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pinkrelish · 11 months

Text

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #eddie x reader

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inbarfink · 8 months

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I mean, I (and others) did predict Fionna coming to the realization that ‘Simon being Ice King again is very very bad actually’ via watching IK’s old tapes - in a thematic reversal of Holly Jolly Secrets…. You know, Finn learned to like Ice King more after learning about Simon Petrikov and who he used to be, Fionna learned to like Simon Petrikov more after really learning about Ice King and who he used to be.

But the thing that really stuck with me about how the show pulled it off is how… tame that video was. Compared to what the audience knows about how terrible Ice King could get.

Most of the video Fionna saw was Ice King goofing off, with just the last clip giving her a tiny little taste of how prone he was to fits of anger and extreme misery

She didn’t get to see the videos of Ice King crying for literal hours on end, she didn’t get to see him throw tantrums that make him a legitimate danger for those around him, I don’t think she actually knows he used to kidnap and stalk women on a regular basis - but that’s okay, because she didn’t need to. That tiny little taste of Ice King’s misery and pain was really all she actually needed.

Because it really speaks to how little she actually understood of the Ice King’s situation before. How much seeing that one little clip of him back in “Prismo the Wishmaster'' gave her such a totally wrong impression of what Ice King was like

that just seeing him yell at Gunter and cry once is enough to make her totally reexamine all of her preconceived notions about him.

And it really speaks how despite her sometimes-childish attitude, Fionna really possesses a lot of emotional intelligence. Both in how quickly she correctly gauged that Ice King’s behavior in the last clip was a regular thing for him and probably not even his worst moment and that his anger was yet another expression of his being 'super-sad'

And how clearly her Second Thoughts about the Crown Plan didn’t start when she saw Ice King yell - they started when she saw how despite working so hard on getting himself Cursed again, Simon still couldn’t bear the idea of watching videos of Ice King’s ‘Good Times’.

Because as much as it was important for Fionna to really know Ice King in order to fathom just how terrible the Crown Plan was, it was also equally important for her to really know Simon as well.

When she was so dismissive toward Simon’s plight in the Prismo episode, and when she so eagerly and thoughtlessly jumped on the Crown Plan - she really knew nothing about either facets of his identity. She only got such a quick clip of Ice King actually in a good mood, and all she’s seen of Simon was him at his lowest point - rude, dismissive, screaming at her face, literally considering letting her whole world burn in his own depressive spiral.

It’s only after they reached Farmworld and officially started to work towards the Crown Plan that Fionna really started to know who Simon Petrikov is when he’s not at rock bottom. That’s when she learned how intelligent

And dorky

And kind

And comforting

And fatherly

And a silly little hopeless romantic for his GF

he is.

And they became real friends and she really grew fond of all of these things about him. So now, watching clips of Ice King… it takes her some time to process it, clearly, but it also bothers her how little of these traits that she likes about her friend and he likes about himself she can see in the crazy old Ice Wizard.

Seeing also how mad and sad he could be was just what clinched the deal for her, the last excuse she could find for why it was okay (“Maybe he really was happier like that?”) gone.

And that also relates to her more general anxieties about the Crown Plan from farther in the same episode.

Now that she’s seen how much being infused Magic changed Simon… It's no wonder she’s so worried about how Magic will change her and Cake and all of her loved ones.

And it’s not a totally unfounded fear. We’re still not exactly sure how bringing Magic back into Simon’s brain will affect Fionnaworld - but it will most likely work the same as it did the other way around? When Fionnaworld first lost its magic? So that will mean not only the people and the world will change physically, but their memories and minds will also be altered as if they always lived in the Magical World and never in the Mundane world Fionna remembers.

And that will kinda make them into different people. Gary Prince and Prince Gumball feel like the most obvious comparison. One is a literal god-king who seems to have at least a bit of the old Bubblegum Hubris problem

The other is just a humble little put-on Barista trying to make it big

Becoming Prince Gumball again would be in some way the ultimate fulfilment of Gary's dream - not just a Pastry Mansion but a whole Candy Kingdom! But... it would also mean giving up on all of the memories and experiences of ever having been Gary Prince. And... it's at least worth considering if it's worth it.

We know that Change doesn't have to be all bad, Cake the Cat will testify to that

I'm sure that from her perspective, having every bit of her memories wiped and replaced is worth it if she can keep her mind and ability to speak.

But Fionna's little Storytime with Simon, I think, really gave Fionna a look to how much his reminiscing is important to him

and really gave her a glimpse to how much people's history and memories effect who they are, and seeing this and seeing what ‘turning into a different and more magical person without your original memories’ did to Simon Petrikov

It’s really no wonder it makes Fionna worried.

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elryuse · 1 month

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OUR NIGHT IN PARIS

TWICE MINA X MALE READER

Tags : Cold Mina, Younger Male Manager Reader, Fendi Fashion Week, Night In Paris

The Parisian air vibrated with a frenetic energy – a whirlwind of posh accents, clicking cameras, and the constant buzz of anticipation. Y/n, perpetually juggling his camera bag and a clipboard overflowing with Mina's schedule, weaved through the throngs of people at the airport. A few paces ahead walked Mina, the Kpop idol he managed. Her face, as always, was an unreadable mask – a carefully cultivated persona of the aloof ice queen.

"Mina!" Y/n called out, his voice barely audible over the din. "Don't forget your sunglasses! The paparazzi will be brutal."

Mina turned, a flicker of something akin to annoyance crossing her porcelain features. "I know," she said, her voice clipped and emotionless. It was a familiar exchange, this dance they'd perfected over the years. Y/n, the ever-organized and cheerful manager, and Mina, the stoic and fiercely independent star.

Yet, sometimes, when their eyes met in fleeting moments, Y/n swore he saw a spark – a hint of warmth that contradicted her icy exterior. He knew the pressures she faced – the relentless schedules, the constant scrutiny, the never-ending need to be perfect. It weighed heavily on her, a burden she rarely spoke of.

They arrived at their luxurious hotel suite overlooking the Seine. Y/n busied himself unpacking Mina's designer clothes while she retreated to the bathroom. From behind the closed door, a soft sigh reached his ears.

"Y/n," she called out, her voice softer than he was used to. "Can you come here for a moment, please?"

He approached the bathroom cautiously, a knot of apprehension forming in his stomach. Mina stood by the sink, her face bare of makeup, showcasing the vulnerability etched around her eyes. There was a raw desperation in her gaze that sent a jolt through him.

"Mina, is everything alright?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.

She took a deep breath, her perfect facade crumbling around the edges. "No, Y/n," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Everything is… not alright. At least, not the way it should be."

Y/n's heart hammered against his ribs. He'd never seen her like this, so vulnerable, so… real. "What's wrong, Mina? You can tell me," he urged, his voice gentle.

She reached out, her hand trembling slightly as it grasped his. The warmth of her touch sent a shiver down his spine. "Y/n," she began, her voice barely above a breath. "You… you have no idea how much I…"

Her words trailed off, replaced by a frustrated growl. Y/n, emboldened by her vulnerability, decided to take a chance. "Mina," he said softly. "You can tell me anything."

She met his gaze, her eyes blazing with an intensity that left him breathless. "I want you, Y/n," she confessed, her voice husky with suppressed desire. "I've wanted you for months, maybe even years."

Y/n's breath hitched. This was a revelation, a secret confession that shattered the carefully constructed image of the cold, unapproachable star. "Mina… I…" he stammered, unsure of how to respond.

Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over. "Don't you get it? This whole facade, it's killing me! I can't pretend anymore. I want to be with you, Y/n. Not as your manager, but as…" Her voice trailed off, a blush creeping up her neck.

Y/n understood. As manager, he was expected to maintain a professional distance. But the truth was, he had harbored a secret crush on Mina for a long time, his feelings masked by his cheerful demeanor.

"Mina," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I… I feel the same way. But… this can't happen. What about your career? What about the fans?"

She scoffed, a hint of her fiery personality returning. "The fans? They don't know the real me. They only see the carefully packaged idol they want to see." Her gaze softened. "But you, Y/n, you see me. All of me. The good, the bad, the scared little girl beneath the glitter and the costumes."

He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears that escaped. "And I love everything I see," he confessed, his voice a husky murmur.

A hungry glint ignited in Mina's eyes. Before he could react, she grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the plush bed in the center of the room. With a swift movement, she tossed him onto the soft sheets, her body following in a flurry of silk and lace. Y/n landed with a soft gasp, his heart pounding against his ribs in a chaotic rhythm. Mina straddled him, her weight a delicious pressure on his lower body.

"Don't worry about the outside world, Y/n," she whispered, her voice husky with desire. "Tonight, it's just you and me."

Her eyes, usually cool and distant, were now ablaze with an inferno, reflecting the fire that burned bright within him. He reached out, hesitantly at first, tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone with his thumb. Her breath hitched, and she leaned into his touch, a silent plea for him to take control.

"Mina," he breathed, his voice thick with a mixture of fear and desire. "Are you sure about this?"

A smile, genuine and breathtaking, curved her lips. "Never been more sure in my life."

With newfound confidence, Y/n cupped her face and tilted it towards his. The space between their lips dwindled, the air thick with anticipation. When their lips finally met, it was an explosion of pent-up emotions. The kiss was desperate and hungry, a clash of tongues and heated breaths that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

He explored her mouth with a reverence that surprised even himself, his fingers trailing down her back, sending shivers down her spine. Her response was immediate – a low moan escaping her lips as she arched into his touch. Her hands, usually adorned with expensive rings, dug into his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring him to her.

The silk of her dress, a delicate shade of lavender, became an obstacle, a barrier he needed to overcome. His fingers fumbled with the zipper, a silent struggle that only heightened their anticipation. With a soft sigh of relief, the dress fell away, revealing a glimpse of her flawless skin beneath.

Mina gasped, a mixture of surprise and delight at his sudden boldness. But her surprise was quickly replaced by a fierce possessiveness. Her hands roamed his body, tracing the contours of his chest, lingering on the toned muscles of his arms.

"Y/n," she breathed, her voice laced with a newfound vulnerability.

He responded by peppering kisses down her neck, his lips trailing down to the soft skin of her collarbone. Her whimpers of delight fueled the fire burning within him. He trailed his kisses further, his hands reaching the hem of her black lace lingerie, sending a jolt of electricity through him as his fingers grazed the smooth skin of her stomach.

A gasp escaped her lips as he unhooked the delicate clasp, the wispy fabric falling away like a discarded dream. He paused, his gaze locked on her beautiful body, a masterpiece revealed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Mina met his gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of desire and a hint of shyness that sent a wave of protectiveness through him.

"Y-you're beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

The compliment, simple as it was, seemed to break the last dam holding back her desires. "Take me, Y/n," she breathed, her voice rough with passion. "Take everything I have to offer."

He no longer hesitated. With a surge of possessiveness that surprised even him, he cupped her face and deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the sweet recesses of her mouth with a newfound urgency. He explored her body further, his touch sending shivers down her spine as he traced every curve and dip.

Mina responded with a fervor that surprised him. The ice queen facade was completely gone, replaced by a woman consumed by raw desire. Her moans and gasps filled the room, a symphony of passion that echoed in his ears long after.

The night unfolded in a whirlwind of tangled limbs and stolen kisses. They explored each other's bodies with a newfound urgency, their inhibitions melting away with each touch. Y/n, usually shy and reserved, found himself taking control, his voice husky with desire as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

Mina, the dominant one in most aspects of their lives, reveled in his newfound boldness. She surrendered to his touch, her body responding to his every command with a fervor that left him breathless. As the night wore on, the initial urgency gave way to a deeper connection. Their movements became more synchronized, a wordless communication guided by instinct and an overwhelming need for each other.

As dawn painted streaks of pink across the Parisian sky, they lay entangled in the sheets, their breaths ragged and their bodies flushed with the afterglow. The silence was comfortable, a shared secret language only they understood.

"Mina," Y/n whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "W-We can't keep doing this," he finished, his voice laced with a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. The weight of reality settled over them like a cool autumn breeze after a scorching summer day.

Mina, nestled in the crook of his arm, let out a soft sigh. "I know," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes, though still shimmering with the afterglow of their night, held a hint of worry.

The fashion week, the meticulously planned schedule, the constant scrutiny of the media – it all seemed distant and irrelevant at the moment. But they knew it wouldn't stay that way.

Y/n brushed a stray strand of hair from Mina's face. "What about the fans?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur.

She bit her lip, a flicker of defiance crossing her beautiful features. "The fans love authenticity, Y/n. Maybe, just maybe, by showing a more human side, I can connect with them on a deeper level."

The idea resonated with him. He had witnessed firsthand the pressure Mina faced to maintain an unrealistic image. Maybe, just maybe, this could be a chance for her to finally be herself.

"But what about the company?" he continued, worry creasing his brow. "They wouldn't be happy, to say the least."

Mina, ever the strategist, offered a solution. "We can keep it a secret, at least for now. But we need a plan, a way for us to be together openly sometime in the future."

Y/n's mind raced. He knew the challenges they faced were immense, but the memory of their night, the raw connection they shared, fueled his determination.

"We'll figure it out," he said, his voice filled with newfound confidence. He squeezed her hand gently. "But for now, let's just enjoy this moment."

The following days in Paris were a whirlwind of stolen glances, secret touches, and late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours. They explored the city together, hand-in-hand under the cloak of anonymity, sharing experiences they could never have had back in Seoul.

The pressure of the industry seemed to melt away in each other's presence. Mina's smile became genuine, her laughter unrestrained. Y/n, witnessing this transformation, felt a surge of protectiveness towards her. He understood now the burden she carried, the weight of expectation on her young shoulders.

One evening, as they stood on the Pont Alexandre III overlooking the Seine, a sense of calm settled over them. The city lights twinkled in the water, casting a magical glow on their faces. Mina turned to Y/n, her eyes sparkling with newfound confidence.

"Thank you, Y/n," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for seeing me, for believing in me."

He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze filled with tenderness. "It was always you, Mina. The idol, the performer, all that… It's amazing, but it's just a part of you. The real you, the one I see now, that's the one I fell in love with."

Their lips met in a kiss, a silent promise under the Parisian sky. The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but they knew they would face it together, their love story a secret symphony playing in the heart of the City of Lights.

Back in Seoul, the carefully constructed facade resumed, but something had fundamentally changed. Their stolen moments, the shared secret buried deep within them, fueled their love and determination. Y/n, emboldened by their experience, started subtly advocating for Mina to show more vulnerability in her public persona. Their collaboration resulted in a poignant ballad that spoke of inner strength and overcoming societal pressures. The song resonated deeply with fans, establishing a new level of connection between Mina and her audience.

Months later, fueled by public support and Mina's increasing popularity, they decided to take a leap of faith. In a daring move, Y/n announced his resignation as Mina's manager, citing artistic differences. The news sent shockwaves through the industry, but their carefully crafted public statement, hinting at a desire to pursue creative independence, softened the blow.

A few weeks later, another bombshell dropped. Mina released a new vlog titled "My Story." In the video, she shed the idol mask, baring her struggles and aspirations, and finally acknowledging her love for Y/n. The internet exploded, but the overwhelmingly positive response from fans surprised everyone.

Their love story, a testament to authenticity and courage, resonated with millions. It sparked conversations about mental health in the industry and challenged unrealistic expectations placed on idols.

Though not without its challenges, Mina and Y/n built a new career together. They formed their own agency, one that Though not without its challenges, Mina and Y/n built a new career together. They formed their own agency, one that prioritized artist well-being and embraced vulnerability. Their path wasn't easy – there were lost endorsements, disgruntled executives, and the constant scrutiny of the media.

But they weathered it all, their love story a shield against the storm. Mina thrived creatively, her music exploring uncharted territory of raw emotions and social commentary. Y/n, his passion reignited, became her creative partner, co-writing and directing her music videos.

One rainy night in their shared apartment in Seoul, they reminisced about their Parisian escape. The city lights twinkling outside the window mirrored the sparks in their eyes.

"Remember that first night?" Mina asked, her voice laced with a playful smile as she snuggled closer on the couch.

Y/n chuckled, a warmth spreading through him at the memory. "How could I forget? You broke the ice queen act with a bang."

Her playful smile faltered slightly. "I was scared, Y/n. Scared of losing everything I had built."

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "But you gained something far more valuable – freedom, and love."

Her eyes locked with his, a familiar heat rising in their chests. The rain outside became a white noise as their gazes held a conversation that needed no words. In a silent agreement, they moved in unison.

Y/n carried her to the bedroom, the familiarity of their bodies a comforting reminder of their journey. The clothes came off in a flurry, their skin meeting with a delicious warmth. This time, the urgency was replaced by a tenderness that spoke volumes. They explored each other with a newfound appreciation, their touches laced with love and respect.

Mina, no longer the domineering force of their first encounter, surrendered to his touch. Her moans were soft, laced with a hint of vulnerability that sent shivers down his spine. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear, each word a promise of forever.

As dawn painted the cityscape a soft orange, they lay entwined, their breaths synchronized in a peaceful rhythm. The rain had stopped, leaving the world washed clean and fresh.

Y/n brushed a kiss to her forehead. "We did it, Mina," he whispered.

A sleepy smile graced her lips. "We did, Y/n. We did."

In the quiet intimacy of their love nest, they knew their journey had just begun. The city outside might have been Seoul, but in their shared world, Paris, with all its stolen moments and whispered promises, would forever hold a special place – a testament to their love story, a love that dared to break the mold and embrace the beauty of imperfection.

#myoi mina #twice mina #mina #twice smut #mina smut #smut #sexy content #kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #apreciation post #update #kpop smut #kisses #paris

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chestharrington · 8 months

Text

I Think We're Alone Now || Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Set in the S3 Starcourt era... Steve develops a fixation on the shopgirl-next-door.

Couple: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Content Warnings: explicit smut || sexual fantasy (includes oral, f and m receiving, p in v sex) and solo masturbation, kind of a panty/lingerie fetish if u squint or even just stare

Word Count: 2.9k

Whoever was in charge of Starcourt Mall planning was a sadist. That was the only explanation as to why a lingerie store was situated directly next door to Scoops Ahoy. Really, what business did it have in a food court of all places?

It also didn’t help that Steve Harrington was in the sex drought of all sex droughts— caused not just because of his stupid uniform, but probably also owed a lot to the fact that he had no college prospects, had lost his proverbial crown to Billy Hargrove, and had been cheated on with Jonathan Byers. Nothing kills a reputation quite like that.

So there he was— showing up to work every day, walking past scantily clad mannequins and shopgirls wearing tight miniskirts, none of whom gave him the time of day when he was dressed like that. Well, none of them except you.

“Good morning, Steve!” You greeted, wearing a tight white button-up shirt with a black pencil skirt. Like a sexy librarian had just walked off the page of a centerfold and decided to work retail. You were lifting the gate from the front of the store and placing a sale sign right between your two shops as he passed.

“You’re opening again?” He asked, pausing in front of his stupid, sticky helljob. You blew a loose piece of hair from your bangs as you stood and nodded.

“And closing. It’s our summer savings sale,” you explained. “You should probably expect a lot of rollover customers. Stop by if you’re in the market for anything. Maybe a nice gift for a girlfriend?” Before he could respond, you gave him a pretty smile as you disappeared into your dimly-lit storefront to finish opening.

You’d gone to high school together, though he doubted you remembered him. You were, after all, a senior while he was just an annoying sophomore on JV Basketball. You were on homecoming court, voted most friendly for senior superlatives, and were probably the hottest girl in your class. He didn’t have a chance then, and he definitely didn’t now.

But you always said hello when he passed by, and you would stop by Scoops sometimes after work and buy a cone of the flavor of the month. He wanted to talk to you more— to actually get to know you beyond a schoolboy crush, but you were so far out of his league that he couldn’t bring himself to try.

When he walked into Scoops, his boss, Allan, had already begun the process of opening. His task of vigorously polishing the glass case of ice cream felt pointless when it was about thirty minutes from being smudged with a toddler’s fingerprints.

“Steven, you’re late,” He said firmly.

Steve glanced towards the clock. “I’m five minutes early.”

Allan slung the rag he was cleaning with over his shoulder and sighed. “In my book, thirty minutes early is on time, and on time is late.”

Steve made a face as he refrained from telling Allan that payroll would disagree. Instead, he put on the stupid sailor hat and pinned on his nametag. And, just because he could, he clocked in early.

His morning was hectic. Like you’d said, there were countless rollover customers who wandered in after the sale next door, each clutching a bag of lingerie and giggling with their friends. His wrist was aching from scooping so much ice cream by the time lunchtime rolled around. He would’ve gone back for his fifteen, but there you were, your hair pulled back in a banana clip, fanning yourself as you stepped into the long line for ice cream.

When you finally reached the counter, you smiled like the two of you shared a secret. “Busy day?” You asked as you fished cash out of your purse.

“It’s been crazy. You?”

You peered up at him and laughed wryly. “God, you wouldn’t believe the number of women in this town who jump at the chance for discounted racy lingerie. I’m drowning in satin and lace today.”

He managed to smile without looking like a complete idiot as he scooped your ice cream, handing it across the counter as you looked at him with amusement.

“You memorized my order? That’s so sweet, Steve.” You handed him a few bills and coins across the counter. “Keep the change, alright? Hopefully I'll see you later.”

His cheeks burned hot. “Yeah, for sure.” He stared dumbly as you licked your ice cream and walked out into the food court.

He needed to find an excuse to buy lingerie from you... if only to have a reason to see you again that day.

———

It was late afternoon before he got his first break and darted into the lingerie store to the shock and horror of the women inside. He hip-checked a table displaying hosiery before he stopped in front of you, smiling expectantly.

You put down the stockings you were folding and looked at him with amusement. “Steve! What can I help you with?”

“Oh, uh… just…” He floundered as he searched for a reason, then remembered your suggestion that morning— buying for a girlfriend. “My girlfriend.”

“Oh? What’s her name? Maybe I know her.”

Steve hesitated for a moment, before saying the first girl’s name to pop into his head. “Her name is Nancy.”

As soon as your brows furrowed, he knew he fucked up. “Oh, I heard you two broke up, or something.”

He hesitated, mouth open as he tried to find words to dig himself out of the hole. “Oh… no, not that Nancy. It’s a different Nancy. You probably don’t know her.”

You raised your brows, but said nothing to suggest you doubted him. “I can help you find something. What were you thinking?”

He reached back and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. He hadn’t thought this far. “Uh, what would you suggest?”

You considered it for a moment, looking at him carefully. “Well, that depends. Are you buying something she’d like to wear, or something you’d like to see her in?”

Steve blinked dumbly. “Both?”

You laughed lightly and walked towards a table displaying an array of underwear. “So, if you’re going for practical and sexy, I’d recommend panties.” You held up a lacy white pair and his mouth went dry. “A pair like these is pleasing to the eye, but totally invisible underneath clothes.” You stepped back and gave a tiny spin. “I’ve got them on now, and you’d think I wasn’t wearing any. Absolutely no lines at all.”

Steve swallowed hard. Don’t picture it don’t picture it don’t picture it don’t— “Yeah, I’ll take those.”

You chuckled and grinned. “Well, you’re an easy sell. Do you want the matching bra and garter belt to go with that?” You gestured to the mannequin atop the table. “The set is absolutely stunning when worn all together.”

He hesitated, knowing he had no use for any of this stuff. Still, the vision in his mind of you wearing the set was enough to make blood rush south and all rational thoughts leave his brain.

“I really can’t afford the full set,” he finally said after a synapse successfully fired in his brain. “I’ll just, uh, grab her size then.” You nodded and smiled. He had to pretend like he wasn’t thinking of you wearing this same pair, imagining what size would be closest to yours. He grabbed blindly at the folded pairs and retrieved the first ones his hands touched.

“I’ll ring you up! I’ll even throw in our gift wrapping just because I like you so much.” You smiled and guided him towards the register, letting him cut the line of women waiting to pay. After he paid, you handed over a white box with a silky red bow and gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I hope you both enjoy.”

————

The box sat on his bedside table— the proverbial elephant in the room.

God, he thought. You probably thought he was a weird pervert who wanted to wear them or something. Well, he probably would if someone hot enough asked him to, but it wasn’t like he was seeking it out.

His thoughts wandered as they usually did when it was late and he was home alone with nothing (or no one) to do. That night, though, his thoughts were focused solely on you.

He thought about the professional pencil skirt you wore, of lace and stockings beneath. He yearned to peel them off of you with his teeth and bury his head between your thighs, tasting all you had to offer him. He wanted your manicured nails tugging on his hair, scratching his scalp as you cried out in pleasure above him.

He groaned, almost involuntarily reaching down to palm himself over his sweats. Talk about pathetic— even the tiniest mental image made him swell with desire. Fucking dry spell.

“Fuck,” he muttered, bucking into his own grip. Just the lightest pressure made him groan and toss his head back, the expanse of his neck bared. He imagined your pretty mouth pressed against his throat, sucking bruises into his pale skin and felt his cock twitch beneath the confines of his pants.

He was quick to strip off the rest of his clothes, not wanting anything in the way. The dry glide of his hand along his hardening length made him hiss. With clumsy impatience, he reached for the bottle of lube inside of his bedside table, almost empty from solo use, sitting beside a mostly-full box of condoms.

Immediately, the slick sounds of him working his length filled the room— desperate and messy with need. Maybe he could’ve been patient— taken it slower, but he was overcome with lust and a desire for release.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Feels so good— don’t stop, keep goin’ just like that.”

As the words mindlessly slipped past his lips, he knew he was well and truly gone. It was an entirely new level of desperate and horny to dirty talk to the girl you were hot for when she wasn’t even there.

His free hand was splayed across his chest, just resting against the thatch of chest hair where his heart was pounding just beneath his ribs. As his desperation grew, his hand wandered lower, fondling his balls as his other hand squeezed the base of his shaft. A desperate, feral noise escaped his mouth that he’d never even heard himself make before.

He closed his eyes and he could imagine you pulling him into a dressing room, a wanton look in your gaze as you pulled the thin curtain shut, the only semblance of privacy you could get. You’d smile as you stripped off your clothes, only clad in the skimpy lingerie you’d paid for with your employee discount.

“You’re gonna have to be quiet for me, okay?” You’d say as you pulled down his stupid Scoops uniform shorts. “Don’t want to get caught, right?”

He could feel sweat beading at the base of his neck and around his forehead, on his chest, tummy, and thighs. His entire body was burning up as he touched himself, like he was on fire from the inside out.

He’d waste no time kneeling before you— tugging your stockings and panties down and hiking up your skirt so he could slot himself between your legs and taste you. There were few things Steve loved more than eating pussy. There was something about the taste, smell, the sounds that he could elicit with a few deft movements of his tongue. You’d pull his hair and tilt your head back as moans escaped your lips.

He worked his length quickly as he imagined eating you out. His head was thrown back, tongue lolling out of his mouth as short pants escaped him. The slick sounds of lube and the slap of his hand at the base of his cock were pornographically loud. He’d have been embarrassed had he not had the house to himself.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “Wanna make you cum so bad. Wanna taste you.” He could only imagine the pretty sounds you’d make as you came, the way you’d tremble as your knees threatened to give out. He’d wait until you couldn’t take anymore before finally relenting, meeting you with a kiss.

Your hands would be soft. He knew this not just by looking at them, but also from the few times you’d put a hand on his arm when you passed by him in the service hallways. He liked thinking about your hands on him, squeezing him just the way he liked.

“You’re so big, Steve,” you’d say from your knees, peering up at him with big doll eyes. Your hand would glide along his cock— slow, teasing. Your tongue would dart out, kitten-licking his tip before you took him into his mouth entirely.

“Mmm, fuck— feels so good,” Steve cried out, his chest heaving as he continued to work his hand along his cock. “Doin’ so good, taking it all for me. Just like that.”

Steve felt himself nearing his finish and slowed down, practically to a snail's pace to keep from busting early. What was the point of having a sexual fantasy if you finished before getting to the best part?

He returned his attention to the image of you in his mind. How the drool at the corners of your mouth would drip messily, how your eyes would be wet and glossy as his cock bullied its way into your throat. Your free hand would move to cup his balls, heavy and full for you as you kneaded them in your palm.

He’d bring you up to him and give you a kiss for good measure— slow and messy like you had all the time in the world. But he’d get impatient, like he was then to just give in and make himself cum.

He’d press your back against the wall and lift your legs around his waist. You’d still be wet from his mouth, dripping with desire. You’d take him with no resistance at all, just a tight warmth like he belonged there.

He needed more. Just jerking off wasn’t cutting it. He reached out clumsily with his free hand and grabbed the gift-wrapped box from the bedside table and tore at the silky red ribbon so he could knock the top of the box off. He grabbed the white lace panties from within and groaned at the sight.

“Ah!” He got a full-body shiver the moment he wrapped the lace panties around his cock, the fabric soft against his flushed length. They wrap around the head as he sets a fast pace, imagining that they’re yours— the same pair you’d been wearing that day.

“Fuck,” he cried out, bucking up into his fist and the lace. “Holy shit, ‘m cumming. Fuck— fuck—“ He came with a shout, his spend soaking through the white lace, sticky on his hands and dripping down his shaft, pooling at the base.

His breath came in soft pants as he came down, his cock still twitching weakly, rivulets of cum dripping from the slit. “Goddamn,” was all he could manage as he laid limp against his pillows.

He’d made a mess, not just of himself, but of the lace panties he’d spent a day’s paycheck on. He grimaced at the sight of them, completely soiled from his exploits. With more effort than he even felt capable of, he sat up and tossed them into the hamper in the corner of his room.

Afterward, he looked down at himself— the mess of cum and lube left behind. He stood and stretched on slightly weak legs and went to wash off. He’d deal with the shame of it all tomorrow.

————

You were smiling at customers when he came in for his shift the next day, feeling sensitive from the second round he’d put himself through in the shower the previous night… and the quick session he’d had in the morning.

Part of him felt like a perv for thinking about you like that, but then you looked up, saw him, and smiled… and he felt the wariness wash away like it was nothing.

At lunch, he walked into the store, which was far less crowded than it had been the day prior. You saw him and approached with a casual confidence that made him want to crumble to his knees.

“Hi, Steve! Did Nancy like the gift you got her?”

His brow furrowed. “Nancy? We broke up last year.”

You laughed lightly and shook your head. “No, I meant your new girlfriend. The other Nancy.”

He swore internally as he nodded. “Right! Yes. She loved them, actually. She wants another pair.”

“Great, just meet me at the register when you’re done.” You smiled and departed. Steve couldn’t help but stare at your ass in that tight skirt as you walked away.

He grabbed two more pairs— black and red— and approached the counter where you stood. You rang him up without further comment and smiled as you passed the bag and receipt over.

“Come back soon, Steve,” you said with a grin before departing into the back of the store.

That night as Steve was unpacking the bag, he found a small note written on blank receipt paper.

“Steve, if you wanted to talk to me, you didn’t have to buy lingerie for a fake girlfriend to do it. XO” Beneath it, in clear print was your phone number circled twice.

Steve grinned, running his thumb over the note. Maybe his dry spell was going to end sooner than he thought.

#lazyghoulskinktober #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic

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missvelvetsstuff · 1 month

Text

No Benefits

Bucky Barnes x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Sharon Carter

Summary: Reader and Bucky are best friends until a drunken hook up. Bucky wants a friends with benefits situation because he doesn't feel ready for a relationship but reader knows that will lead to a broken heart.

Then Sharon Carter comes to work with them.

Notes: Steve and Tony are around but retired, everything else is mostly canon

Chapter Notes: I'm really nervous with the direction my muse has taken with this story. I hope I can pull it off. LMK what you think, please.

Previous chapter:

"Cookie!" Bucky roared as he came striding up to her office "What the Hell is this bullshit?"

Chapter 3

Warnings: Swearing, angst, Bucky's a jerk, Sharon Carter sucks

Cookie looked at Bucky with a deep exhaustion caused by researching all night and early morning briefings with the top agents to figure out what to do with Sharon while Bucky was her guard dog. Maria was ready to tear into him. Cookie cleared her throat to gain Maria's attention then made a small shake of her head to ask her to back down, Cookie knew she could handle Bucky by herself.

Maria nodded and left to sit in her office across the hall, leaving the door open just in case.

Cookie straightened her shoulders and sighed "How can I help you Sargent Barnes?"

Bucky glared at her breathing heavily "You know damn well how you can help me. Who the fuck do you think you are making accusations at Sharon like this?" He waved the report in her face until she grabbed it and tore it from his hands.

Holding the partially torn report Cookie stood up to her full height, her heels bringing her eye level with Bucky. She stared at him in his cold blue eyes to show him she wasn't intimidated by him, then walked around her desk to close the door "I don't think it's wise to leave the door open while we discuss top secret intelligence."

She returned to her chair "Please have a seat Sargent." took a deep breath and spoke calmly

"I think, no I'm damn sure I'm the lead east coast Intel analyst who was hand picked from Quantico by Nick Fury while you were still on ice with Hydra, who kept our intel operation running during the Blip while Nick Fury, Maria Hill and....hhmm, oh that's right, You, were all dust in the wind. None of my conclusions were specious and I followed the facts, without prejudice, as my job requires. This has less than nothing to do with your personal, ahem, entanglements. There's solid evidence to back up every claim."

Bucky shook his head "Bullshit. You've been acting put out since I rejected you and found a way to hurt me back. You obviously faked the proof. You better fucking retract this garbage and clear Sharon's name."

Cookie scoffed and shook her head "No Barnes. You're the one who lied to me and decided on your own to end our friendship but this has nothing to do with that." she turned away before he could respond and went into the filing cabinet behind her desk, pulling a thick folder from the top drawer then dropping it heavily on the desk.

"Here is all of the evidence that I have been compiling on the Power Broker since they showed on our radar during the Blip, and spent most of the night organizing. The pictures and the stack with a red paper clip all came in the mail from Latvia a few days ago, the envelope is attached, and was opened in front of Fury and Hill. The night before we received them I was on the phone with my top informant, the one who sent that package, who tried to tell me something about the power broker but was killed while on the phone. Before disconnecting a woman's voice told me to back off of the power broker or I'd be next." She played the recording of that call and others from the same informant.

Bucky shook his head "You've been doing this long enough, you could have made authentic looking evidence. Especially with all the AI stuff. Or had someone do it."

Cookie looked at him like he'd grown another head "Are you serious Barnes? You think I would ever intentionally risk the reputation and career that I've worked my ass off for my entire adult life, over a broken heart? You think that I would ruin someones life and risk legal repercussions on myself over a man? You know what this job means to me and what I've been through to get here."

Bucky hesitated with a pained look on his face and shook his head like he was trying to clear it. There was a voice in the back of his head, telling him this was all wrong but something made him push it down and keep going.

"Well, maybe one of your people is doing it. Are you even sure that informant is dead? Maybe the family is trying to get paid. Or the real power broker is smart enough to lead you to Sharon and you're all too willing to believe the worst because of me."

He paused for a minute "And I heard you call me a liar but I've never lied to you."

Cookie laughed "You sure about that? It's been awhile so I understand if your memory is failing. That morning? The last time you actually acknowledged me outside of work related, yeah you lied to me. Twice actually"

Bucky tried to remember back to that morning, something he tried to avoid because he knew he made one of the worst mistakes of his life. He shook his head to clear the image of her heartbroken face "Yeah I don't know what you're talking about."

Cookie scoffed "Of course you don't, I'm surprised you remembered my name when you came in here. First, you told me you weren't ready for a relationship but you jumped into one with Sharon before her car cooled down" Bucky opened his mouth to protest but she glared at him and he backed down "and second, you told me you loved me and wanted to stay friends but went to ignoring me before my tears dried."

She felt her eyes filling up and cursed "Fuck. You even started leaving the room if I was there. Do you know how it feels to have one of your so called best friends cut you out of their life like you were dog shit on their shoe?" She cleared her throat and wiped her tears.

"I would never frame someone, ever. No matter how I felt about them. Not even you."

Bucky stared at her then winced as though he was in severe pain and dropped his head into his palms before speaking again.

"Well something is going on somewhere because I know, in my gut that Sharon isn't the power broker. There's no way."

He picked his head up and looked at Cookie

"I'm not in a relationship with her, we're just friends. And I didn't lie, I was wrong. I thought I wanted to stay friends with you but I don't, I can't. You're always looking at me and making me feel guilty and I don't deserve that. Plus you've been nasty to Sharon since she got here, don't think she hasn't told me about the horrible comments you make to her."

Cookie laughed "This is the most we've spoken in months, I'm not doing anything to make you feel guilty. That's all on you. But Sharon has you all twisted around because she's the one making nasty comments to me."

Bucky bristled "I don't have anything to feel guilty for. I've done nothing wrong and Sharon wouldn't lie to me."

She shrugged "If you say so, I didn't say anything. Now I've given you the details and shown the evidence. What you do is on you."

Bucky stood up, winced again and shook his head "I don't know if you did it or someone you're working with but I do know someone is trying to frame Sharon and you're going along with it. I'll prove you're wrong, that's what I'm gonna do."

Cookie scoffed "Good luck with that, Barnes"

Bucky put his hands on her desk and leaned into her space, his voice quiet and cold "I'll prove you're doing this because of your jealousy and your job and reputation will be over."

Cookie spat at him "Go fuck yourself Barnes, if you think that poorly of me you obviously never knew me. I have never been anything less than thorough and professional. I guess I should be grateful you panicked and cut me out of your life before I let myself get too attached. Good luck with Carter and get the Hell out of my office."

She sat down and went back to the packets she was finishing.

Bucky stood and stared like he was expecting something to happen before turning around and stalking off to find Sharon.

He woke up in the dark, with Sharon curled into him and looked at his watch. 9pm? Not again, his last memory was yelling at Cookie after breakfast then finding Sharon but nothing after that. He decided he had enough and scheduled an appointment with medical in the morning to see if they could help him figure out why he kept losing time.

Cookie spent the rest of the day in more briefings with senior agents to discuss the Sharon Carter problem and how to negate it. Bucky Barnes attachment to Carter was discussed as well since he had already started causing trouble over the revelations and couldn't be trusted to do the right thing.

When she was asked why they couldn't just arrest Sharon and tranq Bucky if he caused a problem, Cookie told them about her concerns that Sharon had an ally in the intel department that needed to be weeded out before Sharon.

She was back in her office, cleaning up her desk for the day when Sharon Carter herself wandered in, sat down and waited expectantly for Cookie to speak.

"What can I do for you agent Carter? I'm a little busy."

Sharon smirked "I know what you're trying to do and I understand. You're in love with Barnes and he wants me. It sucks and I know you must be hurting but slandering me won't get him back. In fact he ran to me this morning to tell me what you were trying to do and wondering why you wanted to hurt him so bad. I told him I would work it out with you."

Her face turned nasty "So here's how this is gonna work. You are going to stop trying to smear my name and leave Barnes alone, he doesn't need or want you. Think you can handle that?"

Cookie kept her face blank. "I don't need you to tell me how to do my job, agent Carter, so get the Hell out of my office."

Sharon laughed "Don't mess with me Cookie, I'm not the girl you want to play with."

Cookie faked an exaggerated yawn "Sure Carter, I'm scared."

Sharon smirked "It doesn't matter what evidence you have, you know. Barnes won't believe you. You could record me telling you that I'm the power broker and want the Soldat to be my enforcer because that's the truth." She grinned and winked "and show it to him. He won't believe you, he's already mine." She sighed "Of course now that you're on to me I will have to adjust my plans but he will want to go with me, even beg to come to protect me from all of you.

Don't chase us little girl, you won't like what you catch."

Her grin grew to something that would rival the Joker "In fact, go ahead and show him. I know FRIDAY is recording all this so let's go and show him. I want you to see how pointless this all is so you can leave us alone."

Her face hardened "Let's go" she grabbed Cookie by her upper arm and dragged her away from her desk. Cookie tried to fight her but she wasn't great with hand to hand, give her a weapon and she might have a chance but Sharon didn't give her the opportunity to grab anything.

When they arrived at Bucky's room Sharon's face softened before Bucky answered the door.

"Hey doll, you don't have to knock just-" he stopped and frowned when he saw Cookie "What the Hell is going on, Cookie have you been harassing Sharon?"

He looked to Sharon for an explanation.

Sharon was able to squeeze a tear from her eye "I was by her office to talk to Maria and Cookie said she was watching me and knew she could prove that I'm the power broker. Listen to what she said. Friday can you play the audio from my talk in Cookies office a few minutes ago?"

"Of course agent Carter."

A recording started of Sharon and Cookies interaction in her office. Bucky started listening with a passive face but he grew angrier with everything Sharon said.

Cookie felt hopeful that he would finally see the truth about Sharon but he aimed his ire at her.

"Seriously Cookie? You just can't let it go can you? Sharon hasn't done anything except make me happy and it's killing you. Like I'm some prize to be won. I never thought you would compromise yourself like this but maybe I'll have a talk with Fury and Hill about your obsession with me."

Cookie just stared at him, trying to figure out what the Hell he was talking about. They both heard Sharon say she was the power broker but he still didn't believe it. "Are you listening to the same audio I am Barnes? She said right there shes the power broker and wants the Winter Soldier to be her enforcer."

Bucky glared at her "Jesus Cookie, that's not even close to what she said. Maybe you need to take a vacation because you're losing it."

He looked her up and down "Honestly you look like shit. When did you stop taking care of yourself? I definitely wouldn't have slept with you if you looked like this."

Sharon just stood next to Bucky grinning like a JackAss at Cookie. "I told you Cookie, he's mine so let it go."

Cookie took a breath then turned and walked away without another word. Sharon must have found some way to brainwash him again and Cookie knew there was nothing she could do right now except notify Fury and Hill that Bucky was under Sharon's control so they could work on getting him back. They scheduled a meeting for first thing the next morning at 5am.

Cookie was woken up by her phone ringing at 3am after just falling asleep. It was Sam, Bucky and Sharon were gone, Stark phones and tracking devices left sitting on the desk in his quarters.

Chapter 4

The Power Broker and The Winter Soldier, in the wind.

@erelierraceala @capswife @ozwriterchick @cjand10 @wintrsoldrluvr @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @browneyedgrli @greatenthusiasttidalwave @hhiggs @dontworryboutitsweetheart-blog @behindmygreyeyes @pattiemac1 @calwitch @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @ordelixx

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #angst with a happy ending #james bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #no benefits

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j4gm · 9 months

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SPOILERS!!! REFERENCES AND EASTER EGGS IN F&C ep. 8: JERRY

The last of four posts for today.

This episode has a very dark setting. This is the universe where The Lich wished for the extinction of all life. There is nothing here. This establishing shot features the Squirrel's apple cart, from a few episodes ago, but he is long dead and it is long abandoned.

We are introduced to a new cosmic entity, Orbo, who is Scarab's boss but is not to be mistaken for Prismo's boss, whose identity remains a mystery.

Simon name drops a whole bunch of magical items from the original Adventure Time series; the Armour of Zeldron from Blood Under the Skin, the Wand of Dispersement from Sons of Mars, the Porcelain Lamb from Beyond This Earthly Realm, and the magic beans from The Pods.

This episode suggests that the nature of Simon and Betty's relationship was initially quite unhealthy. He was one of her lecturers, and she had an infatuation with him from first sight.

This illustration features the ancient wizards who sealed Coconteppi beneath Wizard City in the Distant Lands episode of the same name.

Simon's expedition to find the Enchiridion was first mentioned in the newspaper clipping in I Remember You, and was mentioned again in Temple of Mars.

BMO apparently survived The Lich's wish because he isn't technically alive. I wonder where Neptr and the other MOs are. Cannibalised for batteries, perhaps. Also, that BRB note is very sad and is identical to the one Finn wrote in Blenanas.

There are various familiar items in the thawed out remains of the Ice Kingdom; ninja paraphernalia from The Chamber of Frozen Blades, Ice King's diary from The Empress Eyes, and of course the tape collection from Holly Jolly Secrets.

Here's a deep cut: That machine in the background to the right of Simon is the machine that held the lightning power that Finn went to steal in What is Life, so that he could power up Neptr. The Demonic Wishing Eye is also in this shot.

For a single frame, Ice King and Gunter can be seen reduced to skeletons. Presumably this was the exact moment that the Lich's wish took effect. Everyone died instantly, in less than a frame.

When I watched this episode for the first time I was confused about where Fionna got the working crown. But you can just about see it inside the drum in this shot, where Ice King mentioned he had put it in his tape.

This is the exact moment the photograph was taken for the newspaper clipping seen in I Remember You.

We first heard the story about how Simon met Betty after they tried to check out the same library book in Broke His Crown. It's cool to see it playing out for real.

Simon throws a pebble at the window and accidentally hits Babette in the face, exactly like Finn and Jake did to Kim Kil Whan in the episode Ocarina.

This is the second time Simon caused Betty to miss this research trip to Australia. She says in Temple of Mars that she never got the opportunity to go, and resolves that her life might not have been so messed up if she'd followed her own dreams instead of following Simon's.

The song in this scene, the motif of which has been heard throughout the series, is by Half Shy, who also wrote "Monster" for Obsidian.

BMO is buried with a paper flower because there are no real ones left alive. His death seemed pointlessly cruel.

THE LICH! He is in his half-disguised Billy form, confirming that this is his wish-altered reality. Like in his other appearances, the first line he speaks is a single word command. This time, the command is "Cease." But with nothing left to do he has become depressed, and he doesn't bother killing our protagonists.

And finally, we are left on this cliffhanger. Fionna and Cake have returned to their world. Scarab has convinced the boss that Simon must be destroyed. And GOLBetty is here to claim them both while the Lich watches on.

This episode's dream features a pair of Lich skulls either side an effigy of GOLB.

#adventure time #fionna and cake #easter egg posts

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wzrd-wheezes · 9 months

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Blind Date - Bartender!Remus x Reader

AN - I had this idea the other night before I went to bed and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. I hope you enjoy! Please give it a reblog if you do <3

Warnings : alcohol.

1.4k words.

It had been six months since Y/N had split up with her ex-boyfriend and after a rather messy breakup, Y/N swore rather dramatically to her best friend Lily that she was never dating again. Lily had a cunning plan, and after a lot of convincing, managed to talk her best friend into letting her set up a blind date. It was, as Lily so graciously put it, time for her to “get back out there.”

Y/N’s heels clip-clopped against the cobbles streets as she walked towards the bar that Lily had sent her the address of. She knew absolutely nothing about the person she was meeting, Lily had kept everything a secret through fear of her backing out last minute. She had no idea why she even agreed to it in the first place.

The bar was dimly lit, the few people that were in there basked in the low glow of the lights, tucked into booths or scattered across tables. Y/N glanced down at her watch, silently cursing herself for arriving too early. She made her way over to the bar, hoping that having a quick drink before her date got here would help her ease her nerves.

Y/N perched on a bar stool, her elbows resting on the smooth wood of the counter as she waited to catch the bartender’s attention. Her eyes roamed over the selection of bottles behind the bar, the shiny bottles glinting under the fluorescent lighting.

“Hey. What can I get for you?” The bartender smiled at her. Y/N’s eyes snapped up to look at him. His hand was resting casually on the tea towel that was slung over his shoulder and he leaned against the bar as he spoke to her.

“Hi! Could I just get a vodka soda, please?”

“Certainly.” He pulled a glass from the shelf beneath the bar, his fingers skimming over the assortment of bottles before grabbing the vodka and pouring it into the glass “Ice and lime?”

“Please.”

The bartender nodded, scooping ice into the glass and delicately placing the lime. He stirred it gently for a moment before sliding it across the bar towards her. His eyes darted across the bar, looking for any customers that were waiting for him, before resuming his previous position, leaning cooly in front of her.

“I’m Remus.” he said, the tone of his voice indicating that he was expecting her to introduce herself as well.

“Oh, I’m Y/N.” she bought the glass up to her mouth to take a sip.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” he rested his hands on the counter, leaning closer to her as he spoke, “I’ve never seen you in here before. First time?”

Y/N nodded in response, taking another gulp of her drink before answering properly.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, but I think he’s running a bit late.” she glanced down at her watch again, a frown tugging at her lips.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Remus asked with a grin.

“God knows.” Y/N laughed, rolling her eyes, “Some guy that my friend is trying to set me up with.”

“Ouch. I don’t envy you at all, Y/N.” he chuckled, grabbing the cloth from his shoulder and proceeding to wipe the bar down. “So, your friend’s trying to set you up... I’m assuming against your will?” He smirked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Uhuh. You know, the classic bad breakup situation and trying to ‘get back out there’” she did the air quotes as she said the phrase that she had heard many times from her best friend.

“And you have the lovely friend that thinks she knows what’s best for you.” He grinned. He opened his mouth to say something else, but his attention was quickly caught as another customer approached the bar.

Her eyes drifted over to where Remus was chatting to the customers, one of his hands tucked into the pocket of the black slacks he was wearing. Her eyes lingered on the way that the plain white t-shirt he was wearing hung loosely on his frame, riding up slightly and exposing a line of his stomach when he reached to grab a glass from the top shelf. Y/N shook her head, physically trying to remove those thoughts from her mind. She was supposed to be on a date.

“He should be here by now.” She thought to herself as she drained the last bit of her drink. She set the glass back down on the bar, the ice cubes clinking together as she did so. Her eyes floated back to Remus, watching him as he moved around effortlessly behind the bar, quickly serving the customers their drinks.

“Any word from your lucky date?” Remus asked, when he returned a short while later. Y/N shook her head, rolling her eyes.

“I think he's going to be a no show.”

“So, does that mean you’re stuck with me?”

“Well, I finished my drink, so I was planning on just going home.”

Remus nodded, his eyes glinting mischievously. He silently walked over to where the selection of spirits was and began making another drink.

“Guess you’ll have to stay for another drink then.” he winked, placing the glass in front of her.

“You’re a little too friendly for a bartender,” Y/N grinned, accepting the drink, “Do you always flirt with your customers?”

“I work hard for my tips,” he joked, shrugging his shoulders, “It’s not against the rules for me to flirt back though, is it?”

Her cheeks heat up and she lifts her glass to her mouth to hide the smile that’s threatening to pull at her lips. She takes a long sip of her drink before placing the glass back on the bar.

“Who knows?” she laughs, “Maybe I have a secret boyfriend, or maybe I’m married, or maybe I’m a serial killer with a taste for bartenders?”

Remus’s eyes light up and he reaches across the bar to give her a playful nudge.

“I like my odds.” He says with a smirk. He leans against the bar again, “If you’re single, and you’re not secretly a psycho-killer, I can’t imagine why another guy would leave you hanging. You’re too pretty for that.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, huh?”

“I’m hoping so.” he muses. Remus reaches beneath the bar and pulls out two shot glasses, he pours liquor into each of them and sets one of them in front of her.

“For your troubles,” he says, taking the other shot glass between his fingers, “And to never meeting your lucky date.”

“You can’t do a shot with me if you’re working!” Y/N exclaimed, “You’ll get fired!”

“Can I let you in on something?” Remus asks. Y/N raises an eyebrow at him in response, “I actually finished my shift fifteen minutes ago, I just stuck around to talk to you.” He juts his head in the direction of another bartender at the other end of the bar.

Y/N smiles and picks up the shot glass, clinking it against Remus’s before knocking back the liquor in one gulp. It burns as it slides down her throat and she can’t quite tell if the warm feeling in her stomach is from the shot, or from the way Remus is looking at her.

His eyes are transfixed on her and she takes the shot, watching the way she tips her head back as she drinks it and how the remnants of the liquor shine on her lips as she smiles back at him.

“I’ve got another secret to tell you.” Remus says, collecting her glass and putting it to the side. Y/N cocks her head at him, quizzical expression on her face, “What if I told you that I’m your blind date?”

“W-what?” Y/N straightens up as he says this, her eyes searching his for an explanation.

“Lily set it up. She said she knew that we would hit it off but that you would completely disregard any guy she set you up with.” he explained.

“That’s true.” she let out a laugh, “And in all fairness, she was right about that. I never like anyone that she sets me up with. I guess she really does know me too well.”

“Yeah, she does.” Remus smiled, “So, would you like to get out of here?” he asked softly, extending a hand out to her.

“Absolutely.”

#remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin fluff

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eggplantmaniac420 · 11 months

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At 3 P.M. today, Tidus, the beloved main character of Final Fantasy X, best known for his swordsmanship and happy-go-lucky attitude, will be struck by an impossibly unfortunate streak of bad luck that will render him unable to hit enemies with a single attack. According to experts, this unprecedented series of misses will not be the result of some latent bias in the random number generator, but rather can only be attributed to sheer coincidence. The astronomically small possibility of such an occurence has left fans and mathemticians equally baffled, but according the latest models this pattern is expected to continue until many billions of years from now, when the increasing entropy of the universe renders the Playstation 2 inoperable.

According to Final Fantasy X walkthrough youtuber slammedunk95, Tidus's inefficacy will make completing the story impossible: "Although other party members such as the Ronso, Kimahri, can make up for Tidus's shortcomings with their attacks and special abilities, there are a number of encounters where Tidus is expected to kill enemies on his own, something that he will no longer be statistically capable of." Additionally, he added that he was "concerned" about how Tidus's condition might "affect his sense of self wirth [sic]", adding that "Auron is... certainly not going to be pleased with him."

A number of theories have been proposed in order to explain Tidus's condition, though none have so far proven completely satisfactory. One explanation that had made the rounds on social media is the so-called "Reading Glasses Hypothesis". Proponents of the hypothesis suggest that Tidus is far-sighted, requiring a pair of reading glasses in order to read without strain, and that by some accident he has left them on his face, rendering his regular sight so blurry as to reduce his accuracy to nothing. Critics, however, have pointed out that a pair of reading glasses would clearly be visible on Tidus's model, and numerous analyses have failed to find any visual indication of their existence. Supporters counter that Square Enix programmed the game not to render the glasses onscreen, likely as a convenience to the player. Confusing the matter further, a number of conflicting screenshots have emerged, some showing Tidus with glasses, some appearing to show the barest outlines of a nearly invisible pair, others depicting him utterly bare-faced except for his signature smile. Square Enix themselves have been strangely silent on the matter, and nearly all attempts to contact them have been met with silence.

Yesterday morning, longtime series composer Nobuo Uematsu was spotted leaving a downtown ice cream parlor with two two-scoop waffle cones, one in each hand, alternating his licking between them as he strutted down the crowded sidewalk, deftly weaving through oncoming pedestrians, cones perfectly balanced, his blushing tongue darting out from between his lips to catch every stray drop melted by the sun, never losing even an ounce of that precious ambrosia, smoothing the surface of the strawberry scoops to a glossy sheen with his warm papillae, wearing away at the mountain of mint chip with nothing but the determined rubbing of that pinkish organ - stained pinker by artifical strawberry colorings - whose articulate flapping might, with any luck, reveal the secret of Tidus's bizarre condition to our news crew, who were approaching him at that very moment. Unfortunately, the revered composer politely declined to answer our inquiries, but our quick-thinking cameraman managed to capture a seventeen second clip of him biting into his wafflecones as he walked away. It is unknown at this time if the foootage will prove relevant to the investigation.

Fans of Final Fantasy X are advised to make the most of their remaining time with the profoundly moving story of Tidus and Yuna before the 3 P.M. deadline. Social media is already awash with fan-art and tributes to the critically-acclaimed title, with many lamenting soon-to-be defunct features such as Blitzball and Kimahri. Use the hashtag #TidusFailure2023 to share your favorite moments and memories of the game.

"guys i think it might have started early my tidus just missed five times in a row #tidusfailure2023"

"never mind he hit again. >_< just bad luck i guess"

Additionally, at 2:30 P.M E.S.T, a live contest will be aired on Twitch, with over 150 gamers competing to be the last person ever to hit an enemy with Tidus. The winner will recieve a cash prize of $100, and, unusually, the intellectual property rights to the character himself. Explaining this decision, the CEO of Square Enix remarked that; "He is of no more use to us now than a dried-up piece of lettuce."

Update: As of 4:05 P.M., Square Enix has announced a revised version of the game, entitled "Final Fantasy X: Niimen's Story". Though Tidus still retains his status as the story's protagonist, he no longer participates in combat, instead flying above the party in a hot air balloon and shouting words of encouragement as the rest of the party defeats fiends. Tidus recieves experience points alongside the rest of the party, reflecting the contribution of his motivational shouts. By utilizing the sphere grid, Tidus can unlock new words to use in his cheers, such as "great" or "wonderful", while others, such as "wacko" and "dingbat" may be used to express Tidus's disapproval with the party's performance. In order to maintain the balance of encounters, Tidus's slot in the roster has been filled by a new character named Niimen. Niimen can use all the same attacks and abilities as Tidus, but he is older, and his pant legs are of equal length. As of this time, it is unknown if Niimen will miss with every attack, but all evidence seems to indicate that the probability of such an occurance is so low as to be essentially impossible.

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creepswrites · 1 year

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MEAT PIES (Thomas x Reader)

as a result of the poll i made, here is a lil something with Thomas Hewitt! also, this is sort of in celebration of 500 followers so thank you so much for that!! :D

Thomas Hewitt x gn!Reader (they/them)

Summary: You nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Luda May call the directions to you. Down the hall, first door on the left. Easy. The door in question was underneath a large staircase that led upstairs from the entry foyer. As you reached to open it, your hand froze on the doorknob. The sound of a revving chainsaw and screaming could be heard just beyond the door.

WARNING: 18+, violence, murder, c/nnibalism

Living in Travis County was becoming more and more difficult, particularly in Fuller. There were whispers around town that the meat processing plant had gone bad. The latest drought had caused illness in the cattle but the plant did nothing about it, continuing work as expected.

Those whispers had reached your ears almost immediately. Fuller was a relatively small town as is and the sick meat would be bad for your business.

Currently, you ran a little corner store making and selling various baked goods, though your little meat pies were especially good. Despite the town's size, you had various customers come in almost every day. When you'd first moved to town about two years ago, many of the older residents had turned up their noses when you'd continued to work on Sundays, not being particularly religious yourself.

Their attitudes quickly changed once they got a taste of your baking though.

You made various things as well, from cakes to breads to cookies. There was little you couldn't make. In summer, you'd whip up vanilla ice creams with apple cobblers and in winter you'd make warm honey and vanilla cakes. The town couldn't get enough of it.

Today was a warm day, as were most days in Texas. You'd just finished cleaning up one of the tables when you heard someone come inside. "Be right with you!" You called over your shoulder as you finished wiping down the table with a disinfectant wet wipe.

When you spun around, you smiled at a familiar face. "Hey Mrs Hewitt, how can I help ya?"

Luda May Hewitt was a regular of yours, always paying you generously to bring home some of your cakes and plates of cookies. She bought more than any other customer but you certainly weren't complaining. Sometimes she'd bring you some of her own family recipes for you to try, always looking proud when they came out a success.

You were always respectful to her, which you could tell she also appreciated. "Just here for the usual, dear." Luda May smiled at you.

With a quick nod, you slipped back behind the counter and began collecting chocolate clip cookies into a paper bag. "Did somethin' a lil different with 'em this week." You gave the old woman a secret smile. "Added a bit more salt to this batch, so let me know what ya think!"

"Ooo!" Luda May smiled. "I'm sure they'll be delicious as always. My Tommy's such a big fan of your bakin' you know."

You looked up at her, giving her a raised eyebrow. "Tommy?"

She nodded. "He works at the meat plant. Walks by your lil store every day on his way to work but he's too shy to come in, poor dear."

"I hope I don't scare him," you laughed good-naturedly as you sealed up the bag before collecting a dozen cupcakes into a paper tray. "He's welcome to come in if he wants! Can make him a hot chocolate if he shows up before openin.'"

Luda May gave you a fond look. "You're such a darlin,' don't know what angel sent ya to Fuller but I know the whole town's grateful." She paused, fidgeting with her fingers. "You heard 'bout the plant, right?" Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke.

You nodded at her, leaning closer over the counter like the two of you were sharing a dark secret over the little cakes and cookies. "Yeah, heard the meat was bad."

"Not just bad, dear." Luda May frowned. "Been stomach infections all over the country 'cause of the spoiled meat. A health inspectors comin' out this week to see."

A soft gasp left your lips and Luda May nodded sadly. "I mean... is the plant-?"

Luda May gave a wistful smile. "You've heard the rumors. I'm sure you've seen the families movin' out of Fuller this past month. Everyone's already cut their losses an' moved on."

You frowned, crossing your arms over your cool counter as the old woman opened her purse to pull out coins and bills to pay you. "What're you gonna do?" You asked her, chewing on your lip.

She looked at you with a soft look. "Don't you go worryin' about an old woman like me. I ain't last this long on pillows and cotton." She teased you, making you smile slightly. "I got my boys to look after me. We got a farm out in the country, we'll get by. I still got my job at the community center, for now."

As she slid the money across the counter and took the two bags of sweets, you gave her a polite wave. "Let me know if I can help somehow, yeah?"

Luda May just gave you a smile as she left, leaving you alone in the empty store as the bell of the door echoed emptily. You just hoped her family would be okay.

The Hewitts were a fairly reserved family but were the heart of the little community. Luda May and Charlie had a strong presence in the town and, despite the sheriff's best attempts, the town looked to the Hewitt family for advice. So you'd heard of Thomas Hewitt - Luda May's son who, according to rumors, was mentally challenged and physically disabled. You'd never met him but you'd heard stories.

You finally got to meet him just a few days after Luda May's visit.

It was early in the morning and you'd barely gotten dressed when you padded downstairs in socked feet to your little shop. You lived above the store in a small, one room apartment. It was convenient though!

A knock on the glass door confused your still-sleepy brain. You crept towards the door, unlocked it, and opened it. An enormous man stood there, staring at you with surprise. His hair was long, messy and matted, and he wore a mask over his mouth that obscured a lot of his face. You opened and closed your mouth for a minute before managing to choke out a few words. "Thomas, right?"

He nodded and you felt yourself smile. "Luda May told me 'boutcha! C'mon in," you stepped aside and shuffled back towards your coffee machine. You heard Thomas enter slowly, shutting the door carefully behind him. "You want coffee?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at him.

Thomas looked dirty, the apron he wore stained with blood. If he didn't work at the meat plant, you would've been more alarmed. He just stared at you, unblinking. "Hot chocolate?" You tried, earning a quick nod. "Comin' right up!" You gave him a bright smile as you set about making coffee for yourself and hot chocolate for your guest.

"Luda May says you walk by my shop a lot." You hummed as you worked. "You're allowed to come in, y'know? I ain't gonna run you off."

Thomas was silent still. You got the feeling he didn't talk much. So you went into the back room as drinks brewed and opened one of your storage boxes. Despite the dusty, rough nature of the rest of the town, you prided yourself on keeping things clean and tidy. So you grabbed two cinnamon rolls and went to reheat them in the little oven.

All the while, you felt eyes on you. For some reason, you got a heavy feeling in your stomach but you pushed it down. He was strange, not dangerous.

You slid the man a mug of hot chocolate and a warm cinnamon roll across your countertop with a smile. "Yer always welcome here."

To be polite, you turned your back to him as you drank your coffee to let him take off the mask he wore to eat better. The two of you enjoyed breakfast in relative silence until, without much fanfare, Thomas stepped away from the counter and slipped out the front door, back into the Texas heat.

He was strange, without a doubt, but he meant well. It was clear Luda May adored him so he must just really be shy with strangers. You'd start stocking up more hot chocolate, despite it being summer, for if Thomas ever visited you again.

And, later that very afternoon, hundreds of men were seen leaving the meat plant. It was shut down for good by the health inspector. You watched from your windows as the angry men stormed home, yelling in protest and anger with each other.

You didn't see Thomas in the crowds though. You hoped he was okay...

With the meat plant shut down, life in Fuller came to a complete stop. Where once it had been difficult, it was now near impossible to continue living there. At least 85% of the town moved away by the end of the month, abandoning their properties or selling them. The town, effectively, shut down in a matter of weeks.

But you remained.

You didn't have anywhere to go or the means to leave. Selling the property was an option but where would you even go? You didn't exactly have a means of moving. Your little car couldn't hold all your possessions and getting a moving company to help was ridiculously expensive...

You felt trapped.

Luda May visited you late one afternoon, a sad smile on her face. "Hello dear." She said softly, the overhead bell ringing to announce her arrival.

Glancing up from the catalogue you were browsing, you smiled back. "Hey Mrs Hewitt. How can I help ya?"

She made her way up to your counter, looking down at the catalogue before looking back up at you. "The Jamisons moved away." She said softly. Your eyes widened and you straightened up. "Just this afternoon." Her voice was shaky as you reached over to hold her hands.

"I'm so sorry..." Your voice was soft as the old woman looked close to collapsing. "I know how close they were with the town, I-"

Luda May held your hands back tight. "It's been so hard, havin' everyone move away just like that. Like this town ain't worth nothin' without the meat plant." She grit her teeth against a wet sob. "My Tommy ain't got no place to work an' we- we can't leave. But if everyone else goes, what'll happen to us? What'll we do?"

You let go of Luda May long enough to slide over your counter to hug her. "I'm so sorry. I- I wish there was something I could do to help..."

She held you tight as she let herself sob. You swayed with her for a moment, trying your best to console her. "Ain't nowhere left to work in this town. We can't survive on pennies from my community center job, sweetheart. It's gettin' too hard." Luda May wept.

You felt for her, truly. "If there's anything I can do, please let me know. You an' your family have done so much for me, for the town. Least I can do is repay the favor."

Luda May pulled back slightly, wiping her cheeks. "You're too good for this world. Certainly the Lord blessed us when he sent you to this town." She sniffed once, straightening up and adjusting her glasses. "You should come on by for dinner tonight. We got guests comin' over an' I think you'd fit right in."

"Oh!" You perked up, smiling at her. "I'd love to! I've got this pie recipe I've been meanin' to try out, I think y'all will love it."

Luda May smiled and nodded along. "I got two hours left in my shift at the community center. I'll come on by and getcha after, alright?"

You nodded excitedly. "I'll get cleaned up. Thank you, I'm honored to be invited along!"

When you turned to hurry up the stairs to your little apartment, you missed the way Luda May's smile faded away. Her heart ached with remorse for what she was sentencing you to.

As she left the store, she cried silent tears for the betrayal she was about to give you.

But, as promised, Luda May came to pick you up just as the sun was going down. You'd gotten cleaned up, dressed nice in light clothing to protect yourself against the hot Texas afternoon. An airy, white and blue striped shirt with the collar pressed nicely alongside matching navy blue shorts. The boots you wore were simple and the cleanest shoes you owned.

When Luda May spotted you, smiling and waving at her as you clutched a wicker basket in your hands, she almost told you the truth. Almost made up a lie to keep you from coming over, to save you from the fate that Charlie - Hoyt, he'd insisted now - would surely sentence you to. But he'd been right. The family needed to eat.

She just wished you'd left town earlier. Packed up your cute little things into neat, nice boxes and left this shithole of a town. But no. You'd stayed because you were sweet. And you trusted her. Which only made her feel worse about putting you into this situation.

You, who had only ever been so kind and loving to her, her family, Tommy...

But she didn't say or do anything. She just smiled as you got into her old truck and drove you down the old, dirt road towards the Hewitt house. The old blue truck rattled but you were polite and didn't say a thing. You were too good for this world, in Luda May's eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, there could be a way to save you still.

The Hewitt farm was much bigger than you imagined. The large, manor-like house lay surrounded by various barns, cattle pens, and a nearby junkyard. You didn't let it show on your face but the whole place felt... Dirty.

Like dirt caked every surface, even lightly. As though if you were to drag your fingers across anything, you'd find layers of dirt and dust left on the tips of your fingers. You suppressed a shudder as Luda May left her truck, shutting the door rather loudly. You were quick to follow her up to the big house, stumbling slightly as you hurried.

"Now, be wary of the boys. They tend to be a bit rowdy this late in the day. Once dinner rolls 'round they'll settle. If any of them give you trouble, you come straight to me." Luda May said as you approached the door.

You gave her a quick nod. "Yes ma'am."

The smile she gave you was fond but it was also... something else.

Before you could figure out what, you heard a scream. Your heart lept to your throat but Luda May took your hand in hers and squeezed. "The boys play rough. They're alright, dear." She gave you a warm look. "Lets just get inside 'n outta this heat."

You obeyed, swallowing down a sick feeling you had rising in your stomach.

The inside of the house was. Messy, to say the least. But, you had to remind yourself to be polite as you were guided from the foyer to the kitchen. Some dishes lay in the sink, making Luda May curse. "Monty!" She called somewhere into the house. "Next time ya fuckin' leave dishes in the sink, I'm havin' Tommy throw your damn truck out!"

You blinked back in shock. You'd never heard her talk like that.

A man, who you could only assume was Monty, poked his head into the kitchen. "God damn woman, ain't my job to clean the place!"

Luda May scoffed. "I pride myself on runnin' a clean house. You start undoin' my hard work an' you can sleep in the barn with the other stupid animals!" She let out a loud huff. "Where's Tommy anyway?"

Monty shrugged. "Ain't seen 'im. Might be downstairs." He looked you up and down, over and over. The gesture made you feel dirty. "You can go look for 'im while I entertain our, uh, guest."

"Absolutely not." Luda May said, scrubbing a plate with a brush. "They're my guest, you an' Charlie can keep your dirty hands off. They're the sweet baker from down the road who makes those sweets y'all like so much."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are they now? Well I'll be damned."

You flushed under all the attention, fidgeting nervously with the basket in your hands and deciding to just set in on the counter nearby Luda May. "I could, um, go find Thomas. If- if you wanted?"

Anything to get away from Monty's leering eyes.

Luda May nodded to you. "He should be down in the basement workin'. Don't mind if he doesn't hear ya, you can shout."

You nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Luda May call the directions to you. Down the hall, first door on the left. Easy. The door in question was underneath a large staircase that led upstairs from the entry foyer. As you reached to open it, your hand froze on the doorknob. The sound of a revving chainsaw and screaming could be heard just beyond the door.

The sounds of heavy footsteps on the staircase above made your stomach swoop and you quickly opened the door and slipped inside. Your breath caught in your throat as the sounds got quieter, the screams turning to gurgles and the chainsaw dying down. Fearing the worst, you were silent on the rickety, old, wooden steps that went down into the darkness of the basement.

You held your breath as you neared the bottom, looking out into the dimly lit room.

Ice-hot fear shot through you at the sight. Thomas, standing over a man's body that was strapped to a table. The chainsaw he'd used lay on a bench beside the table as he appeared to be skinning the eviscerated man laying before him.

Thomas looked up at you and you slapped your hand over your mouth to cover your gasp. Tears filled your eyes as you scrambled back up the stairs, utterly terrified. You tore open the front door and took off running, only going faster when you heard Thomas chasing you.

But he knew the land better than you.

Eventually, through all your running and hiding, you found yourself cornered in one of the large, dusty barns. The ceiling and walls were wooden and the floor was just loose dirt. You whimpered when you saw Thomas's shadow approach you, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He stood in the open doorway, meat cleaver in hand as he stared at you. You backed up until you hit the wall but Thomas kept approaching you. "Are you going to hurt me?" You choked through a sob.

Thomas froze and just stared at you. You could tell your question had surprised him but he was quick to recover. He nodded. You felt your heart sink as you slid down to the dirt floor, curling up on yourself.

You sat there, curled up in the fetal position, and began to cry openly. Thomas made a soft grunt but you couldn't hear, too busy crying. You didn't want to die, much less at Thomas's hand. He'd always seemed nice, if a bit intimidating, but you thought he and Luda May were good people.

The memory of the basement flashed in your head and you blinked up at Thomas with wet, red-rimmed eyes. He seemed to deflate then, sitting down criss-crossed in front of you, careful to keep his distance. He set the cleaver down and put his hands in his lap and just watched you.

You sniffed. "Can... can you at least do it quick?"

Thomas looked guilty as he made a grumbling noise. You wished, momentarily, he could talk to you. At least then maybe he'd tell you what he was planning to do to you. Instead, he surprised you by picking up the cleaver and tossing it further away before looking expectantly back at you.

You blinked. "You're... you're not going to hurt me?"

Thomas shook his head.

"Are..." You swallowed a thick lump that had been lodged in your throat. "Are the others...?"

That made Thomas pause. With a thoughtful look, he shook his head once before holding out his hand to you. Slowly, like you were reaching for a dog that might bite your hand off if you were too fast, you slid your hand into his.

The size difference was considerable. His hand was at least a quarter size bigger than yours, if not more, and it was rough. You knew he'd worked at the meat plant cutting up meat so of course he'd have workers hands. He gingerly ran his thumb along the back of your hand, trying to reassure you.

"You won't... let them hurt me, right?" You asked, voice low.

He nodded his head, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. Whatever had changed his mind about hurting you, you weren't willing to question it. "Okay." You said softly, letting Thomas help you stand up. Your clothes were covered in dirt but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Though you did almost retch when you saw the blood on his apron.

"Tommy, where'd you-" Luda May called out, freezing when she saw you with Thomas. He still hadn't let go of your hand as he stepped in front of you with a pleading sound. Luda May's shoulders seemed to sag. "I'm sorry, dear." She looked at you with a remorseful look. "I... I was hopin' to keep you from findin' out. Charlie's been... persistent 'bout gettin' food for the family an' I had no choice."

Your mind slowly caught up to what she was saying. "You... you brought me here to... to be killed and eaten?!" Tears began falling again, streaking down your dirt-covered cheeks.

Thomas squeezed your hand again and you felt like throwing up. Luda May didn't say anything as she looked to Thomas. "Charlie'll be angry to know you're keepin' them alive. Are you sure about this?"

He nodded once, still standing protectively in front of you. As terrified as you were - of both Thomas and the entire concept of being made into dinner - you felt a bit reassured that he was set on not hurting you.

Luda May sighed quietly. "Alright. Dinner'll be ready soon. Proper meat." She shot you a reassuring look. "You two get cleaned up. Charlie'll be back soon."

Thomas tugged your hand gently, looking down at you and asking you to follow. He guided you to walk ahead of him, gently pushing you along after Luda May. You glanced over your shoulder as you walked to spot Thomas picking the cleaver back up. When he noticed your alarmed look, he quickly put it behind his back with wide eyes.

You almost laughed at the hysterical nature of it all. You were being invited to dinner - which you nearly became - and the guy who was going to butcher you was hiding the cleaver so you wouldn't be scared of him. Like you were a kid who had no object permanence.

Thomas genuinely did not want to scare you. You knew that. It didn't make you any less terrified though.

Charlie Hewitt - or Sheriff Hoyt as he was calling himself now, as you were terrified to learn he'd also killed - was currently having a fit.

When you'd come downstairs having mostly cleaned off in the bathroom, he'd spotted you quickly. When Luda May informed him you were a friend of Thomas's and definitely not dinner, he'd been enraged. He'd started throwing things around the house, yelling at Luda May and Thomas, who both stood strong. "I asked ya to find somethin' for dinner and ya bring back nothing? Just some sad lookin' baker kid who ain't worth jack?!"

Luda May glared. "You give em any trouble, I'll beat ya black and blue and make ya sleep outside, ya hear? I ain't puttin' up with your shit tonight, Charlie."

"Hoyt, it's Hoyt now!" He yelled back, smashing a plate.

"Every dish you break, you buy a new one!" Luda May yelled, smacking his arm hard.

Hoyt's eyes fell on you as he glared. When he moved forward to grab you, Thomas was quick to interfere. You ducked behind his arm as he stood between you and Hoyt. "Thomas. Move." Hoyt snarled.

But Thomas didn't budge. In fact, he looked surprised as he looked down at you clinging to his forearm, terrified out of your mind. While you were scared of everyone in the room, Thomas was the most likely to defend you and defend you hard. The cleaver he'd been carrying was laying out on the table and, while you'd known Luda May longer, you doubted she'd be able to use it against Hoyt if he came closer.

"I won't ask you again, boy," Hoyt snarled. Thomas calmly lifted Hoyt up by the collar of his shirt and threw him aside, sending the man crashing into the table with a hard tumble.

Luda May spoke up then. "That's enough!" She snapped at both Hoyt and Thomas. "You two clean up this mess."

Hoyt glared over at her. "We look after family. They," he pointed a finger at you as he stood, "ain't family."

You shared a nervous look with Luda May, who remained steady. "They may as well be. Far as I'm concerned, they're the only one who provided food for dinner tonight." She glared down at Hoyt. "While you were runnin' around playin' dress up."

Hoyt was quiet. "What'd they bring?"

"Meat pies." You said quietly. When Hoyt looked at you, you repeated yourself louder, fearing his anger. "I brought meat pies. L-lamb ones."

The room was silent. "Ya brought lamb pot pies?" Hoyt asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. You nodded frantically and he sighed. "Alright, fine, ya can stay." He grumbled, leaving the room with a huff.

You looked up at Thomas with nervous eyes. The mask he wore obscured a lot of his face but you could see his eyes. He blinked slowly, a softness there you were surprised by.

Clutching his arm tighter, you let yourself relax as Thomas stood protectively beside you. You could survive this, you thought to yourself.

You will survive this.

#🔪 creeps writes #slasher fanfiction #slasher x reader #the texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw the beginning #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x you #the hewitt family

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futurehunt · 5 months

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"You're not the person I want to explain myself to." -Eris Vanserra and his hidden motives

The story of Eris Vanserra haunts me. At this point, most of the characters in ACOTAR are an open book in terms of their backgrounds but Eris's is still so shrouded in mystery and I have to know more. Consider this the inspiration for my following lengthy analysis of all the Eris Vanserra scenes we've been given. Additional inspiration being this clip of SJM from a since deleted live stream on Instagram (still available on YouTube) :

Love that SJM says that Eris is her favorite Autumn Court character but more importantly she spills a little detail about Eris having a secret history and a secret motivation behind his character. I think most readers assumed by now that Eris is primed for a redemption arc but this simply could've been reserved to him making amends for leaving Mor injured in the woods. No, this is something more than that- something significant that affected his actions back then and is still influencing them now.

Let's start breaking everything down:

Everything starts with: Eris found and left Mor in the woods at the Autumn Court border after she was tortured dumped there by her father, Keir.

Why did he do this?

“I knew why you did it... So I gave you your freedom, ending the betrothal in no uncertain terms" - Eris in ACOWAR

After Mor slept with Cassian, Eris knew Mor did it because she wanted out of the engagement (for a secret reason- on her end- that we'll touch on in a bit) so he ended the betrothal as she wished.

But why did Eris leave her there, injured with fatal wounds? This is still the biggest point of hostility between him and the IC.

"There were forces at work that you have never considered," Eris said coldly. "And I am not going to waste my breath explaining them to you. Believe what you want about me" - ACOWAR

What are these forces?

We're given an answer to this question during a scene in ACOFAS when Mor is recalling the memory of that day at the Autumn Court border.

“No one touches her,” he said. Eris. “The moment we do, she’s our responsibility.” Cold, unfeeling words. “But—but they nailed a—” “No one touches her.” - ACOFAS

If Eris or his men provided aid to Mor she would've become their responsibility, implying that she would've become a ward of the Autumn Court essentially. This is probably why Keir even dumped her on the border in the first place, because he knew that if the Autumn Court provided her aid they would have to assume responsibility for her. It was created as a lose-lose situation for Mor: get help from Eris and be trapped at the Autumn Court or be refused help and left to suffer and potentially die in the woods.

“I take it you do not wish to live here, Morrigan.” She would rather die here, bleed out here. She would rather die and return—return as something wicked and cruel, and shred them all apart. He must have read it in her eyes. A small smile curved his lips. “I thought so.” -ACOFAS

He knew she'd rather die than live there so he acted according to her wishes, even though it was done cruelly. This scene, which we're given from Mor's perspective, shows that she heard the true reason why Eris refused to provide her aid but because of the trauma of the whole situation she likely never put two and two together.

But the situation is a bit more complex than that. There is more to the reason that Eris left her in the woods to have her freedom.

“Eris nodded to where Mor watched them from beside Feyre and Rhys, her face neutral and aloof. “She knows the truth but has never revealed it." “Why?” “Because she is afraid of it.” - ACOSF; dance scene between Nesta and Eris

Eris knows something about Mor that she's afraid to reveal. What's the only fact we know about Mor that she's been hiding her entire life? That she's queer. It seems somehow Eris was aware of this.

“Eris looked between them, smiling faintly. Secretly. As if he knew something that Azriel didn’t. "I knew why you did it" Again that secret smile that had Mor shrinking." -ACOWAR

Later on in ACOWAR, we find out the big secret Mor is hiding is that she's romantically attracted to females. Alright, so somehow Eris knew Mor was queer back when they were betrothed. It seems that this was part of the reason he left her to her freedom.

Despite the cruel nature he's described to have, Eris keeps the knowledge that Mor is queer to himself. Eris left Mor in the woods because he knew she wanted her freedom and the reason she wanted her freedom was because she is queer. Out of some uncharacteristic kindness, Eris won't share this information with the rest of the IC because he seems to not want to out her because he knows she's afraid of the truth. Refer to the quote between Eris and Nesta above for proof of this.

But what are Eris's own secret motivations in all of this?

“So I gave you your freedom, ending the betrothal in no uncertain terms.”

“And what happened next,” Azriel growled.

A shadow crossed Eris’s face. “There are few things I regret. That is one of them. But … perhaps one day, now that we are allies, I shall tell you why. What it cost me.”

This is such an important line and one that if you don't dissect it properly, you won't understand it's real meaning.

"What it cost me". The cost that Eris is referring to is one that he suffered as a result of leaving Mor unaided in the woods. NOT from breaking the engagement, from leaving her. "The cost" is something that would've been unaffected by breaking the engagement (because Eris has no remorse over that) but affected by abandoning an injured Mor (because this is what Eris labels as one of the few things he regrets). Mor being left in the woods was, in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential for the rest of Prythian. The only people negatively affected by it were Mor and the rest of the IC.

"Perhaps one day... I shall tell you why" when Eris says this, he means: perhaps one day he'll them why he regrets it, NOT why he did it. It's important to read this quote in the context of its surrounding passages because you'll see that he had an opportunity to explain why he left her but he instead tells Mor he's not going to "waste his breath explaining it to her."

So after breaking down those lines we know: Eris regrets abandoning Mor because of something it cost him in relation to the IC now hating him after the events at the border but "the cost" is something he's hesitant to reveal to them.

For the sake of the analysis, let's go over a few things we know Eris does canonically care about and why they are not the cost he's referring to:

His father's throne: It's not secret that Eris wants to usurp his father. Feyre even notes how startled she was to hear Eris discuss killing his father so blatantly. Also, if the marriage to Mor would've aided Eris in taking the throne then Eris would've expressed remorse at ending the engagement but he didn't. He only regretted leaving her injured.

His mother, Lady of Autumn: The text shows us that Eris is concerned over the welfare of this mother when he angles his body to protect her during the High Lord meeting scene. However at the time of Eris's betrothal to Mor, his mother wasn't miserable in her marriage the way she's described now. It wasn't until LoA's affair with Helion was revealed, which happened decades after the Eris and Mor situation, that Beron began abusing his wife. Of course, Eris undoubtedly wants his father dead because of this but we know it's not "the cost" that Eris references since it wasn't a factor at the time.

“Helion shrugged. “On and off for decades. Until Beron found out. They say the lady was all brightness and smiles before that. And after Beron was through with her. You saw what she is.” “What did he do to her?” “The same things he does now.” Helion waved a hand. “Belittle her, leave bruises where no one but him will see them.” - ACOWAR

Lucien: Eris has a soft spot for Lucien but he wasn't born for decades after everything happened so he can't be a factor in why Eris regrets his actions.

His father tortures him: It's revealed at the end of ACOSF that Beron tortures Eris after Cassian realizes Eris is injured after returning back from Autumn. We're not told how long it's been occurring and Eris is extremely reluctant to speak on the matter. However, if this was the big secret Eris has been hiding there'd be a bit more emphasis placed on the reveal. In fact, Cassian pushes him again after that to tell him the true reason he left Mor on the border (keep in mind Cassian doesn't know Mor is queer and Eris is refusing to reveal that information to others) and asks Eris for the real reason he's back the Night Court trying to make amends.

Why is Eris back at the Night Court after everything that happened, pushing so hard to build an alliance?

When pushed for the truth, Eris tells Cassian:

"You're not the person I want to explain myself to" - ACOSF

Cassian assumes Eris means Mor and tells him she won't want to hear his explanations anyway. But is Mor really the person Eris was referencing. I think not, given we've been given these lines:

Eris nodded to where Mor watched them from beside Feyre and Rhys, her face neutral and aloof. “She knows the truth but has never revealed it." -ACOSF

"There were forces at work that you have never considered," Eris said coldly. "And I am not going to waste my breath explaining them to you. Believe what you want about me"- ACOWAR

Eris says that Mor already knows the truth and has explicitly said he doesn't care what she thinks about him. He has nothing to explain to her. And aside from those two facts, which already make it clear enough that Mor is not the person Eris meant, what more would Eris gain from speaking to Mor? Assuaging his guilt? That could be a reasonable explanation if it weren't for Cassian already asking Eris if guilt is what was motivating him, Cassian realizing it's not and pushing for Eris to "give me a damn answer".

"You're not the person I want to explain myself to"

So, who in the IC does Eris want to explain himself to?

Mor? No, for reasons stated above

Cassian? No, they're speaking in that scene and if Cassian were the person then Eris wouldn't have said that

Feyre? Nesta? Elain? Weren't alive so aren't applicable

Lucien? Wasn't alive during the incident and is thus unaffected

Rhysand? We're told in ACOSF (Chapter 7) that Eris already has Rhysand's trust and allyship

Amren? I guess I can't necessarily eliminate Amren as the person Eris wants to explain himself to but let's be real, it's not her.

Azriel? Hmm....The person who arguably hates Eris more than even Mor herself. Who has such a burning passionate rage towards Eris that he attacked him during a High Lord meeting, yet also dropped everything to fly to the Continent to save Eris when he was abducted by Koschei.

Conclusion and remaining questions

Let's put everything together:

Eris is back at the Night Court attempting to smooth things over, make amends, and build an allyship. On the surface, we're told it's all because he wants the throne. But what we now know from SJM (in her interview) and our textual analysis is that Eris paid a big, deeply personal price due to the fall out of leaving Mor injured at the Autumn Court border. This cost was directly tied to the IC's perception of him. Eris lost something or the chance at something when the Night Court began to hate him. So he's back, 500-ish years later, attempting to make amends because of the same problem that plagued him all those centuries ago. We also know there's only one person he's interested in explaining himself to- and that person interestingly seems to be Azriel. Why would Eris want to explain himself to Azriel? Why go to these lengths to make amends with him? Was "the cost" Eris paid 500 years ago tied to Azriel?Is this all tied to Eris's "secret history and secret motivations" that SJM referenced? Crack theory time: What if Eris and Azriel are mates? If they are, it would seem maybe Eris knows about it but Azriel isn't consciously aware? It could explain Azriel's extreme and passionate reactions to Eris. What if when Eris became an enemy of the Night Court he lost his chance at having a connection to his mate. It would also explain why Eris is so tight lipped about his secret motivations. We know that Beron tortures Eris as he is now, imagine what he would do to Eris if he found out he was queer. If Eris is queer it would also explain his empathy to Mor and his reluctance to tell her truth to other people. This could also explain why Azriel is the one person Eris wants to explain himself to, because Azriel is the only person whose opinion he cares about. AND this would also provide an answer to the great "Azriel mate debate". I know Gwynriel is a popular theory but the text has not given us any indication that they are (yes, bonus chapter included) and Azriel had never displayed any mate-like behavior around her. Eris and Azriel also provide interesting foils to one another: flame and shadow- which is a theme that's mentioned in both of SJM's other series. We also know how much SJM loves her enemies to lovers.

"There was an icy rage in Azriel I'd never been able to thaw" -Rhysand in ACOMAF

Azriel is routinely described as icy and frozen, physically and emotionally. What better to thaw ice than fire!

If you read this far- thank you and ily.

Feel free to let me know if you have any critiques to my reasoning!

#acotar #acosf #acowar #acotar theories #eris vanserra #eris apologist #azriel #azris supremacy #azris #azris theories #cassian #morrigan #sarah j maas #sjmaas #sjm #acofas #what was the cost #the cost!!#what is he hiding

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