage to get out three more colours, Hobie praising your efforts like there was no tomorrow. He moved on to the other senses; four things to hear, three things to feel, two things to smell, and finally one to taste.

The longer this went on, the better you felt. You managed to match Hobie’s breathing pattern before going back to your own. The blur in your eyes faded and you could start making out the thoughts going through your head.

“I’m so-”

“No.”

You glance up in confusion, yet sighing after. “Darling, please.. I-”

“Said no.” He responds, looking down at you with a gentle expression. “Never ‘pologize for ‘ur feelin’s. ‘m serious.”

This was the routine after each one; attempted apologies and stops, lots of quiet time, then eventually sleep. And you were both okay with that. After such an overwhelming situation it was exactly what you needed.

“We can go back in.. or you can and I can go home.” You compromise, looking down on the venue. “You shouldn’t miss out because of my stupid-”

Hobie shakes his head, again cutting you off. “‘s not stupid. And no. We’ll head out toge’er.” He assures you, standing and offering a hand to help you up.

You stare up at him for a minute before smiling. You take his hand and wrap yourself in a hug. He smiles and ruffles your hair before shooting a web, swinging back to your shared apartment. His eyes stay trained on where he swings, yet every now and then he takes peeks down to check on you.

Once you managed to make it back home, Hobie was insanely attentive to you. He told you to go shower (because everyone knows pubs and panic attacks don’t exactly leave you the cleanest). While you did that, he fixed up the room to suite your needs. He darkened it, grabbing comfortable blankets, cleaning it up, anything you need.

After you shower and settle down, he’s got you entrapped in his arms in bed, letting you lie to where your head can lie comfortably in his chest. Though the night didn’t go as he planned, he wouldn’t trade spending the end like this for anything else.

A selfish part of Hobie wishes that this part of you was non-existent. That the two of you could enjoy being out together without this ball of anxiety prodding at you. But Hobie knew that he had to help you through this. That this was hurting you more than him.

“Thank you, Hobes..” You whisper, planting a soft kiss to his jaw.

Yeah, thank-yous and kisses like that from you are his motivation to always protect you, even from yourself.

#NEW ARTICLE || OUT NOW !! #hobie x reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #atsv x reader #atsv #atsv hobie

[the-kr8tor]

idk if you've done this already but

TTN! Reader got pregnant (fr this time!!) perhaps?

I think that would be silly, mostly because of Aunt Janet's reaction to Hobie teasing her in that last TTN oneshot

Yayy!! TTN dad! Hobie!! Thank you for requesting! 🫶

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, TTN! Hobie, TTN! Reader. Billie and Ramona AU, Dad! Hobie au. Fluff

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Hobie's hand hasn't left your thigh the entire car ride. The new sedan smells like pine and citrus when he practically drenched it in lysol before you got in it, telling you that the last owner probably smoked inside and the baby growing in you would smell it too. You believe him of course, even contributing your own perfume to the mix.

He's been an absolute angel the entire pregnancy, always careful and gentle with you. Of course you miss the days when he would play fight with you but you love him like this too, smooth around the edges but still have his bite that you fell for when you were just kids hanging out.

You stretch your lower back in your seat, swiveling from side to side, the simple movement gets Hobie's attention.

“You alright, Gromit?”

“I'm growing your little spawn, Hobie” you rub your stomach to alleviate the strain, thumb dancing along your maternity dress. You're only four months along the pregnancy but the baby bump is far larger than it's supposed to be. He jokes that you're carrying an army of spiders. “I feel like I'm carrying a full grown baby already.” you groan out.

He kneads your thigh, one hand on the steering wheel, sparing you a quick once over. “By the time Hobie Junior. Comes out he'll be ready for Uni.”

You grimace, craning your neck towards him. “We are not naming our baby Hobie Junior.” He opens his mouth but you beat him to it. “Or Punk Jr. Seriously, why are all your suggestions have Junior in them? What if it's a girl?”

“I thought you wanted to break gender norms? Our daughter could be named Junior.” His teasing smile makes you pout, you blame the hormones. Truthfully, he's been thinking about legit names for both since you two found out.

Huffing, you see him pull over to Janet's shop. “‘Junior Brown?’ No.”

Hobie smiles wider, taking his seatbelt off, he then proceeds to reach over to you, careful of your stomach. “Junior fits with anyone, so Junior it is.” he jokes.

He clicks off the seatbelt before he sneaks a quick kiss to your lips, turning your frown upside down immediately. Going back to his seat, his grin makes your stomach somersault and it's definitely not the baby doing flips.

“I hate you so much, Hobie.” You say with a grin and a chuckle.

“If you did, we wouldn't have Gromit Junior.” he pokes your protruding belly button, leaning on in the middle console of the car, his eyes softened. “D’you want me to call the doctor to book an appointment?” Always attuned to you and your worry, he asks oh so affectionately.

You swear you could cry on the spot, and again you blame the hormones. “Please,” you lean towards him, lips pursed. “This is why we have Gromit junior.”

Hobie chuckles, meeting you halfway. “You blamin’ me—?”

A knock from your side of the window startles you both. His senses would have warned him but it's impossible when your face is so close to him, add the fact that you were ready to smooch the living daylights out of him.

“Shit— oh it's Janet!” Rolling down your window, you give her a big smile. “Hi aunty! Long time no see.”

“Stop making kissy faces with each other and get out here!” She gestures for you to come out, you and Hobie give each other a look. Her cane clacks against the pavement as she gives space for you.

“Love, wait I'll help you down.” Hobie grabs your arm as you open the door.

“Am I that big already?” You look down at your stomach and he winces. “I'm sure I can get down on my own, Hobs.”

He lets go with a nervous chuckle. With your raging hormones pulling you from one emotion to another in a blink of an eye, he's been extra careful to not make you upset.

You reach down on your tiptoes, already finding it hard to see your feet. Janet looks on with wide eyes and mouth agape, she flicks her eyes frantically between your stomach and Hobie who's coming around the car to greet her.

“Hi aunty—.”

“You little shitter!” She exclaims, some pedestrians even turn their heads at the loud booming voice, probably reminding them of their own grandma. “You got her pregnant?! She just got here!”

Hobie has faced many villains but they've never made him this terrified before.

“She's been home for almost two years, Janet—” the older woman grabs Hobie by his shoulder, causing him to slouch down to her height. You watch on with your mouth tightly closed, stifling a laugh. “Ow!”

“Get inside the bloody store!”

You follow behind them, the store's bells ding as you close the door behind you. Hobie asks for your help with a simple look.

“Aunty, it's not all his fault.”

She stops in the middle of the store, letting Hobie go. He returns to your side, hiding behind you. “Oh trust me, I know, it takes two to tango. You look like you're six months in and you haven't thought to tell me?”

Hobie tugs your sleeve, having wordless conversation. You both know exactly why she's upset.

“I'm sorry aunty,” you rub at your bump, voice soft and face apologetic. “It was…unexpected and everything got so hectic that we only remembered today.” You elbow Hobie.

“Yes, we're sorry, aunty. We could name the baby after you if you want?”

You glare at him.

Janet sighs, leaning on her cane, she shakes her head. “You crazy kids. No need to name her after me, I've already got a grandkid named Janet and she's a little troublemaker. Congratulations, truly. I'm really happy for the both of you.”

Hobie half hugs you, hand placed casually on your stomach. Leaning on him, you both smile at Janet, relieved that she didn't hand your asses to you.

“I'm only four months in, not six, aunty.” You leave Hobie's side to hug her. She squeezes back, leaning away to look at your bump.

“Four? Are you sure because you might be carrying more than one?” She asks, eyes narrowed at your stomach. “Or are you just saying that so that I won't get upset that you didn't tell me for six whole months.”

Hobie pipes up, standing further away from Janet. “Scout's honour, aunty. Baby's only four months.”

She looks at you and you nod. “Mm-hmm, we're sure.”

“Huh?” She scratches her head. “You're having more than one, love. It's either that or you're carrying a big one, if that's it then I'm really sorry.” She lets go of a laugh and you look at Hobie like he kicked your dog.

You mouth a ‘big?!’ that makes Hobie stifle a laugh with a shrug.

“Do you guys have bets? I think it's a girl.”

“Bet you five pounds?” Hobie joins in, you place your hands on your hips, rolling your eyes.

#request done #hobie brown x reader #spider punk x reader #the kr8tor's creations #hobie brown #atsv fanfiction #atsv fanfic #atsv x reader #atsv hobie #hobie brown x fem!reader #hobie brown x you #spider punk x fem!reader #spider punk x you #dad! hobie brown #dad!hobie #dad au #ramona and billie au #twin au #ttn oneshot #ttn! hobie and reader #hobie fluff #hobie x reader #fanfic

[emerald-writes]

Mission at a sex club

Marvel-smash bingo: Sex Club

This is my first installment of @marvel-smash-bingo bingo card! go check them out!

Bucky x Fem!Reader

You are sent to a sex club on a mission and your partner? The one and only Bucky Barnes.. yup the very one who hates you, right? Then why is he so jealous when the target eyes you too much?

Warnings: Nothing explicitly described, just mentions of sex trafficking, sexual exploitation and non/dub con

I low key kinda don't love this, might rewrite it in the future... We will see

This is also my first time writing any sorta enemies to lovers, so sorry if its awkward at parts

“And you’ll be partnering with Barnes,” Steve said as he placed the mission folder down in front of you. 

“What? Steve no! He hates me!” You whine, looking up at Steve as he sits beside you. Rolling his eyes “he doesn't hate you.”

Just then the very man walks in, his soft brown hair tucked back in a man bun, and he’s wearing that maroon henley that makes you practically drool over his muscles. He clears his throat and that’s when you realize you were staring.

Awkwardly smiling Steve stands to greet his lifelong friend “Hey punk! Here’s your next mission. You two will visit the new Naughty night downtown. As an undercover couple.” 

Bucky practically glares at you and Steve when he hears the word ‘couple’ “Seriously? A couple's mission? You're kidding me, right? A sex club on top of that!” Muttering to himself he sits down and skims over the folder, giving you ample time to watch his sharp jaw clench and steel-blue eyes glare down. Even if this man hates your guts, you can’t deny he's hot. 

“The team and I have decided you two need to get over this petty thing you have against each other” Steve looks between you and Bucky, rolling his eyes at your exasperated groan. 

“Steve-“ “But Steve-!”

The captain cuts you both off “Enough! You two need to grow up and learn to get along. End of discussion! You go tomorrow night, figure out your plan” Steve puts his foot down, silencing both of you with his palpable disappointment. You hate disappointing Steve, he always has so much faith in everyone on the team.

“Okay, fine,” you say, looking over at Bucky just to see him glaring daggers at you. “Let’s discuss plans then I guess, and boundaries, since this is a sex club, and we may have to.. act accordingly”

“Yea. I won’t do anything you're uncomfortable with. I’m sure you're good at sitting down and looking pretty. If you could keep your mouth shut” the super soldier smirks at the look of anger on your face.

“I’m not just gonna sit and look pretty. I’ll be gathering intel, just. Like. You!” Huffing you look down at the images of the club “Let’s just go in, see what we find out. Easy”

“Easy? Doll this is an actual professional mission, I’ll tell you the plan tomorrow alright?” Barnes says, standing up to leave.

“No. That’s not how this works. We make the plan together, so sit your ass down James” you demand, tossing the folder back onto the table “or at the very least we write down what we are both comfortable with happening. Okay?”

“Fine, we need to get the target's attention. How do you suppose we do that, sweetheart? You wanna make a plan, go on” he huffs, sitting in his seat, expectantly staring at you with piercing eyes.

“Well, we are expected, aren’t we? On the list. So we find him, and I ‘accidentally’ bump into him. Men easily want to help the damsel in distress” You roll your eyes, fluttering them teasingly. “Like I said, easy”

“You can’t just walk up to him, he will likely be in the VIP section, if you wanna be the damsel, perhaps wear something skimpy, slutty? Show off that body and get his  attention hmm?” He smirks at your visible anger. You won’t believe this man.

“What? Something ‘slutty’?” You glower at him, wanting to throw something at his pretty face “I’ll wear what I damn please James. How about I get his attention, pretty easy, and you can come join in afterwards?” Standing up you breeze past him, not wanting to hear his next remark. 

Hearing the elevator ding, you turn to see Bucky is finally ready. He walks over with Steve, dressed fancy in a perfectly tailored suit. Anyone with eyes can see he looks great, you find your eyes trailing up and down to his thick thighs, to his broad shoulders- you shake your head to refocus, practically feeling Bucky's smirk as he looks you over. “Hmm look at ya Doll, you can dress up pretty” 

“Shut up James” you deflected, hoping he doesn't see the blush on your cheeks.

“Ignore his teasing, you look great! Jaw-dropping” your best friend who did all your makeup and chose the dress says as she guides you towards the fancy car for you and Bucky. “Now behave you two, don’t get too drunk” she smirks, waving you both into the car.

Rolling your eyes as you sit in the car, taking a deep breath to control yourself you turn to Bucky. “Ready? You remember the code words and our names?” You huff, watching the way he cracks his neck and turns to look you in the eye.

“Yes, I do” He’s blunt and refuses to look at you. “Let’s get this mission over with”

You hum softly as he pulls out of the parking spot and off into the road. After minutes of silence and palpable tension, you decide to break it “So, you ready to kick some ass? I see you do own a suit” waiting to get a reaction out of him.

“Yeah. Steve let me borrow it. I hate suits, so let's make this a quick mission alright?” He snaps angrily as he pulls into the underground parking below the club. “Recite the codewords, can’t have you forgetting in there”

“Typical traffic lights, ‘green’ is good, ‘yellow’ slow down or unsure, and ‘red’ is full stop what's happening, plus it is ‘firefly’ for danger and ‘bingo’ for found the target” You roll your eyes at the stupid nicknames “let's go in sir” 

You link arms with Bucky as you walk up to the bouncer “We are here to see Mr.Almano” Bucky says “It should be under Ramirez. Henry Ramirez” 

The bouncer nods once and after peering at his list, he turns and opens the door to let you both in “Just make sure you get that one a collar before others wanna play” the burly man nods towards you.

You watch as Bucky’s jaw clenches and he curtly nods, his arm tightening around your waist before guiding you inside. He leans down to whisper in your ear “Colour?”

“Green, I'm alright with a collar” you whisper back, fluttering your eyelashes up at him to look natural as he guides you towards the receptionist.

“Hello, sir! Please sign in here” The receptionist wearing a skimpy dress - could you even call that a dress - nods towards a book “Would you two like a collar for your lady, with a wristband for yourself? Each colour means something different, Red for taken, don't touch or engage with sexual play, yellow for just observing, and green is open for all” She opens a case, lightly touching each collar as she explains.

Bucky reaches out to grab the thin red collar, looking towards you seemingly asking, you nod quickly. “I’ll take this one. Where is Almano?” Bucky reaches over to attach the thin collar around your neck making you shiver delightfully. You swallow down the whimper that tries to escape at the feeling of his hands and the soft fabric.

“He is waiting for you at the VIP section Mr.Ramirez” She quickly says, pointing towards a stage-like area. You take a second to analyze the room, watching many people scattered around on the couches, chairs, tables and other sex toys. You gasp quietly as you see mainly naked women pleasuring the men. Beautiful, and tearful women strapped to tables and tied in rope in the center of the room. Along one wall is a bar, shelves of expensive drinks behind it, and on the other side are shelves of sex toys, whips, chains, gags, and dildos line the wall like a looming threat over the subs who wander around the club, making sure the awaiting doms are taken care off. But in the very back you see the V.I.P. section, a large roped-off area, filled with more alcohol and sex toys, but one man catches your eye as he stares right at you and Bucky. It is the target, a sleazy, and powerful man who works with Hydra to traffic women, and weapons through this very club, his eyes on you make you feel dirty and gross, even from across the room.

Bucky shaking you gently, and guiding you forward makes you zone back in and remember the mission. “Come on Doll, He’s waiting” 

As you both walk up to the V.I.P. area, the bouncer nods and opens the rope. Almano turns to you both waving a hand to guide you over. “Ramirez! Welcome, welcome! Come sit” he gestures to the velvet couch across from him “Care for a drink? Or right to business?”

Bucky sits down on the couch, guiding you to sit on his lap, he wraps his bulky arm around your waist “Sure, I'll have a glass of whiskey, but let’s get to business, I don’t waste my time with your small talk” 

He accepts his drink without looking away from Almano, perfectly playing the part of a sleazy businessman, eager to sell his wares. Turning to look at Almano, you find him groping a young woman kneeling in front of him.

“Of course, understandable. I trust we can come to an easy understanding. A deal that helps us both” Almano says, his gaze roaming down your bare legs, and up your tight-fitted dress. “At a high price”

You feel Bucky’s grip tighten on your waist “I told you what I want, access to your ports for my merchandise” Taking a sip of his drink, he rubs his hand up and down your arm, you arent sure he’s aware of how soothing it is.

“That's a pretty big ask, Henry” Almano tsks standing up and rounding over to the couch Bucky is seated on. “I need a pretty big payment, and I know of just the thing” 

Bucky glares up at him “Name your price, I don’t have all day” His hand tightens almost protectively on your waist.

“Give me her” Almano points at you “A couple weeks with her and you can have access to my ports” He grins creepily, stepping forward to brush a hand on your hair, making you tense up and curl your hands into fists wanting nothing else but to punch him.

Bucky guides you beside him, standing up to tower over Almano. His posture rigid and imposing. “No. She is mine. Touch her and I kill you” his hand inches toward his gun tucked away beneath his jacket “Pick something else, quickly”

Your eyes bounce between Bucky and Almano, trying to think quickly, aware of how outnumbered you both are. You slowly inch your hand into your small handbag, clicking the panic button twice for backup and standing up behind him, placing a hand on his back.

Almano chuckles, contrasting Bucky’s scary glare. “Ooo protective aren’t ya? Hmm, you sure you wanna pick a fight, surrounded by my men?” 

You hear an agent count down in your earpiece, squeezing Bucky’s arm in warning. He ignores it and punches Almano square in the face pulling a gun and shooting his knee. “I’m certain I do”

All hell breaks loose as your fellow agents swarm the club, shooting and knocking out Almano’s men, and guiding the guests or “workers” away. You feel Bucky’s hand tug you down to cover. “Stay down” he peeks out shooting at the last couple of enemy agents. “y/n? You alright?”

“I’m fine… you shouldn’t have started that James..” you huff, standing up and straightening your dress and looking up at him “Why’d you let him get you so worked up?”

He huffs and turns to walk away “Drop. It” he snaps at you.

“No. James! Look at me!” you run in front of him, placing a hand on his chest “Answer my damn question! Now James”

He glares down at you, before sighing and looking around the room “Not here- back home. I’ll find you” He pushes past you and walks away, leaving you stunned and confused by his behaviour. 

Just as you go to follow him, you are stopped by Natasha calling your name “We need you over here, more paperwork” She nods towards the exit, and guides you away from where Bucky is currently talking to Steve.

“You’re dismissed, good work tonight,” Tony says, standing up and walking out.

You quickly stand “Bucky, can we talk-“ 

He ignores you and walks right out of the room. You angrily follow him, shoving him as he stops in front of his door. ”what’s your issue, James?! Why are you ignoring me? You get your ego hurt cause I called backup?”

He glares at you “I had it handled. Now move so I can get into my room” he gruffly says, moving a step forward so you are chest to chest.

“No. You didn’t have it handled, you should have stayed seated, lied something! Not trying to fight the asshat” you scream at him, shoving a finger into his chest, demanding answers “Why were you so bothered by what he said! We would have dealt with it! Why did you go around claiming I’m ‘yours’”

He stays silent for a moment, staring at you intently before his eyes glance down at your lips “You really wanna know? I said you're mine because I want you to be. Okay? Happy?” He presses you further into the door, looming over you “Ever since I met you, you’ve been mine”

When you don’t respond, he shakes his head and hums softly stepping back “This is why I ignored you afterwards”

“You- wait- so you like me? me?” You look up at him with wide eyes, inching forward towards him.

“Yes- just forget it, I shouldn’t have said anything, I’ll go” he whispers, looking down almost ashamed.

“Don’t” you whisper, jumping forward to kiss him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him forward, kissing him passionately.

He freezes for a moment, making you unsure if you pushed him too far before he wraps his arm around your waist and pins you to the door delightfully. “Tell me your serious, please” he practically whines into you as he pulls away from your mouth to leave kisses and nips on your neck.

“I’m serious Bucky, please” you whisper back, happy to be in his arms just as you have wanted for ages. You feel him smile into your neck, as he opens the door, smiling down at you as he slowly walks you backwards into his room.

Please enjoy! thank you for reading <3

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