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#songs for when you're pining dramatically :')
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"i wanna Be Cool, but only if you want me to."
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"want to impress you"
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synopsis// everyone knows that basketball is the way to someone's heart.
pairing// satoru gojo x gn!reader
word count// 3.8k
contents// college au, basketball au, mutual unknown pining?, friends to lovers?, gojo is a loser, obligatory this is for you and misses
notes// lu wanted a basketball au so lu gets a basketball au. also obviously inspired by the basketball scene in jjk s2 anywho this is just kinda short n goofy :p also inspired by the song i wanna be cool by super whatevr. also i have no idea how basketball works and only ever played for fun so ermmm if anything is wrong bring that up with the universe !
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Shoko unwillingly finds herself sitting on a random bench in the boys locker room, her arms crossed as she glares at the two boys in front of her.
“Why did you guys drag me in here?”
Geto speaks up first: “In my defense, this is all on Satoru, and I have no part in this.”
“You still dragged me in here, did you not?”
“…Yes.” 
“Then you took part in it.”
Gojo smiles as he smacks Geto on the back. “Exactly! You’re my accomplice.”
Shoko rolls her eyes. “Again, why did you guys drag me in here?”
“A presentation!”
“A presentation I have nothing to do with,” Geto chimes in as he takes a seat beside Shoko.
She briefly raises her eyebrow at Geto before directing it toward Gojo. “A presentation?” 
“Yes!” 
“I don’t see a projector or anything worth presenting here,” she says, looking around the room unamused.
“A presentation minus the actual presenting part...”
“So you dragged me in here just to talk to me?”
Geto leans in and whispers, “He actually wants to ask you something.”
Gojo stomps his foot like he’s about to throw a tantrum. “Geto shut up!”
“Can you just hurry up, Gojo?" She asks impatiently. “It reeks of axe body spray in here; I think it might actually kill me.”
He ignores her dramatics because, honestly, she’s not wrong. “You're coming to our game tonight, right?”
“I mean, yeah? Who isn't? It's the biggest game of the season.”
Geto adds, “That's what I said!”
“Do you know if Y/N is going?”
“Is that what you seriously dragged me in here for? Why didn't you just ask Y/N themself? You guys are friends, are you not?”
“Well yeah!” Gojo mumbles sheepishly, “But when I asked, they said maybe...”
“That means no,” Geto says quickly through a cough, as if trying to cover it up.
Gojo hears anyway and outstretches his arms toward Geto as if trying to draw attention toward him. “Exactly!” He then brings his hands in front of his face in a praying motion and begs, “Shoko, please!”
“Oh my fucking god, I don't know why you don't just ask them out already.”
“That's what I'm trying to do! But in order to do that, I kinda need them to go to tonight's game.”
Shoko glares at Gojo for what feels like forever, and Gojo glares back like they’ve suddenly entered a staring contest, and it’s Shoko who breaks eye contact first.
She sighs and pushes the hair out of her face as she mumbles, “God, you're lucky I'm tired of both of you pining after each other.”
“Thank you, Shoko!” he beams. “Also here.”
Shoko takes whatever Gojo is handing her and holds it up, her eyes slightly wide as she inspects it. “…Is this your jersey?”
He nods, fully confident within himself now that Shoko has agreed to drag you to the game, but tilts his head at her because he has no idea why she’s confused. “Yeah, I want them to wear it?” 
“You make me sick to my stomach, fine.”
“Shoko, do you wanna wear my jersey?” Geto suddenly asks.
She stares at him blankly, as if to ask if he really asked her that, knowing damn well she does not like him like that and she has a girlfriend, though after a few moments he finally gets the hint.
“Oh my god, not like that; I just want someone supporting me too.”
She sighs in relief, “Oh, thank god, don’t scare me like that, but yeah, fine, I’ll wear it.”
“Wait, what the hell?” Gojo exclaims, drawing Shoko’s and Geto’s attention back to him. “Shoko, would you have worn mine if I asked?”
“No.”
“What?! Why the hell not?”
“I like Geto more than I like you.”
He glares at her and quickly points out, “You're lying; if that was true, you wouldn't be helping me!”
Shoko simply shrugs and mumbles a small “bye” before getting up and leaving.
Geto stands up and takes his place next to Gojo, softly patting his back as he whispers, “Dare I say this ends our lifelong debate on who's superior?”
Gojo shrugs his hand off of him and speaks harshly through clenched teeth, “Shut. Your. Mouth.”
☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。
“Why would I want to go watch a bunch of sweaty men fight over balls?” You mumble offhandedly, focusing your attention on netflix playing on your phone rather than on her.
“Ok, Y/N, first of all, there's only one ball, and second of all, did you forget Gojo is on the basketball team?”
You quickly turn off your phone and sit up, clasping your hands together in your lap. “….Have I ever mentioned that basketball is actually my favorite sport?”
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters under her breath, pinching her nose bridge. “You're so obvious; why haven't you told him yet?”
“Are you insane? Gojo is hot, and on the basketball team, do you know how many people he already has crushing on him? I'm literally just another name on that list.”
“Sure,” she nods, “But the difference is that you're his friend too; you have more of a chance than anyone else.”
You sigh and frown at her. “Doubt.”
Shoko shakes her head, knowing that you two could spend all day here in your dorm debating whether you have a chance or not, but that’s not what she’s here for, so she’ll let you believe what you want, knowing that (hopefully) Gojo pulling whatever it is he wants to pull will prove you wrong.
“Whatever, put this on,” she says, throwing the jersey at you.
You catch it, your mouth slightly agape as you stare at it curiously. “…Isn't this?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, is it?”
“Shoko.”
“Can you just trust me?”
“I'm literally just gonna look like another one of his groupies," you say, disdain and disappointment lacing your words as your eyes dart back and forth between her and the jersey.
She smiles, and it’s off-putting because it’s not her normal smile; no, you know, this is the smile she only wears when she’s about to drop a bomb on you. “Difference is that that's his actual jersey.”
You freeze.
“What?”
“I’ll save you a seat. Bye,” she says as she walks out of your dorm.
The slam of your door restarts your heart, and suddenly it and your mind are racing at 100 miles per hour, and the only thing you can do is word vomit despite the fact that Shoko is gone.
“What do you mean by that?! What do you mean this is his actual jersey?!” You run and fling open your door to yell out into the hallway, “Get back here!?” 
Shoko is a good bit away at this point, but she still hears you call out for her and acknowledges that with a wave, yet she still keeps walking away, and you're stuck in your doorway with your chest heaving. You look back down at the jersey in your hands.
Holy shit.
Not only is this a jersey with Gojo’s number on it, but it’s his jersey. How did Shoko even get this? Did she just take it without him knowing? Too many thoughts are in your head, but there’s only one that keeps overlapping the others, there’s only one that’s consistent, only one that electrifies every neuron in your body:
Holy shit, this is Gojo’s jersey.
Fuck the questions and fuck the answers you know you won’t get; the only thing that matters to you right now is that you have and are about to wear Gojo’s jersey. You have to be dreaming; really, that’s the only logical answer, but holy fuck, if you’re dreaming, you do not plan on waking up anytime soon—or ever.
☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。
The two teams quickly start filling up the court and taking up their respective spaces as they warm up, but Gojo, being Gojo, isn't doing that. Instead, he’s standing on the sidelines, looking in at the crowd of people starting to take their seats for the game, and his heart is racing as he searches the crowd for you, and it drops when he inevitably doesn’t find you, but he’s not discouraged, not yet at least, because the game hasn’t officially even started yet, so there’s still time for you to show up.
There’s still time.
He has to keep reminding himself that the whole time he’s warming up—now that he’s actually being forced to, though it’s a half-assed warm-up—he and his coach don’t even know whether what he’s doing could be considered a warm-up in the first place. The game is about to start any second now when Geto approaches Gojo.
“Nothing?” 
Gojo’s head drops as he reluctantly shakes it.
Geto hums and searches the stands for you, but when he doesn't find you either, he tries to find the next best person, Shoko, and it's quite easy to find her considering she’s wearing Geto's jersey.
“Shoko!”
She looks down from the bleachers and sees Geto staring at her as he gestures toward Gojo, and she knows he's trying to ask where you are, but in all honesty, she has no idea either. She shrugs, and even from as high up as she is, she can hear Geto groan before grabbing Gojo by the shoulders and forcing him to look at him.
“I'm sure they’ll come, dude.”
Gojo blankly stares at Geto, an eyebrow raised skeptically, as if to say, really? but before he can verbally reply, their coach comes over and removes Geto’s hand from Gojo’s shoulder to place his own hand there.
“I don't know what's going on with you, but whatever it is, fix it.”
Geto and Gojo tense up at his tone, full of nothing but pure determination. This isn't him asking; this is him demanding that Gojo get his shit together.
“This is the biggest game yet, and I'm not gonna let you and some petty college drama get in the way of that. You're our best player. Act like it.”
Gojo can only nod. His mouth suddenly feels dry, and it's like his throat is closing, but he tries to will the feeling away. Though his reaction is enough for his coach, who starts walking off.
Geto stares up at Gojo with his eyebrows knit, concern lacing his voice, “Gojo...”
Gojo shakes his head and takes a deep breath before flashing Geto his signature smile. “I'm fine, Geto; cmon, we got a basketball game to win.”
☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。
To be totally honest, the reason you were running so late to the game was because you were mentally shitting your pants the entire time you were getting ready. For a good chunk of time, you just sat on your bed with the jersey laid out in front of you, staring at it. Just staring at it, that's all. Because yes, even though you said fuck the questions and fuck the answers, you very much could not do that, not when too many questions and unknown answers were flooding your brain like a dam had cracked. You think you probably would've stayed like that all day and night, missing the game entirely, if not for Shoko spam calling your phone.
“What?”
“Don't 'what' me, where the fuck are you?” She snaps through the phone.
“Uh, getting ready?”
“Y/N, the game started twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh shit,” you say, hopping off your bed and quickly grabbing the jersey.
“Yeah, oh shit! Get your ass down here!”
You don't bother saying goodbye; instead, you quickly hang up, throw the jersey on as fast as you can, and bolt out the door. The halls are empty as you race through them, and you're not surprised; everyone is already at the game—everyone but you—and you speed up your pace just a smidge more. God, you're an idiot, missing the best game of the season—okay, you don't actually care about that. God, you're an idiot, missing seeing Gojo and maybe getting answers on how Shoko obtained his jersey—that's better.
You get to the gym in record time, slightly surprised at how quickly you got there, but you ignore that as you try to catch your breath before walking in and try to prepare yourself for the amount of noise that will assault your ears when you do. You can already hear how loud it is; the walls not doing very much at all to muffle the yells of people. You walk in and wince slightly at the noise as you look around for Shoko. She immediately finds you and waves her hand in the air for you to find, as does Utahime, who's sitting next to her. You smile and quickly make your way toward them, apologizing to the people you pushed through to get to them in the first place. You take your seat next to Shoko with a sigh.
“What did I miss?” you ask, leaning forward slightly just so you can look at both Utahime and Shoko.
Utahime has a small grimace on her face, and Shoko merely motions toward the scoreboard, and the minute you look, your jaw drops. Gojo’s team was losing. No. Losing isn't even the right word here; they were getting absolutely destroyed. They had zero points—none at all. You look back toward the two girls in disbelief.
“What the fuck?”
“Gojo is literally sucking so much ass that it's throwing everyone else off,” Utahime says with a shrug before glancing down at your clothes. “Are you wearing his jersey?”
You clear your throat awkwardly and look away, ignoring the smirk on Shoko's face.
“So, uh, do we know why Gojo’s sucking ass?” You ask after a brief moment of silence.
“Nope,” Utahime responds with a shake of her head.
“I do,” Shoko says nonchalantly.
Your head snaps back toward her. “What? Why?”
“Yeah, you didn't tell me either!”
Shoko rolls her eyes and ignores both of you as she loudly calls out to Gojo, who, by some grace of god, hears her over the hundreds of other people yelling for him. Gojo’s eyes immediately find hers, and he watches how she subtly jerks her head to the side, and like some angel descended from the heavens, like a god showing itself in a moment of dire, he looks and finds you sitting there in his jersey, and he can't help the smile on his face, can't help how just your presence lit a fire underneath him, can't help how just seeing you gave him his pep back in his step.
Gojo finds Geto’s eyes on the court and nods determinedly. They are winning this game, whether it's the last thing Gojo does. He's not going to look like a fool in front of you. So that's exactly what Gojo does. Once the second period starts, Gojo steals back the ball with a new sudden ease, and by halftime, he’s gotten the team caught up to the other one, starting the third period with a tie.
“How the hell did he do that? I thought you guys said he sucked!”
“Aw man, I was rooting for the other team,” Utahime says, frowning, and you have to resist the urge to chew her out in defense of Gojo.
Shoko shrugs. “He was till you know…”
You stare at her blankly. “No, I don't know, actually. Care to enlighten me?”
“No, I do not,” she says before turning to Utahime. “And don't worry, they're only tied; there's still a chance the other team will win.”
Utahime cheerfully hums as she rests her head on Shoko’s shoulder. “You’re right!”
“Don't encourage her to root for the other team?!” 
Utahime sticks her tongue out at you, and before any of you can say anything else, a loud buzzer rings across the gym, indicating a point was made, and to your delight, it was for Gojo’s team. For the rest of the third period, it was just buzzer after buzzer as Gojo’s team took back their rightful place on the scoreboard, completely smashing the other team into the ground, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride swell in your chest. Watching Gojo in his element was doing detrimental things to your crush on him, only making it worse, but you can't even seem to care. Shoko looks over to you and laughs.
“I can practically see the hearts in your eyes.”
You scoff. “Shut up!”
Down on the court, they had just started their last two-minute break between third and fourth period, with the coaches gathering their respective teams into a huddle.
“Alright guys,” Gojo’s coach began, “Keep your heads in the game; we’re taking this victory home, got it?”
All the boys nod hurriedly, and the coach leaves them to do what they need to before the last period starts, but Gojo doesn’t let them get far.
“Whatever fucking happens, I'm getting that last score, got it?”
Everyone on the team exchanges uneasy glances, and Geto rolls his eyes and sighs before apologizing for Gojo.
“He just has a plan and wants to do something, guys.”
The boys nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer.
“If you guys mess this up for me, I swear to god, I will make you wish you were never born,” Gojo says with his usual smile, but in this case, all his smile does is make him seem feral.
Geto slaps Gojo across the back of his head and huffs, “He doesn’t mean that, don't worry.”
“Oh, I fucking mean it.”
“Gojo, shut the fuck up.”
Before anyone else can say anything, the timer goes off, and into the last minutes of the game they go. As the game goes on, everyone is on the edge of their seat, even if deep down they know who will win. You and Utahime are no exception to this, but apparently Shoko is.
“Why the fuck are you guys on the edge of your seats? It's obvious we’re gonna win.”
You go to glare at her but can’t even hold your stare long enough because you're so enthralled by the game. “Still, it's so nervewracking!”
Utahime laughs. “I'm only on the edge of my seat because I want the other team to win.”
“Why are you such a hater, dude?” you ask defensively.
Utahime doesn’t mind; she knows all too well about your little crush on Gojo, so she doesn’t take offense to your tone. “When it comes to Gojo, I'm always a hater.”
You finally find it in you to glare at her. “I hope Shoko breaks up with you.”
She rolls her eyes and glares back. “Oh, haha, you're so mature.”
You say nothing but stick your tongue out at her childishly, and she does the same, to which Shoko groans and rolls her eyes before grabbing both of your heads and turning them to face the game.
“You can fight after the game; there's only a few seconds left.”
Gojo glances at the time and realizes it’s now or never. He finds that Geto has the ball and calls out for him. Geto, on the other hand, hesitates to pass him the ball, with a look on his face asking if he really wants to do this, and Gojo can only nod. How could he not want to do this? This is the only thing he can do; it's not like he knows how to ask someone out the normal way, so this will do; it has to. Gojo tries to control his breathing as he makes his way to the hoop, the ball dribbling in tune with his heartbeat, and nothing matters to him in that moment except you and scoring—his surroundings completely drowning out. Everyone holds their breath waiting for him to shoot, and right before he does, his eyes lock onto yours.
“This is for you, Y/N!” He yells out as he shoots, and…
And he misses.
Horribly.
And there's no chance for him to redeem himself because the minute the ball hits the ground, the buzzer goes off, indicating the end of the game, and everyone seemingly ignores whatever the fuck he just did and erupts into an uproar at the fact that they won regardless of Gojo’s miss.
“What-“
Shoko slaps a hand over her mouth, attempting and failing to hold in her laughter. “Did he just fucking miss?”
Utahime is hunched over, her head between her knees, laughing. “Oh my fucking god, he's an idiot!”
You blink, not moving, not saying anything, but with how hard Shoko is laughing and Utahime leaning against her as she laughs as well, Shoko ends up bumping into you, and she instantly grows quiet, her head snapping toward you.
“Oh, why are you still here?”
“Huh?” 
"Why aren’t you down there?” she asks, pointing down to the court.
“Am… Am I supposed to be?”
“Uh duh!” Utahime speaks up, peeking out from behind Shoko. “He made that shot for you! Well, he missed that shot for you.”
“Oh,” you say blankly. “Oh. Oh shit.”
You stood up abruptly, and with how fast you went down the bleachers, you almost tripped once you made it onto the ground. You quickly catch yourself, and the moment you look up to find Gojo, he’s already standing right in front of you.
“You're-you're wearing my jersey,” he says breathlessly, but not in a I-can’t-breathe way, more in a holy-shit-my-crush-is-actually-wearing-my-jersey way.
You swallow thickly and nod. Your gaze flickers down to the jersey before going back to his face. “I am.” 
“You are.” 
“What was that Gojo?”
He seems to grimace at your question. “Ah, well, you see, I was actually gonna say if I make this, you owe me a date, but that’s a really long sentence to shout, and what if I didn’t make it? That would’ve been so embarrassing.”
You laugh under your breath. “Gojo, you didn’t make it regardless.”
He frowns. “Don’t remind me.”
You smile and push a strand of hair stuck to his forehead out of the way, watching how he blushes furiously at your touch, and it makes your heart swoon. Who knew the confident number-one basketball player could crumble so readily under your touch?
“You know, I’m still more than happy to owe you a date.”
He smirks as he pulls you closer toward him by your waist and coos, “Yeah?"
“Yeah… But get the hell off of me, Gojo; you’re sweaty and you stink,” you grumble as you push against his chest, trying to free yourself.
Gojo ignores you and pulls you in closer (if even possible), his body engulfing yours as he rubs his face against yours, making sure his sweat rubs off on you too.
You struggle against his hold. “Gojo gross!” 
“Sorry, I can't hear you over the people. What are you saying? Hug you closer?”
“Gojo, don’t you dare.”
You hear him chuckle before rubbing up against you again, and you groan but stop resisting, which he hums happily at before starting to pull away. You watch how his face abruptly twists into feigned disgust.
"Ew, Y/N, get the hell off of me; you’re sweaty and you stink,” he mocks as he pushes you out of his hold.
“I hate you.”
“If you hated me, you wouldn’t be going on a date with me,” he singsongily says.
“Yeah, not anymore,” you mumble with a wry smile as you start walking away.
“Hey, wait, Y/N, come back!”
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Birdie
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John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader
Summary: A rare night out in London has Bucky coming to terms with his feelings for you.
Word Count: 2.9k
Tags: mechanic!reader, songbird!reader, female!reader, she/her pronouns used, drinking culture, cursing, mutual pining, moderate bouts of denial, insecurities, women supporting women because it's what we deserve, let's pretend that The Old Therebefore is an ancient Appalachian folk song in this universe, maybe she's a Mary Sue idgaf, I just wanted to write something happy so LET ME LIVE, WWII era, there's no Y/N but reader has the nickname "Birdie"
A/N: Yeah, I'm obsessed with Masters of the Air. I had to write something for my mans before the creative procrastination literally killed me. Please leave a like, comment, or even a reblog if you're so inclined :)
You can read my OC version of this story on AO3!
Songs Mentioned in This Fic:
Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy by The Andrews Sisters
G.I. Jive by Johnny Mercer
The Ole Therebefore (Accapella) by Rachel Zegler
Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story and any recognizably named characters are based solely on dramatic portrayals of the characters from the series, not the real individuals they represent. All the respect to the actual service people who fought and died in the Second World War. Also, don't copy my writing without explicit permission. That includes you, you AI sonuvabitch.
Your heels clicked on the cobblestone streets, turning into the pub you’d heard so much about. You were out celebrating a very rare weekend off. The Brass had somehow allowed you and twenty other mechanics from base two days leave, so you took advantage of the opportunity and headed straight to London.
Your two best girlfriends from base were with you. Teresa was one of the toughest nurses you’d ever come across. She could give you a wide grin, crinkles around her hazel eyes, and reset a broken bone without breaking a sweat. It helps that she was already working towards becoming a nurse back in New Mexico, the war just sped along that process. You had bonded over your love of books, giving each other recommendations almost weekly.
You’d met Irene on the boat to England. She puked on your shoes almost thirty minutes exactly after leaving the port in New York. You gave a small grin, offering her a handkerchief and a piece of ginger candy and the rest was history. Finding out that she was a fellow mechanic was the icing on the cake. Coming in at a whopping five foot two, the spritely blonde could easily be found in a crowd with her loud Appalachian accent.
It seemed almost like fate for the three of you to have found each other. Being some of the few women on base naturally made you close, but you were closer with Irene and Teresa than any of the others. That’s not to say that you weren’t friends with any of the men, because you were. Friendly. 
All three of you were dressed to the nines, in contradiction to your everyday work wear. You all got ready together in your hotel room, giggling while you applied makeup here, spritzed some perfume there. You all felt confident and were ready to have a good time. You spotted some familiar faces and made your way over towards them, your friends linked arm-in-arm with you. Lemmons was the first to greet you.
Of the fifty men on the ground crew, Sgt. Ken Lemmons was the most welcoming of them all. From the get-go, he didn’t care if you were a man or woman. He just wanted to know that you were capable. You were sure he had to go through some hazing because of his age, which probably changed his perspective on gatekeeping the job. This made earning and maintaining respect a lot easier for the women on your crew. We all came over with the same goal, it was better for all if we just helped each other out.
“Hey Birdie! Nice to see you out and about.”
Ah, the famed nickname. You tend to hum and sing under your breath when elbow-deep in a project. It helps you pass the time and clear your mind. Of course, the rest of the ground crew quickly caught on to this habit of yours, which quickly earned you the nickname “Birdie”. You, of course, never sing solo in public, so this confuses anyone who’s not around you while you’re working. But the name stuck, so here you are. Birdie.
Chairs are quickly cleared for you and your friends, which you all graciously take. You go up to buy some drinks, knowing what your friends like, and quickly return with your drinks of choice. Conversation flows, laughs are shared, and a few drinking games are played over the next hours. Teresa soon speaks up on a topic you’d been hoping to avoid.
“Do you think he’ll be here tonight?”
You shrug and look into your drink, “Dunno. Why does it matter?”
Irene, the ever supportive best friend that she is, backs up Teresa. “What do you mean ‘why’? This is your chance to finally make a move!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You quickly deny, taking another sip.
An unladylike snort leaves Irene, “My ass! You and Major Egan have been making googly eyes at each other when you think the other’s not looking for months. I’m saying it’s time for you to perk your tits up, buck on over and ride that—!” You slam your drink on the table, pressing your hand over Irene’s mouth, heat rising to your cheeks in embarrassment.
“Are you insane?” You whisper harshly, looking around to make sure no one overheard you. You seem to be in the clear, which makes you calm down a bit. Irene pushes off your hand, takes a swig of her drink, and consults the person who started this whole conversation.
“Am I wrong?” You look to Teresa, who cringes slightly in agreement.
You gape at the pair of them. Normally, you were the median between the two girls who had vastly differing opinions. But this is what made them come to a consensus? Unbelievable.
“Look, I’m not saying that I don’t want to.” You start, which makes your friends nod encouragingly at you. “It’s just that… Is he really as interested as you think he is?”
They both groan and slump against each other, like they’d just run a marathon. Teresa sits up, scooching your chair in closer so that the three of you were in a private triangle, cut off from the rest of the group.
“Let’s look at the facts here, okay?” Teresa starts to tick off a finger with each point she and Irene make. But you seem to always have a rebuttal at the ready.
“He brings you coffee every morning.”
“I thought he does that for everyone.”
“He constantly fixes his hair when you’re around.”
“He takes care of his appearance!”
“He walks you to the mess hall every day for dinner.”
“We just happen to be going the same way. And we happen to have the same dinner schedule.”
“He read The Hobbit when you said how much you loved it.”
“He’s an adventurous guy, it’s an adventurous book, what’s not to like about it?”
“You two literally will walk and talk outside alone for hours.”
“A man can’t have a stimulating conversation with a woman?”
“He laughs at all your dumb jokes.”
“Hey! They’re not all dumb. Like, the one with the goose and the—”
“Point proven. Anyways! He has your picture in the inside pocket of his jacket.”
That one stops you in your tracks. You brain tries to justify this meaning but comes up blank.
“He…” You struggle with an excuse. “He…” Your best friends give victorious smirks in your direction.
“He… likes the extra padding in his jacket?” You stutter over what is possibly the most pathetic, sorry excuse you could have ever come up with.
“When are you gonna admit to yourself that he likes you? Like, actually truly likes you?” 
You gave a sad sigh, letting the insecurity you were feeling deep down come to the surface. “I just… He’s just so…” You had stomped down your feelings for so long that it was becoming hard to articulate what exactly you’re feeling.
“He just seems so unreal. Like, of everyone he could have chosen, why me? I mean, I know I’m great. But you’ve seen the other girls on base. They’re all so beautiful, smart, classy… and none of them are covered in engine oil ninety percent of the time.” You looked down at your hands, specks of grease and oil peeking out from beneath your nail beds. It seems like it would never completely wash out, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You hadn’t even painted your nails for this weekend, knowing it would be money wasted come Monday morning when you’re back on the clock.
Teresa and Irene share a look that you don’t see, then come forward and grab each of your hands. 
“The words you just used to describe those girls. All of that is you, Birdie. That and more. You being a mechanic doesn’t make you any less of a woman, and to hell with anyone else who thinks otherwise.”  You nodded in agreement, Irene’s words of encouragement slowly washing away your anxieties.
Teresa spoke up next, “You deserve someone who will rearrange the stars and the whole night sky for you. And I’m more than willing to bet that Major Egan is up for the job.” 
“Besides, none of that 'unreal' stuff. At the end of the day, John Egan is nothing more than a man. If he can’t look past his nose and his d—" You gave a squeak to cover up the vulgar word Irene was about to blurt in public. She rolled her eyes fondly and continued.
“If he can’t see what you’re worth and make the effort to treat you a hundred times better than that? That’s on him. Not you. You know what you deserve, and you deserve everything you want. Absolutely everything.”
You sniffed, happy tears coming to your eyes. You brought your best friends in for a hug, thanking them profusely. 
“Don’t sweat it,” Teresa grins into your shoulder “every girl needs to be pulled out of her well sometime.”
You pull back from the hug, grabbing your glass and tipping your head back, finishing the rest of your drink. “Even if he’s not gonna be here, let’s have a ball!” Your girlfriends cheer as the three of you go to the bar for refills.
One drink turns into two, which turns into a few more, and suddenly you’re buzzed. Your group are having a rambunctious time, Irene dancing by the local piano player. Once Irene looks over to you, she stops and whispers in the player’s ear. He nods, then starts a new tune. Irene starts up her voice, walking over to you and Teresa, encouraging you to join her. 
The alcohol has loosened you up enough that you don’t feel the nausea you usually associate with being perceived, so you join in the harmonies you and your friends have practiced in your bunks at night.
He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way
He had a boogie style that no one else could play
He was the top man at his craft
But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft
Soon the whole pub was jumping and dancing along to the tune as you brought a new vibe to the pub. It was like a spark that started an entirely new night and everyone was eager to go on forever.
One song turns into an entire set, which ends with a full rendition of G.I. Jive, which had everyone singing along. It was a magical moment; made you feel like you were a part of something important.
Irene sidles up to you, giving you a hug. She says in your ear,
“I think it’s time to slow it down a bit. How about you sing that song I taught you.”
She means an old Appalachian folk song that’s been in her family for generations. You had heard her sing it one night and immediately loved the dark, but strong nature of the lyrics. It was an honor to learn it from her. 
“I don’t know, it’s your family’s song and…”
“And I can’t think of anyone better to sing it to these soldiers.” You gave each other a look, her slight eyebrow raise gave you the courage to nod in acceptance. She smiled, hugging you again, her voice yelled out to the crowd. 
“Birdie’s gonna sing solo!”
The announcement is met with raucous applause, Irene and Teresa shoving you towards a dodgy looking table. Crank offers a hand up, which you take gratefully. As you find your bearings on the tabletop, you quickly spin around and find all eyes on you. 
The crackling energy in the air seemed to simmer, the fast-beating hearts of the pubgoers recognizing a moment to acknowledge you. Nausea starts to make an appearance, but a deep breath quells the sensation within you for the time being.
You take another deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
You close your eyes, open your mouth, and sing.
Meanwhile…. 
Majors Gale Cleven and John Egan walk down the familiar street, one eager to catch up with his fellow countrymen’s alcohol intake, the other just happy to spend time with his friends. They were arriving later to the festivities due to being caught up in filling out reports. By far the worst part of having a higher rank was the paperwork.
“It’s pretty quiet.” Buck acknowledges. “They’re usually rowdier by this point.”
Bucky sniffs, shrugging off the concern. “Ah, it’s probably nothing.” 
As the two men approach the pub, they find that a crowd has formed. Soldiers, civilians, RAF, USAAF, old, young— people had obviously stopped to watch whatever was going on. It was dead silent, save for a voice singing. Was there a radio show on or something?
A familiar face peeks out at them from the crowd, DeMarco quickly waving them over. 
Bucky is quick to question, “Hey, what’s going on?” but is immediately shushed by nearby crowd members. Buck cringes in apology, despite not being the one to disturb the peace. His best friend, ever unshaken by the opinion of strangers, carries on.
DeMarco leans in, whispering, “Your girl’s taking us all to church.”
“My girl..?” Bucky’s nose scrunches in confusion. He makes space through the crowd and quickly makes sense of DeMarco’s words. It was you.
I’ll catch you up
When I’ve emptied my cup
When I’ve worn out my friends
When I’ve burned out both ends
Standing on a tabletop, watchful eyes sat all around you like baby ducks flocking to their mama. You were captivating everyone with each note and word that flows from your mouth. Damn, you've got a set of pipes— a voice that belongs on the radio, in concert halls, on Hollywood records. He had no idea.
His little Birdie.
“Wow.” Buck mutters in awe from behind him, and Bucky couldn’t be more in agreement.
When I’m pure like a dove
When I’ve learned how to love
He hadn’t noticed before, but her eyes were closed. Like she needed to concentrate on each and every breath she took, every single movement her body made, before letting them out in an angelic melody.
As if by divine intervention, her eyes pop open and lock on his as she belts “how to love” 
It could’ve been an eternity, for all he knows, the amount of time that they spent locked in each other’s gaze. The world pauses around them, everything frozen. Her eyes were already the kind to knock a man clean off his feet with a single gaze, but he thinks- for a brief moment- that his heart completely stops beating.
John Clarence Egan would swear every day from then on, until his dying breath, that the course of his life was altered in that very moment. He knew how it would continue from then on, and how it would end. How he wanted it to end.
Then the world starts back up and carries on.
Right here in the old therebefore
When nothing is left anymore
Her final hums are joined by a short blonde woman who stands nearby, another face he recognizes from base. 
The applause that picks up after the end of the song is near deafening. The star of the hour gives a shy smile, a quick curtsy and is given a hand to step down from the table.
Everyone soon starts mingling, the normal chatter of the bar returning. But Bucky is stuck in his spot, dumbfounded. In all the conversations you’d had together, somehow this never came up. He should’ve put two and two together, as he recalls overhearing your hums one morning as he made his daily coffee delivery to you. But you had been caught off guard, so much so that you tripped off the ladder you stood on and fell. Luckily, his quick reflexes kicked in to catch you before any serious injuries occurred. 
Remembering the sensation of his hands on your waist and thighs, face just inches from yours, sent his brain into a tailspin. That’s not even considering just how damn cute you were when, after a beat, you turned away from him and playfully mourned the cups of coffee that were splattered all over the hardstand.
“John. John?” A hand waving in front of his face knocks him out of his reverie. He blinks once, twice. Then looks to his best friend.
His voice comes out uncharacteristically weak in response, to which he then clears his throat and corrects. “Yes—yeah?” He pops the collar of his sheepskin jacket to try and hide the rampant red of his ears that signals the heat radiating from them.
Buck just shakes his head and gives him a knowing smile. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Egan. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“See what day?” Bucky starts to consciously return to his body, leaning on the bar.
“The day when a girl finally knocks you on your ass. I knew you had a thing for her, but that?” He points to his face and motions to indicate where they had just been standing. “That’s something else. That’s something real.”
Bucky gives another shrug in response, to which Buck throws back an unconvinced frown. He turns his head to gaze over the pub patrons and is distracted by you once again. Any denial he was about to spout immediately dies in his mouth when you lock eyes with him again and give him a dazzling smile. The world starts to fade away again.
His heart pumps faster in his chest at the sight. Damnit. He sighs, telling his best friend the truth he’s been privately wrestling with for a while now, all the while keeping his eyes locked on yours.
“I know, Buck. I know.”
Bucky smiles back at you and is elated when your face lights up. You give him a wave.
“She kinda snuck up on me.”
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elronds-meleth-nin · 12 days
Text
I Could Love You With My Eyes Closed
I heard a song and one of the lines got stuck in my head, so here's a fic. (If you're curious, it was "Figure You Out" by VOILÀ.) No idea why, but Thranduil just felt perfect for this.
Cross-posted to AO3 here.
~*~
Thranduil x Reader
[A/N: This is mostly just fluff, but there's some innuendo, so... 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]
Warnings: Fluff, angst, Elf x Human romance, mutual pining, idiots in love, Thranduil being dramatic, fake betrothal speedrun, Thranduil being soft for one (1) person only, protective Thranduil, Human!Reader has been adopted by elf who had no idea what he was getting into and Thranduil thinks he's an idiot, mild innuendo.
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~*~
My mind wandered during my guard shift. Given that nothing ever penetrated this deep into the realm without the king's consent, the risk of allowing my focus to roam among my busy thoughts was minimal. The night air was brisk as I sat on one corner of the king's balcony with my bow laid across my lap.
Normally, the night air was soothing, but at that moment, all I could think about was how different everything would be soon. There would be no more extravagant views of the stars framed by elaborately gilded windows, no more training with my bow, no more front row seats to royal audiences, and - the worst of all - no more late night conversations when King Thranduil grew weary of his work.
I'd taken those things for granted. Oh, I hadn't squandered my time once I'd become one of his guards, by any means, but now that I might be forced to give up that position sooner than I'd anticipated, a list of regrets seemed to be cycling endlessly in my mind's eye. One that caused me the most pain was that I would very soon no longer be the recipient of his majesty's secret smirks when something we'd discussed privately occurred in his court.
The sound of a quill scratching away on parchment within the king's study ceased abruptly, but not even the anticipation of a quiet, intimate talk with him could lift my spirits. Not after the news I'd had that morning.
The swish of a cloak being removed was followed by unhurried footsteps toward the balcony, and then he was there beside me. The King of the Woodland Realm stood less than a few feet from me in all his finery, save the little circlet that usually rested upon his brow. He tended not to wear it when he retired to his chambers for the evening, choosing instead to lay it atop a book of poetry which resided permanently on his desk.
"On a lovely, cloudless night such as this, what cause would a newly-engaged lady have to look so forlorn?" The smooth, regal voice of my liege met my ears, and under any other circumstances, I might have scrambled to my feet to bow before him, as was his due. All I could muster, however, was a quiet, sincere apology over my shoulder as I remained seated on the balcony. I could feel his keen, pale blue eyes on me as I set my bow aside and let out a heavy sigh. "Oh, dear. Is he that repulsive?"
"Not physically, but...all he seems to see is himself. I am perfectly aware that the betrothal wasn't either of our choices, but he could at least pretend that he's interested when our parents are nowhere to be seen." I was aware that I sounded ungrateful, but just because I was a mortal woman in a realm of Elves didn't mean that I had to like it when I was constantly looked down upon by others.
One of the few people who never gave me the impression that he thought less of me took a seat beside me in robes much too elegant for anything less than a perfectly padded chair to touch.
"Have you spoken with your guardian - apologies, your father - about your fears?" Instead of sounding judgmental, Thranduil's voice held only softness - a rarity, to be sure, but such a tone was more common when he conversed with me than with anyone else. I nodded my head as I recalled the cold aloofness in my adoptive father's voice as he'd dismissed both me and my protests.
"He seemed more concerned with maintaining the status associated with his name than with some silly little mortal's concerns." I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice, I really did, but the sharp edge that crept in made me cringe a bit. "After all, who am I to complain when he took me in? My life could have been over before it had even truly begun. He could just as easily have left me to die in the ruins of our burning village and adopted an Elfling instead. I...owe him for all that he has done."
One of Thranduil's hands rested lightly on my shoulder, coaxing me to face him. My eyes met his, and his free hand laid over my wrist. The warm weight of his palm covering my pulse made my heart flutter in my chest.
"Is that what he told you?" When I stammered about it being nothing more than the truth, he shook his head while stormclouds gathered in his expression. "What foul words of comfort from one who claims to care for you."
To that, I had no response. Naturally, several statements sprung to the tip of my tongue - defenses for my father's actions - but I swallowed them all down when my king's gaze warned me that he would tolerate no such excuses.
"Remind me, mellon-nin, how long have you served in my guard?"
"Twelve years and a few months, sire."
"And in all of our many conversations, have I ever given you any reason to doubt that I value you as highly as any other in my kingdom? After that first fortnight, when you were terrified of making a mistake, have you ever felt out of place because of your mortality?"
The memory of that fateful night drew a smile to my lips.
"No, mellon-nin. That rather thorough tongue-lashing you meted out made your stance quite clear to all in the palace," I murmured allowing myself the small liberty of turning my hand beneath his and threading our fingers together.
The guards he'd berated for their rudeness and bigotry had practically fled the throne room when he was finished with them. After that night, he'd ordered that whenever I was on duty, I would be assigned to his personal detail.
"Then, what cause have you to believe that I would tolerate anyone treating you so poorly anywhere else in my domain?"
"This is different–"
"How? Enlighten me," the king ordered giving my fingers a gentle squeeze.
"Father has the right to demand that I repay him for the time he has spent on me," I hedged, but Thranduil shook his head.
"Just because he raised you, that does not mean that he was unaware of what he was choosing. He may not have known the full extent of the demands made of a parent, but that was not the fault of the innocent babe he rescued." He sounded so calm, so casual about his assertions that I could do no more than blink as he spoke. "I do not expect Legolas to sacrifice his happiness to satisfy some imagined debt incurred at his birth, nor should your guardian make such ludicrous demands of you."
We sat quietly for a moment, side-by-side and hand-in-hand beneath the moonlight before words began flowing from my mouth almost without my consent.
"He's an ass, you know, the man to whom I have been promised. Nothing brings him greater pleasure than a mirror, and nothing strains him more than remembering a preference held by someone other than himself," I murmured feeling as though this confession of my unkind thoughts about the Ellon would give me some measure of comfort beyond another's commiseration. "Six different times he has insisted that he knows my favorite flower, and six times have I received something completely different. He claims that I keep changing my answer, but, truly, I have given the same response every time."
"He chooses not to listen," Thranduil muttered almost to himself.
"Quite correct, aran-nin. He is dismissive...practically ignores me when we are in the same room..."
"Had he been listening, he undoubtedly would have heard your scathingly pointed sighs, not unlike those which you direct toward any who insult your king in the throne room," he teased, and a huff of laughter bubbled out of me. "I shall have you know that I enjoy those little sighs. They convey a great deal about the receiver's lack of intelligence and manners, whilst simultaneously broadcasting that you would like nothing more than to drag them from the gates by the scruff of their neck. Quite effective, do you not agree?"
"Oh, yes, mellon. As I recall, you've allowed me to do just that on several occasions," I said glancing over at him. The answering sparkle in his eyes coupled with the wicked little smirk adorning his lips made my heart thud faster in my chest.
"And I reveled in every second of their humiliation at your beautiful hands," Thranduil practically purred in satisfaction at the memories, but I sobered rather quickly as I recalled the reason I was so down in the first place. He must've seen my smile slip. "Forgive me, I was certain that you enjoyed dragging witless rats from my sight...?"
"I do...rather, I did." The correction was small, but he pounced upon it immediately. The hand that had been on my shoulder grasped my chin and forced me to look back up at him. He didn't need to say a word. The question floated between us unasked, yet requiring an answer. "My betrothed made it clear that he believed a guard was no proper wife. He has demanded that I resign my position here."
More seriously than he had all night, Thranduil gazed into my eyes.
"Is that what you want? Do you wish to give up the station you fought so hard to attain for a man who cannot remember even the simplest of things about you?" I shook my head as hot, desperate tears filled my eyes. "Then tell me, what do you want? What desires fill your mind when you allow yourself to dream under cover of darkness?"
I most certainly could not give him the whole truth. I couldn't tell him that over the course of our acquaintance and friendship I had fallen in love with him. Nothing could ever come of my pathetic heartache. I was only a guard. A peasant. Peasants might fall in love with royalty, but they did not end up with them. That was not the way of the world.
"Love," I breathed instead. "I want to be loved for myself, not my father's position. I wish to be cared for and to care for another. I wish to remain a guard, a warrior for the Woodland Realm, and to be accepted as I am, not swept aside. Obviously, I am not without fault, but while I attempt to grow wiser and gain experience, I do not wish to be impeded or judged by someone who could never remember even the most basic facts about me. I...What I want is impossible."
A small, gentle smile crossed the king's lips, and an intense, burning desire to kiss him fought a war within me against my common sense. Thranduil could forgive much, but a lapse in judgment as severe as throwing myself at him? Never.
"Your presence here is proof that nothing is impossible. You are much easier to love than you have allowed yourself to believe." His deep, rumbling voice sounded at once comforting and sensual, which proved quite effective at helping me blink back my tears before they could even begin to fall. "When are you next due to meet with this unworthy cad?"
"Tomorrow. My father has invited both he and his parents to our home for the evening meal as it is my day without a shift." I was surprised at how steady my voice sounded after how vulnerable I'd just been. Strangely, though, I felt no shame in having allowed my friend to see my pain.
King Thranduil nodded his head pensively, brushing his thumb over my chin as he did so - why had he not yet released his grip? Not that I was going to complain, of course. Being this close to him, touching him, speaking with him in confidence...that was as close as I was ever going to get to him, and even that might soon be pulled from my grasp, so I savored every moment that I was afforded.
Neither of us had much more to say. Instead, the Elvenking slipped an arm around my waist and tugged me close enough to his side for me to lay my head on his shoulder. We sat in companionable silence until the time came for the guard change. Bidding me sweet dreams and a safe trip home, Thranduil dropped a soft kiss onto my hand and retreated back inside his rooms.
As usual, the guard who was to replace me gave me a raised eyebrow at my familiarity with someone so far above my station, and, as usual, I ignored him.
Sneaking to the stables on my way out, I plucked an apple from my coat pocket and headed to the gilded gates of the stall holding the king's mount. Slicing the fruit quickly in half with my dagger to delay my return home by a few extra seconds, I cooed gently to the large elk, stroking the soft fur on his muzzle as I offered him the treat.
"Who's a good boy? Hm? You are! Yes you are," I praised as he gingerly bit into the first half of the bright red fruit, then the second. He was a gentle giant, in truth. Much of the kingdom supposed that he would be as prickly as his rider, but nothing could be further from reality. Firstly, the king was only short with those who deserved his ire. Secondly, the admittedly imposing elk upon which he rode hadn't a mean bone in his very large body. "Aww, you're never grumpy with me, are you, mellon-nin?"
He chuffed and snuffled, nuzzling gratefully into my caressing fingers as a 'thank you' for his treat. Even he would be a far superior companion for life than the idiot with whom I'd be forced to spend yet another pointless evening the next day...and perhaps the rest of my life.
"Don't worry, mellon, even if he makes me resign, I'll still find a way to sneak in and bring you extra apples." The pleased little snort he gave me drew a giggle from my lips, but I knew that soon the guard patrolling this section of the grounds would be here. I bid goodnight to my tall, fur-covered friend and set off on the path toward home with our secret intact.
Had I so much as bothered to glance back, I would've seen a familiar head of bright blond hair watching as I tugged the hood of my cloak over my head.
--
When I awoke the next day, it was still early morning. The lateness of my shift usually tired me out well enough that I slept for at least another hour or two, but after a few bleary blinks, I realized that I'd been awakened by voices.
Odd. My adoptive father did not usually entertain guests at this hour. Either something had happened, or today was destined to turn out rather strangely. As he hadn't bothered to come wake me, I gathered that there was no urgency in whatever had transpired. What was not in question, however, was the way my stomach growled as I tried to roll over and go back to sleep.
With a sigh of defeat, I climbed out of bed and dressed, even going so far as to tie my hair back in a quick braid since it looked as though it might rain. Thus, clothed and presentable, I cleaned my teeth and ventured from my bedroom in search of food.
The voices seemed to be coming from my destination, so it seemed as though I would get both sustenance and an answer to my curiosity all at the same time. A fortuitous turn for such a gray morning.
"...ere she is now." I was able to make out my father's voice as I intentionally stepped on the creaky board in the hallway. I wasn't as quiet as an elf when I walked, but I still didn't like to appear as though I was eavesdropping or sneaking where I shouldn't be. When I stepped into the kitchen, I froze.
There in all his regal, perfectly-groomed glory was King Thranduil, sitting at our tiny wooden table.
What in the name of the Valar was the king doing our kitchen?
"Aran-nin," I greeted him, bowing slightly less steadily than I might have if I'd been awake for more than a few minutes. A low, velvety chuckle floated around the space.
"Come now, meleth, you know there is no need for such formality," Thranduil crooned giving me a charming, mischievous smile as I straightened again, but that statement alone nearly shattered my poor tired mind.
He'd said 'meleth,' but...that meant 'love.' He'd never called me that before. And I still didn't know why he was in our kitchen.
Glancing between my king and my father, I tried silently to piece together what the hell was going on here. Thranduil must have seen my lack of progress in my eyes, because he continued as if this was all completely normal.
"Come, break your fast. Your guardian has been kind enough to make tea and lay out some provisions for us," he said standing and pulling out the chair directly beside him.
Almost without thinking, I did as he asked, and my heart thudded rapidly in my chest when he seated me as if we were at some lavish feast instead of around our small, wooden table. He acknowledged my hastily-murmured gratitude, then resumed his own seat with his usual flourish. The three of us ate quietly for a few moments, staunchly ignoring the fact that the king was in our tiny kitchen eating with us as casually as if he had always done so.
It was...pleasant. Strange, obviously, but much more enjoyable than my usual solitary morning meal.
"So, meleth-nin, would you like to tell him the good news, or should I?" Thranduil asked, and I looked up at him. Slightly more cognizant than before, I recognized the glint in his eyes that usually accompanied a desire for me to play along with whatever he said next. I could do that.
"I'm quite certain that it would be much more eloquent coming from you," I demurred, and I very pointedly avoided looking across the table at my father's reaction to whatever bit of theater my king had orchestrated. Less than a heartbeat later, I found my free hand firmly in Thranduil's grasp as he looked at my father.
"The betrothal you arranged for your ward is hereby declared invalid by order of the king," he said, and the stunned expression on my father's face was worth every moment of confusion I'd experienced that morning. He took a moment to gather himself before clearing his throat and looking between us in askance.
"If it is not too presumptuous, sire, may I ask why you have done this? Her betrothal to–"
"That engagement was no more than a farce. We meant to announce it earlier, but with how busy I've been attending to my royal duties, I fear I have been remiss." The king cut him off, and the indignation in my father's eyes gave me a sick sort of pleasure. "You see, your ward is not available for the suitor you preferred, because she has already accepted my own marriage proposal."
Oh. So, that was what he had in mind. A faux betrothal. Somehow, that was both intensely flattering and a knife to my chest.
The announcement worked to perfection, though. My father looked as though he'd been punched soundly in the face.
"You...?" He blinked and made a second attempt at speech. "Why would a king want her?"
Thranduil's head tilted in a manner I recognized as indicative of the imminent rise of his temper.
"Why does a king desire anything? Tell me, why should a king not desire a worthy queen for his realm?" He asked, and my father caught up rather rapidly with the realization that he'd said the wrong thing. Thranduil looked back over at me as he lifted my hand to his lips. "Why should an ellon not marry the one whom he loves?"
Ow. Those were the exact words I'd longed to hear from him for so many years, but to hear them now knowing that they were all an act...
"And why should I not wish to marry the elf with whom I have grown so close over my many years of guard duty?" How far he intended to carry this fiction, I didn't know, but I could play along for now. I could hide the pain.
"I...Congratulations," my father stammered hesitantly, but he was no longer relevant. Not now.
"Thank you," the king said without taking his eyes off of me. "Meleth, I believe it is time for you to live in the palace. It will be your home once we are married, and if you are prepared, I can take you back with me. My mount is outside."
"Of course, but I shall need a few moments to pack–"
"Nonsense. You needn't do such menial work. You are to be my queen. I have already arranged for your belongings to be brought to you this evening. For now, you need only bring yourself and a riding cloak," he insisted with a warm smile.
"Might it not be simpler, my king, if I were to save you the trouble of taking her with you? I could escort her to the palace myself this evening so that you needn't be burdened by sharing your mount," my father said, and the blush that sent my cheeks burning at the thought of the pair of us riding together atop his elk was automatic. No acting required.
I prayed that Thranduil was unaware of how drastically he affected me, even within my own imagination.
"Bringing my queen to the palace is my responsibility and privilege. And, if you shall forgive me for saying so aloud outside of the solitude of our marital chambers, meleth-nin, I view the opportunity to feel you in my arms with great anticipation," the king said turning my hand over gently and placing a slow, sensual kiss right over my racing pulse. My breath caught in my throat at the hunger in his eyes. His lips lingered a few beats longer than I expected, only pulling away when my father cleared his throat pointedly. "My apologies. In the presence of such beauty, I find that I am transported into the realm of fantasy."
Thranduil's words did not match his expression. He was an ellon who found vast satisfaction in playing those around him like an orchestra. He wasn't sorry at all.
"As much as I adore seeing you like this, my darling king, I do hope you will be more discreet while holding court," I teased, but his smirk only grew.
"When my queen is so breathtaking? Never." If it wasn't for the disgustingly sexy wink he tossed me, I'd have thought he was laying his act on a bit thick. As it was, though, he seemed to be staying in character quite effortlessly. For my part, I was one shaky breath away from giggling like brainless idiot, or bursting out in tears because of the simple fact that this was all an act.
Ducking my head in what I hoped was a passable semblance of bashfulness, I tried to steady my breathing.
"I...trust that you still plan to give up your position in the guard?" My eyes flicked up and met my father's. There was something in his expression - disbelief, confusion, suspicion - that I couldn't quite place.
His obvious lack of trust after all these years angered me.
With the sweetest smile that I could muster, I tilted my head curiously.
"Not at all. A queen must be willing to fight for - and alongside - her people if she expects them to fight for her in return. Loyalty must be earned; it is not a gift to which one is entitled." Thranduil gave my fingers a gentle, supportive squeeze. "Surely, after your many years as a warrior, you of all people understand how crucial it is to inspire loyalty in those whom you command?"
He couldn't protest. When Thranduil said nothing, giving him neither a change of subject or an opportunity to dodge the question, my father stammered about his question being a foolish one and about the change in suitors being so sudden.
Almost as soon as we stepped outside, the king's elk snuffled happily. He walked over to us, but to my surprise, instead of vying for Thranduil's attention, he made a beeline for me. Without thought, I patted his muzzle and ran my fingers down his neck. Snuffling lower, as if he knew I usually kept his apples in my pockets, he looked at me expectantly.
"Oh, I'm sorry, mellon, I don't hav–" I was silenced by a large, gentle hand landing on my shoulder.
In my king's grasp was a bright, ripe, red apple. The same kind I usually smuggled out of the larder as a treat for my furry friend. He'd already sliced it in half - when had he even found the time?
"Thank you, but how did you...?"
"Nothing happens in my realm but I know of it," he whispered, the warmth of his breath ghosting over my scalp.
Choosing to temporarily ignore the implications of his statement, I accepted the apple and fed it to his elk. After a moment, Thranduil moved nearly soundlessly back toward my father.
"Ah, before I forget, this is for your ward's former suitor," he said pulling an envelope with the royal seal from his pocket. "Please convey to him that if the contents raise more questions than answers, he is most welcome to see the palace healers about his obviously failing memory."
With his cloak swishing behind him, Thranduil swept back over to me and helped me onto his mount's back. Once he was seated behind me with an arm wrapped firmly around my middle, it all sank in.
This might be an act for my father, but this was happening. I was really riding toward the palace with my king's chest pressing against my back. The guards who manned the gate would see us. Any who encountered us would bear witness to the king's act. How far did he mean to take this?
Surely, he wouldn't actually marry me just to get me away from one unsuitable ellon? And when he did eventually end this ruse, what then? Would I be forced to go home with my tail tucked between my legs?
When we were around the halfway point in our journey - far enough from both my home and the palace that I was certain we wouldn't be observed - I asked if we could stop for a moment. Despite his confusion, Thranduil gave the command, and his elk trotted to a graceful stop. Without waiting for assistance, I slid off the saddle and landed rather hard on my feet.
Ignoring the new ache in my ankles and the ache that the loss of Thranduil's steadying grip left in my chest, I took a few steps and tried to slow my breathing. The sound of my traveling companion landing infinitely more gently than I had met my ears along with a concerned call of my name, but I just shook my head.
"Are you hurt, meleth?" He asked, and I swallowed heavily.
"No, but...my king–"
"You are perfectly allowed to call me by my name. After all, we are betrothed. It would not do for our subjects to see us behaving as if no love exists between us," he said as he patted his elk's neck, and a pang of hurt wound through my heart. Thranduil was saying all the right words, but it was an act. There were no longer any witnesses. There was no longer anyone to watch as my heart broke.
"Why are you doing this?" At the pain in my voice, confusion and concern washed over his features.
"Whatever do you mean?" The Elvenking asked stepping away from his elk's side. His cloak billowed around him, and it was all I could do not to drop to my knees at the sheer majesty of the figure he presented. All it did, though, was reinforce what I already knew: Thranduil was not for me.
"Please, do not misunderstand, I am grateful that you have saved me from such an unfortunate match. However, you needn't spare my feelings by pretending to love me. There is no need to waste your precious time playacting, mellon-nin."
"'Pretending'?" The word escaped him as a harsh, dangerous whisper. Oh dear. I'd seen the king's rage before, but never had his icy fury been turned upon me. Despite the outrage in his tone, his next words were at the same hushed volume as before. "'Playacting'? What do you take me for?"
I could see why Prince Legolas had insisted that raised voices were preferable to the fear that his father's cool, piercing anger inspired. I wasn't afraid, but I was acutely aware of the severity of his emotions. I wasn't intentionally trying to anger him, but I needed him to know how close he'd come to breaking me beyond repair. Before I could answer, he advanced another step and continued.
"And, pray tell, what am I, in your estimation? Cruel? Unforgiving? Demanding? Judgmental?" His eyes flashed with something akin to pain. "Perhaps your censure is not based upon personality, but upon appearance."
The glamour he kept constantly in place over his scar melted away.
"Is this the source of your misgivings? Am I too ugly for you to accept, even as a king?"
"You know that's not true," I snapped, with an edge of warning in my voice, recalling the first time I'd seen him without the glamour.
A few months after my appointment to the king's guard, I was given a jar of pain-dulling ointment by one of the healers to pass on to the king. I'd delivered it, of course, but when I'd been hesitant to leave him, going so far as to ask if he was injured, he'd locked the door and showed me what the fire drakes of the north had done to him. Thranduil admitted later that he'd intended to frighten me that night, but all I'd done was ask if he needed help applying the medicine. Once he realized I thought no less of him for his injury, he'd let me.
Yet he had the gall to stand before me and accuse me of being shallow? Had he learned nothing about me over the years?
"Then answer the question," Thranduil bit out quietly. "What exactly do you take me for?"
"A king," I breathed looking up into his eyes. Confusion mingled with his anger. "Peasants may fall in love with royalty, but they are not offered the luxury of marrying them. Kings do not give lowly guards a second thought, even if they afford them the title of 'friend,' so I will ask you again, sire: Why are you doing this? Why are you acting as though hope abounds for my doomed heart where none has ever existed?"
His brow smoothed, his lips parted a fraction, and his glamour slipped silently back into place as he processed what I'd said. Oh, Valar, what I'd said! I'd confessed to loving the king!
Comprehension melted his anger away into nothingness. Instead, he moved within a single step of me, lifting one of his large, graceful hands to caress my cheek.
"You truly do not know?" I couldn't even bring myself to answer as I leaned into Thranduil's touch. This might be the last chance to do so after what I'd just admitted. He'd dismissed guards in the past for much less severe transgressions. "When we spoke last night, you told me that you desired to be loved - not by the whole of the Woodland Realm as I believe you deserve, but by one person. The Ellon your father chose for you certainly could not do that when remembering something as small as your favorite flower caused him such strain."
Low and gentle, his voice trickled over my ears as smoothly as honey. He...He didn't sound angry, anymore. Why wasn't he enraged that someone like me had dared to cross the more-than-generous boundary of friendship that he'd allowed me?
"My king–"
"Thandruil," he corrected, but there was no real bite to his words despite having to repeat himself again. He never repeated himself, yet this morning alone he'd done so twice. "You adore the blue wildflowers that grow along our western borders, but if you smell them for too long, they make you sneeze. During the summer, you set them on the sill in your room and keep the window open so that you might enjoy them without discomfort."
I blinked in surprise. I could vaguely remember a conversation years ago where I'd mentioned the flowers, but it was such a trivial thing that I was quite certain it would've been forgotten by morning. After all, what I did with flowers had no bearing on the fate of the kingdom.
"You prefer your tea sweet but not overly so. When you believe it might rain, you take the precaution of braiding your hair so that the humidity will not render it impossible to untangle when you return home."
The Elvenking began slowly, allowing each small fact that he'd observed about me to sink in along with the realization that he'd favored me with his attention frequently enough to accrue them.
"Your confidence with daggers is low, but with a bow, you are as bold and graceful as any skilled Elleth warrior. When I express my anger at some wretched fool in my court, you often struggle to suppress your laughter at how close they come to wetting themselves in the throne room - do not deny it. Your body gives you away each and every time."
Had he truly seen so much of me during my service to him?
"When your temper is tested, there is a small line that appears just here," he touched a spot between my brows, "that brings me great consternation. On the one hand, I wish to give you my sword so that you may more easily remove the head of whomever has dared incur your wrath, but on the other, I wish to soothe your frustrations with my words, my lips, my body, whatever you will allow–"
"Thranduil–" His name fell from me as no more than a whisper. The leaves on the trees surrounding the path rustled in the breeze, but the Elvenking could not be stopped.
"Your free time is often spent reading. Once a week before you return home, you sneak out to the stables and feed my elk an extra apple, because you find him sweet-tempered. When you laugh, your eyes sparkle brighter than any star ever could, and you steal the breath from my chest each time you look at me."
My vision blurred, and only when my king's thumbs brushed tears from my cheeks did I realize that I was crying. I'd loved him for so long that this felt as surreal as a dream.
"You said that you wish to be loved, meleth-nin. To answer your question, I am doing this because I can give you exactly what you desire. I could love you with my eyes closed, because I have done so with them open since the day you were assigned to my guard."
Thranduil leaned closer, freezing but a hair's breadth from my lips.
"If you do not feel the same, we can remain friends, but if there is the slightest chance that you could find happiness by my side, then marry me. Be my queen. I am yours." His whispered promise was filled with so much tenderness and hope that my restraint snapped, and I closed the distance between our mouths.
My fingers gripped his robes in an attempt to ground myself, but this heady feeling of being wanted - being loved - robbed me of all coherent thought. There was only the feeling of gentle hands drawing me close by my waist and the nape of my neck. Only soft lips kissing me with the skill of thousands of years' worth of experience. Only a king claiming his queen's heart.
There was only love.
~*~
mellon-nin = my friend
aran-nin = my king
meleth-nin = my love
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dovecots · 4 months
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beneath our tree.
Pairing: Lucy Gray Baird x Reader Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: None Summary: When Lucy Gray is a few lyrics short of a new song, you help her fill in the gaps.
You found her humming to herself out in the meadow, right where Maude Ivory said you would, equipped with her guitar under the shadow of a low-hanging tree. You probably could have guessed it yourself if you couldn't find her in District 12—she had a way of never losing your attention; it was much harder to miss her than to lose her. All you had to do was keep an eye out for color, an ear out for music, and your heart would lead the way.
Lucy Gray saw you coming before you could distract yourself in the way the wind carried her voice over the open field, stopping what seemed to be her brainstorming process to say hello.
"Hey," you replied. "Don't stop on my account."
"No, you're fine," she waved off her thoughts and shuffled further down the rock she'd perched upon to make room for you in the shade. "This one's not coming to me, anyway."
"It sounded nice." You sat, careful not to land on her skirts.
"That's all it does is sound nice. The words are all nonsense."
"Call them metaphors," you offered with a soft nudge to her shoulder. It earned a laugh from her.
"Alright, they're not all nonsense. They're just a little scrambled. Don't know if I was drunk or asleep when I wrote this."
A wrinkled piece of paper lay under her weight to keep it from blowing away. She pulled it out and made a display of flipping it back and forth, revealing the chicken scratch that had apparently been putting up a fight and making sure it'd be ashamed of itself by the time she got her hold on it.
You chuckled, wincing in sympathy for her endeavors.
"That doesn't look too recent," you commented.
"No, it's some old thing I thought I scrapped a while ago." She plucked a few chords string by string. Her brow lowered in focus as she sang a few notes, testing out some rhythms, some different syncopation. You didn't dare interrupt, nearly holding your breath as if you were anticipating a lightning strike. If anyone had something so grand in them, she did. "I've got a melody that'd fit a bridge here, but the words just aren't coming. Here, hold on, let me..."
Lucy Gray strummed, feeling around for the right beat to start on. She played you the hook; even to your ears, it certainly sounded like a proper song. It was sweet on someone. Whether that someone was up-to-date was another question, but her heart had been hurt in not so distant a past; perhaps the rebirth of such a selection was a good sign of healing.
Can't be mistaken, yet nor can I name Whether sky, sweets, or pines that your eyes put to shame Won't search for the heavens, this ground's all the same Got the answer whenever I need Got no needs 'cept for one guarantee— ...Da, da-da da, da, da-da da...
Though uncertain, the tune didn't falter—exchanged for a slower refrain, unfinished like she'd said. You picked it up, humming along to make yourself familiar. Lucy Gray guided you along, already finding the right switch of chords.
A few times, you open your mouth with the start of an idea, only for it to flee or fall apart right at its would-be birthing breath. So you replaced it with another repeat of that same languid line. Eventually, each little defeat would throw you both into growing fits of giggles.
"I told you this one's tricky!" She shoved you playfully, light-hearted frustrations returned by your dramatic 'ugh!'
You shook your head, laughs rising and falling in waves that lay waste to whatever focus you thought you could hold together. You press Lucy Gray's arm tenderly, and she takes it as a guide back to the strings. "Okay, okay, okay—hold on, I got it this time."
"If you say so," she mumbled under her breath, the joke's last leg. She gave you the starting chord again, plucking an easy beat. You took a moment to find it again, get her melody back under your tongue. You thought of where she'd left off—a guarantee. You reminded yourself: it's a love song. So what did that mean to you?
You could see the girl in the corner of your eye, but her presence was not the least bit peripheral. She stayed quiet to let you think, but the need to impress her, or at least to not completely make a fool of yourself, brought on a sudden unease. Come on, get a hold of yourself. You wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, who this was for... or would the truth be too disappointing? Would it be better not to know at all?
Maybe that was the guarantee you were looking for—reciprocity, something to be sure of for once in your life. That, or nothing at all.
Words came, lines at a delay, but the idea came together in a few dozen bars.
Oh, signal to me my song o'er the sea By gales, deliver me your heart upon my sleeve Or save me the grief, oh, leave me in peace I'll dream 'neath our tree, dear
She kept playing, circled back to the original few chords, and you tagged on her chorus one more time to bring the song to a close. Your voice wasn't as clear as hers, but it got the point across just as ably. Her guitar was a great aid, finishing things out on a sweet minor sound.
Quiet fell over the meadow. A moment of deliberation before she muttered something, "By gales..."
"Nightingales. They're songbirds, too. Not quite as smart as the mockingjays, but..." You shrugged. "It's also another word for strong winds, storms at sea."
"That's lovely. Really! You sure you came up with that just now?"
You smiled. "Your genius must be rubbing off on me."
"Oh, well, that'd explain it." Lucy Gray beamed. This glow between the two of you was truly contagious. "That or—you got a sweetheart you're not telling me about?"
Had you just been had? You couldn't tell. You snickered softly, playing it off with what cool you could afford. "Trust me, you'd know."
"Well, good," she said with a sturdy nod. "Wouldn't want you ditching me for someone else. You'd not have nearly as much fun." She stuck her nose up when she said it, making a point of it like the thought might have actually offended her.
"So, you think we saved this one?" You wiggled the paper out from under her, and she quickly took it from you.
"You saved this one." She pulled up a pencil from her other side and scribbled down your lyrics as fast as she could. They fit right in with the rest of the nearly indiscernible script. You figured she'd done that on purpose.
She seemed to squint a bit as she wrote. You lingered on the sun caught in her eyes, breaking through from between the late summer leaves, showing their color for what it was—darker than soil, even in the light. Everything flourished under their care. "You got a name for it?"
Birds chirped overhead as she read over the lines she'd jotted down, likely searching for a particular highlight. "Think I'll name it for where it was written. 'Beneath Our Tree.'"
Her whole attention turned up at you as she said it, unafraid, but face clean of the wisecracking smirk you both could have thrown back and forth until day's end, eyes asking for your thoughts...
You only looked just as unsure. Disbelief—that was a good word to describe it. Was it your mind playing tricks on you, or was she serious?
"That's..." Your words failed you again. But you figured something would be better than nothing at all. You swallowed your nerves. "That's fitting, I think. For... for us."
Lucy Gray nodded. "I think so, too."
You nodded as well, thinking your voice and wits now equally spent.
It could only have been her who leaned in and laid her lips on your cheek, hand soft on your arm even when she pulls away. And her thumb hadn't rubbed two circles into your skin before you leaned in and kissed her properly—once, then twice, then once more for good luck.
Neither of you were eager to let the other go, but eventually, anxious lungs demanded it. Your faces still lingered close, any misgivings gone from hers. You tried unsuccessfully to bite down a grin, and it only made hers grow, and you were caught in loop of laughter all over again. This time, it stayed quiet, existing only in the space between you like a little secret.
For now, that was what it felt like. Something all yours, right here and now.
"I'm glad we sorted that out," said Lucy Gray, smile stretched ear-to-ear.
"Oh, yeah, definitely," you said with an only slightly-exaggerated heave of a sigh.
She chuckled at you and stood, leaning her guitar against the rock to give herself the chance to stretch. She put the piece of paper, no longer just scrap, in the spot where she'd been sitting, and you picked it up as she spoke. "Let's head back. It's hot and I'm tired of hunching over this thing." You agreed. "What are you doing later?"
"I've got a shift at the Hob," you said, head tilting coyly. "Will I be seeing you tonight?"
"You'll be hearing me at the Hob tonight. The whole Seam'll be hearing me once I get this polished up!"
You'd only be serving drinks, but so help you, you'd get away for five minutes of her set if it killed you. She set off back towards District 12, headed up the hill with her belongings.
You followed in each one of her footsteps, unable to help grinning to yourself the whole way. You wished you could see her face, to know it looked just the same as yours. In your hand, her lyrics grew more distinguishable the more you studied them. The writing was a little faded. You wondered how long it had sat at the bottom of a drawer or box or wherever she'd forgotten about it.
On the other side, near the top, were some of the earlier ideas—barely coherent enough to consider a first draft. But among them, underlined like a title and not even crossed out, was some old scrawl decisively in the shape of your name. A familiar word, even in this state.
You slipped the paper into your waistband and carried on, eyes fixed straight ahead.
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blueywrites · 1 year
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Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.
TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)
eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you
fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, angst, hurt/no comfort (there will be a happy ending!)
chapter ten : overcome (10k) | playlist | AO3 | next
🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #29-#33. Eddie's two songs aren't mentioned by name, but the others are. #34 is a good add-on at the end if you want to cry harder.
Do you ever wonder what it’s like 
Losing what you cannot be without? 
I’ll keep running
Overcome — Skott
You’re staring down at the kaleidoscope of color that makes up your salad. The green of crisp cucumbers, delicate arugula, and soft, fragrant mint. The deep purple of olives. The burnt gold of rich chickpeas and toasty pine nuts. The pale cream of fluffy quinoa and the bright white of tart feta. Your gaze lingers longest on the oven-roasted tomatoes scattered like gashes of red amongst the roughage. 
It's a Mediterranean salad your sister kindly prepared for your first lunch at work post-breakup, and it looks delicious— vibrant and fresh, promising a palate of savory flavors that will dance on your tongue. Yet since you sat down in the staff lounge to break for a late lunch, not one bite of salad has made it past your lips. Your elbow is planted on the table, fork listlessly poking around in the glass container as you slump, leaning your chin heavily in your hand. Your mind is far from the allure of color. It's distracted, just as it has been since the moment you woke.
You’re thinking about Eddie.
Now that your relationship with Steve is over and you’ve had the weekend to process it, your relationship with Eddie— whatever it is, whatever it could be— has been all you can think about. Longing, fear, hope, and guilt mix into a tempest while you chart patient records and call names into the waiting room. By your two-thirty lunch break, the storm has accumulated into a vague feeling of nausea that overwhelms your hunger. Your thoughts are relentless, swirling around in a looping pattern that seems never to resolve.
You dwell on Eddie’s gentle brown eyes, the softness of his kisses, and the rough pads of his fingers wiping your tears. You think about his manic smiles and his playfulness, his unapologetic dramatics and his frenetic energy. You remember the smoke words that still swirl around in behind your ribs even now. ‘I want you, y/n. I don’t want to hurt you; I really care about you. Anything for you.’ Wings flutter, your flowers bloom, and red fruit yearns to spill from your tongue. 
But then the guilt resurges, sticky and insistent, mixing with the freezing bite of fear. You know you care for Eddie deeply, but how can you expect to compete with Chrissy? Saccharine-sweet Chrissy, with her powdery-soft skin, bright blue eyes, lithe arms, and delicate waist? How can you compare to high school sweethearts, to five years of history, to plans for engagement and talks of children? Five years versus five months. That’s all you’ve known him for. How could you expect Eddie to throw all of that away? You’ve told one another that you care. But when the allure of desiring what he can’t have is gone— now that you’re well and truly split from Steve— when it comes down to it, would Eddie balk at the reality of what that means?
And even if he doesn’t balk, you can’t stop hearing Steve’s words echo in your head. 
‘I just feel bad for Chris.’
Despair slinks back, drool dripping from its maw to hiss as it contacts the tender growth of your green, singeing the leaves with bitter poison. Yet light and smoky charcoal— Eddie’s black and white— chase it away, nourishing the damaged leaves until all are new again, and the cycle repeats.
It circles over and over until you’re left with a final thought: Wanting Eddie to be with me… asking him to… it—
“Y/n?”
You startle, wide eyes darting to the doorway where Denise leans half-inside, stethoscope swaying. “Yeah?”
“Dr. Nichols is looking for you.”
You nod quickly, snapping the lid back on your uneaten salad. “Thanks, Denise. I’ll be right out.” You shoot her a quick smile, and she smiles back before leaving you with only the refrigerator's hum to accompany the swirling of your thoughts. 
You know the loop can’t last forever; it must resolve somehow. And as you remember the hurt in Eddie’s eyes when he’d asked whether you were too busy to listen to his song, you also know you can’t leave him waiting. You need to talk to him.
So you find yourself seated at Penny’s kitchen island later that evening, facing an empty wine glass placed carefully beside the black screen of your phone. The wine bottle stares at you, and you stare back until you give in, pouring another half-glass of deep red liquid with slightly shaky fingers. The two in your stomach are already spreading warm from your belly to fuzz in your head, taking the edge off your nerves as you direct your stare down at your inactive phone. 
The loop has been resolved, your decision has been made, and now, you’re just mentally preparing to ask Eddie if you can see him. The sooner, the better, you think, though the squirmy, tight nervousness has kept you from actually going through with it.
Finally, your nerves are numbed enough by the fuzz of the wine for you to make your move. You down your final half-glass of wine, dry and tart as it clings to your tongue and the roof of your mouth; the glass clinks definitively against the marble countertop, and you fix determined eyes on your phone. Before the courage can leave you, you swipe it open and find your text message chain with Eddie.
The last message is still Eddie’s song, and you try to ignore the pang it conjures as you type quickly and hit send before you can overthink it. 
‘Can I see you?’
Straight to the point, no preamble. A little bald, truthfully, but it’s the best you can do. 
Your fingers tap against the edge of the countertop as your eyes dart compulsively. They flick to the empty wineglass and the drop of burgundy clinging to its lip, then back to your phone, to the plants on the sill above the kitchen sink, then back to your phone. Back and forth as if you’re desperate to escape but can’t pull your eyes away from those four words for too long.
And then one more dart, from the shine of the stainless steel fridge to the screen, and Eddie’s reply is suddenly there.
‘Now?’
Your heart skips and thuds as you surge with nerves. You’d thought the sooner, the better, but you weren’t ready for that soon. You type with fingers unsteady from adrenaline. ‘Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow?’
His answer comes quickly. ‘I have a show tomorrow night. Come. We can do something after.’
You suck in a tremulous breath, stomach sinking even as you flutter with anticipation. Going out alone isn’t something you like to do; you tend to feel even more self-conscious without the buffer of a friend or partner to shelter behind. And considering the private conversation you’re planning to have with Eddie, inviting a friend only to ditch them as soon as the show is over seems selfish and inconsiderate. You chew on your thumbnail, debating for a tense moment. In the end, you think of the first time you met Eddie, how his brown eyes had crinkled with his wide, genuine smile when you told him you liked his music. 
You know you can’t deny him.
‘Same place as last time?’ you ask.
‘Yes,’ he answers. 
The loop has been resolved, but you’re slowly spinning as your fingers tap your final reply. ‘I’ll be there.’
The crumbling brick facade and fissures in the asphalt are the same as the first time you’d visited this bar, but the dry, brittle skeletons of weeds are now plush with green flesh and butter-yellow heads. When in February, the winter wind had cut through your puffy coat, your arms are now bare, skin dewy in the June heat that ushers you from your car to the front door. There are no frozen puddles for Steve to guide you around; you aren’t dressed in skin-tight white. Instead, your blue dress swishes against your thighs, and your sandals take you straight up to the front door. 
You’d showered and changed after work before going out for the night, wanting to both feel fresh and use the ritual of preparing to help the time pass quicker. You opted for something light, a comfortable dusty blue summer dress with short sleeves that will hopefully keep you cool in the sticky humidity you anticipate will fill the bar during the show. Fumbling for your driver’s license in your crossbody bag, you approach one of the bouncers. He eyes you shrewdly as you finally wrench it from your wallet and pass it over. You stand with your hands clasped sheepishly until he gives it back to you, his face now impassive. Timid steps carry you inside.
You freeze at the threshold of the main room. It’s brighter inside this time; the lights have not yet dimmed for the performance, and rock music plays through tinny speakers, hushed slightly under the light buzz of conversation. It’s also much less crowded tonight since it's a Tuesday, though you are surprised by the disproportionate number of girls in the place. Generally, you’d expect to see more men than women on a Tuesday night in a seedy establishment like this. You spot the chalkboard sign beside the bar: ‘Tuesdays are for the Ladies! $6 well drinks and $3 shots.’ You suppose only ladies in college or young enough to be reckless with their Wednesday morning workdays would be willing to stay out late for cheap drinks, which explains the girlish squeals and tiny skirts lingering near the bar. They’re all clustered in little groups, pairs at the very least; a quick glance and you can already tell you’re the only girl here alone. 
You inhale slowly through your nose, fighting against roiling nerves as your eyes scan the room for another reason. Luckily, not many tables are currently occupied, and you cut a direct path to the center of the room, hopping easily onto the stool and pulling your small purse into your lap. You take out your phone to check the time: it’s a quarter to eight, so you only have about fifteen minutes to wait before Eddie’s band comes out. 
A peal of laughter has your eyes darting toward the bar, where many of the young women are still loitering, though some have wandered toward the front of the stage to wait for the show to begin. You turn pointedly from the bar, settling your elbows against the bartop as your knee begins to jolt. Though you know a drink would help to calm your nerves, you don’t want to be anything but sober for this conversation. It’s too important. So you weather your nerves, distracting yourself with your muted Tiktok feed until the lights suddenly dim, drawing your eyes to the stage. 
Your breath quickens as the darkened forms of four masculine bodies trail out amid grinding ambient sounds, illuminated from behind by piercing red light. Feminine chatter crests like a wave as a crush of silky heads crowd together around the base of the stage. Though your view remains hazy, obscured by the harsh red backlighting, three bodies slowly materialize, gaining shape in the haze. And then, the final form takes center stage. It’s a familiar silhouette you would recognize anywhere.
A crowd of heads tips up to watch as the grinding ambient sounds fade, voices hushing until the entire room seems silent, as if put under a spell. After a lingering moment of tense quiet, two snappy drum hits cut through the air, and the front lights finally flash on as Eddie strums the first notes of the opening song. 
He’s a study in black and white with a gash of red, and just like the first time, the sight of him consumes you entirely. 
His legs are splayed wide, clad in tight dark jeans slung low on narrow hips. His long dark curls kiss his strong shoulders, wild and beautiful as they frame his pale quartz face. A white tank, near thread-bare and ripped, barely conceals his torso, which is branded with a tapestry of dark ink that smatters across his chest and travels down his arms like body armor. His deft pale fingers are adorned with those chunky silver rings, fingers that strum his sleek blood-red guitar with intent ease as he gazes out at the crowd. From this distance, you can see Eddie’s face clearly: sharp jaw, full lips, soft nose. Dark eyes that, despite the enthusiastic feminine squeals and reaching fingers of the women at his feet, scan restlessly until they skim yours, only to return and catch, holding fast once he realizes it’s you. You see the instantaneous shift— the way the dark umber of Eddie’s eyes lightens to honey and a corner of his lips tugs up in a crooked smile. He presses them against the mic to croon the song’s opening words: “Hey you.”
Your moth wings flutter at the intimacy of knowing that despite the multitude of women at his feet, Eddie Munson is singing to you.
As you watch Eddie perform for you, he watches you watch him. When his fingers shift on the frets, you feel those calloused pads rasp along the doughy flesh of your thighs. When his plush lips kiss the mic, you feel them brush warm along the shell of your ear. When those curls dampen with sweat, you feel them drag and tickle your soft stomach as he travels down, down, down your body. And when Eddie sings— when he drawls and croons and shouts til grit roughens and breaks the timbre— you inhale every ounce of smoke he exhales until it settles deep within you, heady and more intoxicating than alcohol could ever be. 
Yet despite the charisma of Eddie’s performance, underneath it all, the writhing nerves never leave you, like you can’t allow yourself to forget the conversation that looms ever larger with each passing song.
After an extended set of seven consecutive songs, Eddie’s white shirt has gone near translucent from exertion and the humidity you’d predicted would accumulate in the room. That pale chest inked with armor is heaving, but his brown eyes are bright, lips split in a manic smile as he addresses the crowd with a hoarsened voice. “How’re we doing tonight?” He doesn’t shout; instead, he smolders, that amplified murmur almost a purr as the crowd shrieks their enthusiasm. You can feel how much they love him, and it doesn’t make you jealous; instead, beneath your nerves, you feel pleased for Eddie, warm with the knowledge that others appreciate him just as much as you do. 
He continues, “We’re Corroded Coffin—” 
A surge of more shrieking, and Eddie chuckles, husky and full, as his eyes flash to yours. He sees your broad smile, the pleasure in your flushed cheeks, and his smirk softens. “That’s Gareth on the drums—” Eddie gestures behind him, and it almost feels like he’s introducing you as Gareth tosses his brown hair and lifts his sticks before beating out a short, frenetic fill. “Jeff is on rhythm guitar—” The dark of his skin is broken by a flash of white teeth as he salutes before strumming a short chord, bending the strings so they whammy. “Brian’s on bass—” The larger guy with the bristly hair walks a baseline with thick, capable fingers. “And I’m Eddie.” Another round of cheers and clapping, and he grins again when you clap enthusiastically like one of his groupies. 
Eddie’s grin fades, and he pulls off the mic; he says something inaudible to Jeff, who nods, communicating to the others. Before you can wonder about it, Eddie murmurs again into the mic, smoke voice low and close to intimate. “Wrote this one this weekend. Came together pretty quick.” And then he looks at you, and the expression on his face makes your throat go thick. “This is for someone sweet.”
Immediately you can tell that the mood of this song is very different from the ones that came before. Delicate and atmospheric, pensive, but not quite melancholic. You watch Eddie’s pale fingers pick the strings, knuckles ruddy above chunky silver rings as the notes ring out in the silence of the bar. And you feel it: the quiver of your roots, the stretch of your green as it strives for him. A deep, poignant yearning that mixes with a somber sort of weight as he starts to sing.
“Floating on the water, ever-changing. Picture hours out from that in tune with all our dreams.”
Eddie’s voice is always beautiful, and you told him that. But there’s something different about the smoke that flows from him now. As it rakes down your spine, its touch is gentle. As it enters your mouth, its taste is sweeter. You think it must be written all over your face, how it’s making you feel— how your white flowers open their faces even as a deep ache blooms behind your sternum, pricking at your eyes. Yet you don’t look away. You can’t look away because Eddie is singing to you. 
But he isn’t just singing to you. He’s singing about you.
“The ocean takes me into watch your shaking. Watch you weigh your powers, tempt with hours of pleasure.” The intensity of your feeling increases as Eddie presses close to the mic, eyes scrunching closed as his voice goes higher, almost a caress. “Take me one more time; take me one more wave; take me for one last ride; I’m out of my head—” 
He gasps a ragged breath, and your heart squeezes as the passion leaks through in that one word. “—tonight!”
The music intensifies, and the girls clumped around the stage are swaying, reaching their dainty fingers towards Eddie’s feet, hopping in their high heels to the beat. Because despite never having heard this song before, they love it. And, of course, they love it; the song is good. But you think even if the song wasn’t good, even if it was nothing more than clumsy notes spilling from trembling fingers and a cracked smoke voice, you would feel exactly as you do now.
Hearing how Eddie has interpreted and translated moments of your time together— holding each other in the ocean, trembling beneath him as you orgasmed for the first time, driving you home in his van, the only time you’d been alone together since the first night you’d met— is nearly overwhelming. It’s breathtaking; it caresses your green and pierces you at the same time. 
Eddie sings about you, and as a watery smile blooms on your face, you watch him answer it with a gentle spread of heartbreaking pink.
When the show finally ends, the crowd at the front of the stage disperses. You remain seated on your barstool, your purse cradled in your lap, only stirring when you feel the vibration of your phone.
‘Come backstage. Use the unmarked door near the bathrooms.’
You suck in a shaky breath, trying to calm the immediate pounding of your heart. Here goes.
You venture in that direction, hugging your arms close as you skirt around bodies, following Eddie’s instruction. You duck into a narrow hallway and tentatively push open the door beyond the bathrooms, eyes darting down the darkened corridor until they catch on black and white at the end of the hall.
Eddie’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, the toe of one black boot planted against the concrete. Behind him, the door is open, and the warmth of the summer air rushes in with the chirping of crickets, soothing against your cheeks and neck as it blows back your hair. He’s cast in the glow of a floodlight just outside, which illuminates the darkness of his curls with warm light. As you approach him, fingers worrying the hem of your dress at your side, his features sharpen, growing clearer until you can see him fully.
He still looks incredibly overheated— the white of his ripped tank sticks like tissue to his abdomen and chest, and his curls are damp with sweat, corkscrewed at his hairline and hanging limp at the ends where they trail against the charcoal ink on his shoulders. You can see the visible rise and fall of his chest as he drops his arms, still panting from his exertions on stage. But his brown eyes are bright, and his pink lips are split in a manic grin. And as you get closer, you notice the wet spot on the front of his shirt, like he’d sloppily guzzled a water bottle and rushed right outside to see you. 
Your heart lurches as you realize he probably did just that.
The poignancy of your yearning swiftly overtakes you. As you reach the threshold, Eddie steps forward, brown eyes warm. “Hey—”
You fall into him, arms crushing around his back, squishing your face to his sweaty chest. Eddie staggers slightly with an audible ‘oof,’ clearly not expecting the suddenness of your hug, but his arms circle you unhesitantly, holding you as you press yourself to him. You relish the warmth of his body despite its dampness; the tattoo of his steady heartbeat under your cheek; his scent in your nose, musky from exertion above notes of smoke and delicate apple. He chuckles as you cling to him, warm and husky. You sigh as his breath fans against the top of your head, and his chest vibrates under your cheek with his laughter. You hold on until you feel his chuckles subside, until the moment has lingered too long for the hug just to be a hug hello, but you can’t wrench yourself away. Eddie quiets, arms simultaneously softening and holding you tighter, and one palm settles heavily on the back of your head. It’s a comforting weight, giving you the strength to shudder a breath against his chest and finally pull away.
Eddie seems to have picked up on your nerves, and his brow is furrowed slightly even as you smile at him. “You were incredible,” you say sincerely, and a corner of his lips quirks. His fingers run lightly along the length of your hair, brushing it back from your face. 
“Thanks,” he says, though the warmth is dampened by the question clearly pressing behind his teeth. You scrape your teeth against your bottom lip, taking one tiny step back. Nerves wriggle up from the pit of your stomach to squirm in your chest, and you fight against the urge to fidget under Eddie’s stare.
“Can we sit in your van?” you ask, voice small as you look up at him. “I have to talk to you about something.”
“Sure.” Eddie's reply is immediate despite the concern creasing his face, and he ushers you forward with a warm palm on your back, kicking aside the brick that was propping the door open. It thumps closed behind you.
The slight breeze is gone now, and the air is warm and stagnant, thick with humidity as if a summer storm is soon to come. Eddie’s boots crunch on gravel as he silently leads you to his van, parked alongside crumbling brick, waiting to be loaded after the show. He opens the passenger door for you, and you take his proffered hand, relishing the rasp of his callouses against your soft palm as he helps you up.
When Eddie clicks the door shut, the muffled silence— the sudden cut in the rhythmic chirping of the outdoors— leaves you feeling almost bereft. The chirping returns as he opens his door, stretching his lanky legs under the steering wheel as he settles into the driver’s seat. Sharply, he pulls the door closed, plunging you into silence again.
Words don’t come easy to you; you often don’t know what to say. And though you’d practiced it, these words are no different. It takes you a moment to struggle against the nerves and fear because you really don’t know how Eddie is going to react to this. It feels even harder than breaking up with Steve. Your fingers are trembling, and you clench them tightly in your lap as you push yourself to meet his eye. 
Eddie still looks concerned, but his expression is open and accepting; his white is on display, and it helps you part your lips. Your voice is quiet but perfectly audible in the hush of the van. “On Saturday morning, I—” 
Your words choke in your throat as your nerves spike. You push through, though you can’t stop your voice from wavering. “I ended things with Steve.”
Eddie’s shock is clear. His eyebrows jerk violently; his brown eyes widen as his face goes slack. Your eyes dart between his, anxiousness leaping into your throat to curdle there. You almost don’t want to examine his reaction, but you can’t help yourself. You watch Eddie attempt to school his features: brows resetting, adam’s apple bobbing in a thick swallow. The silence is becoming oppressive, and you almost feel the need to break it yourself, to fill it with babbling or tell him exactly what happened, every sordid detail. Anything to disrupt the overwhelming silence.
Finally, Eddie’s tongue darts out to lick his lips; they part, and he just asks one question. “Are you okay?”
His voice is such sweet relief from the tension that you release a sigh, but it’s the question itself— the fact that Eddie’s first thought is to ask you if you’re all right— that has your eyes stinging. There’s a sudden lump in your throat not borne of nerves, but it doesn’t stop you from speaking. “Yeah, I’m okay.” You take a deep breath, eyes darting around the cabin as you attempt to explain. “Something was always missing, I think, in our relationship. I just didn’t know any better. Steve was really my first boyfriend. I’d dated guys casually before him, but nothing was ever as serious as it was with Steve. And I thought things were good, and I guess they were for awhile. But….” Your eyes dart to Eddie almost shyly, darting away again from the intensity there. “These last few months changed how I saw the relationship, and I couldn’t pretend like everything was okay when it wasn’t.” 
The flow of words slows to a drip until you feel you’ve finally released them all. You fall quiet, watching your thumb run against your fingernail for a moment until you hazard a glance up at Eddie again. When you make contact, he nods, expression open and accepting again, and his dark curls sway around his face. You want to tuck them behind his ear, but this next part is important, and you don’t want to distract from it. You hold his gaze as you add, “And you should know… I didn’t tell Steve about Friday. What we did. I couldn’t do that to him after Nancy; it would’ve hurt him so badly.”
Eddie nods again. “I get it,” he says. “I do.” And you think he does. His brown eyes flick away as he licks his lips again. “Was he… upset?” 
He sounds careful, almost hesitant. You wonder if Eddie wants to ask whether he came up in the conversation, but you suspect, from the look on his face, that he already knows he did. You think of the dullness of Steve’s hazel eyes, the briny mud. You think of his mirthless chuckle, of the words he’d spit at you. ‘‘Cause then it means you can have Eddie. And you can convince yourself you don't have to feel bad about what you've done.’
You nod, and it comes out shaky and weak, just like the words do. “Yeah, he was upset.”
Eddie’s face creases further, and you think it could be guilt, that ooze you’re so familiar with. “Are you upset?”
You don’t have to wait for your answer to well up; you feel the words pooling on your tongue already. You marvel over how it should be awkward to talk about this with Eddie, but somehow it isn’t. “There is a part of me that’s sad it’s over. We were together for three years, you know? And sometimes it was really good. But after what he told me about Nancy and about—” You shake your head, interrupting yourself. “I don’t really wanna get into it, but… I don’t think Steve ever really healed after what happened. And it seeped into us. I think he did love me, and I loved him, but he was never able to be fully open and honest. And I don’t know if he ever would have gotten there with me.”
The familiar weight of sorrow coats your skin as you mourn what you’ve lost, but it isn’t as heavy as it had been on Saturday night. And you find that as you speak the words to Eddie, it makes you realize that the problem with your relationship with Steve was always as simple as that— that he wasn’t able to tend to you the way you tended to him. 
Eddie nods again. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet this entire time, though you suppose it isn’t out of place for the circumstances. And then he’s tilting toward you to reach over the armrest. 
Your breath catches as you realize his intent; you untangle your hands in your lap in time for him to take one. His hold is soft, skin warm and rough as he anchors you with it, offering silent support. His thumb rubs slowly over the back of your hand, and the feeling makes your wings stir. When he finally speaks, Eddie’s smoke voice is quiet, still hoarse from his performance. “I’m sorry, y/n.” 
You let out a shaky breath, feeling both comforted and nervous. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’ll be okay.” You lean your head back against the headrest, allowing yourself a moment to indulge in Eddie’s touch before your nerves get the better of you. Gently, you pull your hand away, smiling to reassure him that you welcomed his comfort. Eddie answers the tilt of your lips with a little smile of his own. 
Your eyes wander as you sit quietly in the interior of Eddie’s van, which smells like stale cigarettes and soapy, artificial pine. There’s a new pack of Twizzlers in his cupholder, not yet opened. You stare at it as you gather your courage, breath trembling in your freezing chest. 
The conversation isn’t over yet.
“So—”
“Eddie, I—”
You snap your mouth shut as your voices overlap, and so does Eddie; your eyes catch, and he laughs. Though it’s a little awkward, the husky sound still hits you in that same spot inside, deep at the bottom of you. “You first,” he offers easily, brown eyes warm and glinting in the warm light of the van’s cabin. 
You’re nearly shivering with the freeze that spreads along your sternum, and your heart races desperately behind your frosted ribs as if trying to escape its cage. Because it’s finally here: the moment you’ve been fearing. Dreading. 
The conclusion of your loop.
“Eddie,” you say, “I need to be honest with you.” The impact of your words is immediate; the lingering smile slides from his lips. Despite yourself, you pause for a moment to memorize the way he looks before everything changes. 
Eddie Munson is beautiful. His eyes are deep like warm honey, wide and framed by long, dark lashes. You remember how they crinkle when he smiles. His nose is soft, soft like the dark bangs that feather across his forehead. You remember how he buries it against your skin when his face finds the crook of your neck. His lips are pink, so plush and full. You remember how they feel trailing tenderly across your skin. His jaw is strong and sharp, and his neck is pale and corded. You remember how his throat rumbles against your lips when he hums contentedly. Eddie’s curls are wild and dark, and they skim the ink that darkens the pale quartz of his skin. You remember the black and white that has always drawn you in, the smoke of his voice that, from the first moment you heard it, called to something deep inside you.
Your eyes want to dart away, but you keep them on beautiful brown. “Part of why I broke up with Steve is because….” Your voice wobbles, but you steady it. “Because of how I feel about you.” 
Your words fill the space between you, and you watch that beautiful brown go wide. And when it transforms— when it starts to melt, to spread gentleness onto the tops of Eddie’s cheeks— you hurry yourself along. Choking out the next word. 
“But—”
The freeze of Eddie’s expression, the sudden arresting of his features, pierces you. But it doesn’t change what you realized. What you’ve decided.
You think of the loop: the poison of doubt dripping from despair’s maw, the hope of Eddie’s light and charcoal repairing its damage. But Eddie isn’t the only person that matters.
Chrissy matters, too. 
When you pictured the beloved face of your friend, the charmingly crooked teeth in her broad smile, the sound of her giggle and her sweet voice… it wasn’t the sourness of jealousy that resolved you. It wasn’t the fear that you can’t compete with five years and talks of girls and boys or the insecurity that you’ll never be as beautiful as she is. Instead, it was the injury you knew you would inflict, the haunting question you couldn’t dismiss. You’d finally realized the indisputable truth.
Wanting Eddie to be with me, asking him to… 
It isn’t right. 
It’s nothing but selfish. 
Selfish to want to take this man from your friend, a person who has never been anything but good to you. Selfish to break her heart for the sake of yours.
So you finish your sentence.
You look into Eddie Munson’s gentle eyes and whisper, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Eddie’s head jerks back; he recoils as if you’ve slapped him. His voice is no longer hoarse from the exertion of his performance. Now, it’s dry and cracked. “What? But—”
You rush to cover the cracks of his voice with your own. You know you can’t give Eddie a chance to say anything that might change your mind; this is already too hard. You picture bright blue eyes pierced with hurt. “What we did… it wasn’t right. Not to Steve, and not to Chrissy. We should never have betrayed them like that.”
Eddie’s mouth works soundlessly before he stammers, “I, I mean, I don’t… y/n, I don’t regret what we did. I’m—”
You cut him off again, pleading for him to understand. “I can’t get in between you and Chrissy, Eddie. You’ve been together for five years. You’re high school sweethearts!” Your chin begins to tremble. Earnestness becomes tinged with desperation as you admit your selfishness. Your shame. “She told me how— how you’re gonna propose to her soon. How excited she is to be your wife. How she wants a boy, and you want a girl. You’ve made plans for the future, and she was so excited, so happy.”
The impact of your betrayal hits you fully, and your lips press tight to contain a dismayed whimper. Horrible guilt oozes, crawling up, up, up to press against your teeth, to coat the back of your tongue until you feel ill with it.
Eddie looks pained. He looks nearly as ill as you feel. And you suppose it's finally hitting him, too— what the two of you have done. The realization only resolves you in your decision, and you let the ooze of your guilt leak from your lips, dribbling out to coat the center console that separates you. Your voice is thick with it. “She told me all of that, and then I still—” 
You choke on the viscous ooze, unable to voice it: that you knew how much your friend loves Eddie, and you fucked him behind her back anyway. Your eyes sting with tears more insistently than before. “I know— I know you think you want me, Eddie, but we can’t do this to Chrissy. I can’t—” 
You break off, shuddering a breath as you fight against your tears. You blink up at the ceiling, and as you wait for the tears to recede, your eyes are drawn to the warm light above. The one that glints off Eddie’s dark curls, haloing them in a bright glow. It burns into your retinas, darkening a rectangle in your vision, but you can’t tilt your chin back down. You can’t look away. Not until you feel the caress of smoke from Eddie’s quiet voice against your cheek. 
“Is this what you want?”
Almost by instinct, you breathe the question in; almost by instinct, your eyes seek beautiful brown. Your growth quivers, reaching, striving. Your ripe fruit trembles on the vine, begging you to let it fall from your lips.
You want to say, No, Eddie. I just want you. 
Instead, you say, “Yes. It’s what I want.” 
And then he’s nodding like he had before. Accepting your words; never pushing for too much. Tending to you always. "I understand," Eddie tells you, and the lack of resistance brings relief and pain.
After all, it’s what he said. 'Anything for you.'
Eddie splays his fingers, holding out his hand palm up to you. A silent offering. 
Lip wobbling, your eyes run over the callouses on Eddie’s fingertips, the glint of chunky silver on his fingers. His touch calls to you, and you give in. You allow yourself this last thing. 
You take Eddie’s hand.
You weave your fingers with his, slowly, slowly, relishing the rasp against your soft skin, the warmth of his broad palm. And then, when your eyes turn from your clasped hands to his face, Eddie squeezes your hand. And he doesn’t release his grip; he keeps your hand squeezed tight. And so do you; you squeeze Eddie’s hand, and you keep it squeezed until the pain of your grief and yearning burns like a deep ache in your chest. Until it’s so unbearable that you can’t stand it anymore.
Only then do you break the silence. “I should go,” you whisper.
Your hand slips from his, and Eddie loosens his grip. You wrench your eyes from beautiful, glossy brown, and Eddie blinks and looks away. You find the door handle, and when you push it open, the chirp of crickets floods the silence. Eddie’s voice doesn’t join them. You breathe the balmy summer air and it chases the scent of smoke and apples from your lungs. 
You shut the van door, and Eddie doesn’t stop you.
As you cross the cracked asphalt, leaving black and white behind, your leaves droop. The vines that hug your ribs sag as if shuddering a heavy sigh. Your blooms close their faces; your petals wilt, turning down toward the earth. Roots curl into themselves, seeking respite from peat now sapped of nutrients.
Because the source of your light has gone, and in its place, a full moon rises.
You don’t see Eddie Munson again for four months.
By the time summer’s heat has cooled and fat yellow dandelion heads have puffed white and blown away, you’ve grown used to the moon. But it wasn’t always so. The loss of those two men who once were so important in your life stirred up your dirt, leaving spaces needing to be filled; the earth within you shifted, groaning as it adapted to its new normal. It had been difficult at first. Their absence, the disruption of your daily life, was felt keenly. No longer did you reach for your bedside table upon waking at one in the morning to see the screen lit with a song. No longer did you exchange soft giggles with a dear close friend. No longer did you know exactly what you’d be doing on Friday nights— week after week spent tangled pleasurably with expensive perfume, citrus and sea salt, and smoke and apples. No longer did you stretch against the cool sheets of a king-sized bed; instead, the cheery window in Penny’s old office cast thick stripes of morning sun across your twin comforter. But the change of scenery did help. You established a new routine; there wasn’t even any reason to venture into the city aside from the weekends you’d spend leaning into old friendships you renewed with vigorous attention. Gradually, you eased into your new normal, and soon, the absences were no longer keenly felt. By fall, your moth wings have settled, adapting to the deep twilight that bathes you in a cool glow. You’d spent the first twenty-four years of your life illuminated by the moon, and you’d been content. You would be so again.
Never mind that contentment means cold. It means frost on sluggish wings. It means dormant growth, leaves curled towards stems, and fruit desiccated on the vine. Never mind that, because at least the ache has been numbed until it can no longer be felt. There’s a kind of peace in the coldness of the full moon.
And you’d just grown content with living without the light when it returns suddenly and without warning one innocuous Friday evening in late October. 
The dusk casts deepening shadows over the couch in Penny’s living room, and the curtains stir in the crisp breeze where you’ve thrown open the windows. You’re seated at the kitchen island. A bouquet of flowers rests in a glass vase in its center, faded just slightly now, bought last week at the market on 28th Street. Paper plates form a ring around your cutting board, holding mounds of chopped carrots, red bell pepper, and onion that will be added to your stir fry. Your sharp knife raps rhythmically against worn wood, shearing broccoli into little crowns as your speaker cycles through your Liked songs on Spotify. Air So Sweet by dodie complements the peace of the moment— the smell of autumn leaves seeping into the deep mahogany of Penny’s kitchen cabinets, the rhythmic thumping of your knife, the words falling from your lips as you sing quietly under your breath, your voice high and delicate. “The air so sweet, I gulp and gasp for more—”
Three sharp raps cut through the peace, and your eyes snap to the locked front door. 
You balance your knife against the edge of the cutting board, sliding off the barstool with a fond if exasperated sigh as dodie eases into Before the Fall. You pull your loose flannel tighter around you, gliding in your socks and worn, stretchy leggings toward the front door. Penny has been a wonderful sister for these last four months of living together, but sometimes, she can be a difficult roommate. For one, she is very particular about the organization of the fridge, and she has a strict and somewhat complex schedule for laundry and dishwashing that you have struggled to get used to. Despite her meticulousness in other areas, this wouldn’t be the first time she’d left her house key behind and needed you to let her in. Not a shoe is out of place in the rack near the front door, and yet Penny can’t be bothered to hook the key back to the keyring after getting a copy made for you. 
You reach for the handle, huffing your tease through the wood. “Again, Pen? You know, I could just leave you out here. How much do you love me—?”
Your words die in your throat as the door swings open to black and white.
Eddie is standing stiffly at your door, hands jammed deep in the pockets of his tight black jeans, his wallet chain caught on his pale wrist. He’s wearing short sleeves despite the weather, the ink of his armor on full display, arms pimpled with gooseflesh in the autumn chill. You’re staring at the deep burgundy of his band tee, the first color you’ve ever seen him wear. His chest expands with a deep breath, and at the motion, your eyes flit to his almost by instinct.
Eddie’s dark curls frame his pale quartz face like a wild stormcloud. The softness of his nose, the plush pink of his lips, the brown of his eyes— they’re all exactly how you remember. A gust hits him in the back, and as his shoulders scrunch toward his ears, it carries the scent of smoke and apples. 
When you look at him, Eddie’s mouth stretches in a twitchy, crooked smile. One booted foot taps out a frenetic pattern against the brick of your front stoop. When you look at him, moth wings twitch, awakening. They stir powdery snow, which falls silently to frozen earth.
And then Eddie speaks, voice like smoke incarnate. “Hi.”
You tip your chin up, and the smoke passes through your parted lips, sinking into the frozen earth at the bottom of you. Four months, and that’s all it takes: one glimpse of light in brown eyes, one caress of smoke against your mouth. 
You thaw. You yearn.
You swallow down the surge of feeling inside you to hush a greeting back. “Hi.” 
As you stare at each other, Eddie’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He seems hesitant, unsteady, shifting his weight as if he’s uncomfortable in his skin. Another gust of wind wracks his lanky form, and his sudden shiver draws you out of your daze. You nearly trip over your words to ask, “Do you wanna come in? Come in—”
You step back, and he ducks inside, long limbs jerky like a newborn colt. You close the door against the wind, pausing in the tiny foyer that connects branching rooms. The paper plate vegetable mounds peek from the hallway in front of you; the kitchen speaker is muted by distance, but you can tell that Before the Fall’s acoustic guitar has subsided into the lonely piano and haunting vocals of Overcome by Skott. It’s exactly as you left it, that room, but when you glance back, the man now inside is suddenly sucking in all the light, standing like a gash of black and white stained red in the foyer of your sister’s condominium. 
You don’t know what to do with him.
Your voice is a soft hum, almost sounding hesitant to draw his attention. “Um—” He’d been glancing around inside, but at the sound, Eddie’s brown eyes flick right to yours. “I was just making dinner—”
“Oh,” he says, face creasing ruefully, “shit, did I interrupt you?”
You rush to assure him, melting further as he winces. “No, no, it’s fine….” You edge toward the hallway to the kitchen, and thankfully, Eddie gets the hint without you needing to say more. He follows you, bootsteps heavy as you shuffle on your socks back into the kitchen. He’s behind you, but every sense is honed to his presence— the swish of his clothing as he walks, the hush of his breath. The hair on your arms stands on end as you gingerly pull your kitchen stool out, intending to sit back in your spot before second-guessing it immediately. You’re melting, you’re yearning, but nerves begin to squirm low; your fingers twist as you cast for something to say. 
What would Penny do?
You find yourself blurting, “Do you want a drink?” Your brows pinch at the sudden shrillness of your voice overtop the soft vocals from the speaker. ‘Some lights are a different kind, never burning out,’ she sings; your gaze darts to Eddie’s eyes and away again.
“No, I’m okay.” Eddie’s typical confidence seems dampened; his voice is stilted, and his posture is stiff. He hovers somewhere between your fridge and the island. His awkwardness— the thought that he feels just as tense as you— is the only thing that keeps your nerves from becoming overwhelming. 
Eddie speaks suddenly, and it nearly startles you. “How’s your car been?”
“...It’s fine,” you say, wondering if that’s why he’s here— to check in on your car, which broke down four months ago. Penny had picked it up for you; when you’d explained what you’d done, tears of shame pricking your eyes as you told your sister why you didn't want to go yourself, she hadn’t hesitated to act in your stead. Mercifully, though you know she hadn’t approved of how you’d betrayed your friend, she’d held her tongue. She could tell that any criticism of your selfishness from her would be nothing compared to your own. 
You keep following this precedent of asking questions. "How did you find me?" 
Eddie shrugs, a jagged little thing. Grinning now, casual— but his eyes say something different. "Just asked around." 
You nod slowly. "So, how are you?" you try, pulling your flannel sleeves over your hands. “How's…?" 
Her name sticks in your throat, conjuring imaginings of strawberry-blonde waves and soft smiles. Imaginings of dainty fingers painted red, a diamond glinting from her ring finger, brilliant as it shines in the light. Your eyes scan the rings beneath Eddie’s ruddy knuckles. All are the same, but then again, they would be. 
Men don’t wear engagement rings.
There'd been a time you and Chrissy had shared part of life together, and now you haven't talked to her in months. You wonder if she'd been confused about the distance between you, how one day you’d just never spoken to her again. But she'd never reached out to you, either. You assume she must know you’d broken up with Steve by now; it must be old news— 
"Y/n." 
It stalls your train of thought entirely. The way Eddie says your name— like a tortured sigh, like rain after a drought, like the whisper of eyelashes against your cheek— makes you instantly silent. Your heart skips in your chest as you register the look on his face.
Eddie’s jaw is twitching. The cords of his neck are stretched taut, dark brows knitted over honey-brown eyes. Not angry, but bothered. Maybe anguished. He licks his lips, and despite the moisture, his voice still comes out hoarse. "I've been trying to do what you said. I've tried for the last four months."
Your breath catches, but the smoke sinks right through your flannel and into your chest, settling rich and heady behind your sternum. You’re standing beside the barstool, and you search for it with your fingers without moving your eyes from Eddie’s face. As he continues, your fingertips brush wood; you clutch tight to anchor yourself, each word cracking your ice to shards.
Eddie stares intently into your eyes as if his words don’t communicate enough. “I missed you. Every day, I missed you. And I tried to forget, to bury it, but I can’t….” He sounds so earnest that your brow crumples and your eyes sting. Eddie sees it and steps closer around the island, narrowing the gap between you. Honey brown holds you fast as he rasps, “Y/n, I can’t stop thinking about you. I care about you so much. So fucking much it hurts.”
Eddie looks down into your face, and he’s so close you can almost feel the tickle of his curls against your cheek, the brush of his plush lips against your forehead. You can almost taste the smoke and apples, the spice of his mouth. His hands outstretch, hovering near the softness of your flannel as if he wants to clutch at the curve of your waist. You nearly press forward to feel them, but you can’t. Not until there aren’t any diamonds in your mind’s eye.
Yet you can’t stop your ice from melting. And as it dissolves into water, roots absorb it greedily. Leaves perk, deepening to verdant green. The water surges through them, through stems and along vines, flooding into desiccated fruit. Red flesh plumps, growing sweet again. Waiting to be tended by calloused fingers. It bends, seeking him. And so do you; as if by instinct, you lean towards the light, swaying on your feet until you feel the heat from Eddie’s calloused fingers against your waist, urging him with your body, with your eyes, with your heart to touch you. 
But Eddie doesn't touch. Instead, he speaks. “That’s why I…” He swallows thickly, eyes flicking between yours imploringly. “I wanna break up with Chrissy.” 
I wanna break up with Chrissy.
I wanna break up with Chrissy.
I wanna break up with Chrissy. 
The words echo in your head, and you blink. Your confusion is clear; your questions are simple, like a child’s would be, asked in a small voice. “You want to? Why haven’t you, then?” 
“I—” Eddie scratches the back of his hair, all frustration and sharp edges. All flashing eyes that dart from yours. “She’s— she’s just got a lot going on right now, with her mom, and… next week is finals for her classes, and I’ve just… I’ve been working overtime—” 
Your heart shrinks from every word until it’s cowering behind your ribs. Eddie pulls roughly at the neck of his shirt as if it’s too tight for him, and you see the truth behind the tar of guilt oozing beneath his collar. Eddie does want you, but not enough to forsake five years. Not enough to crush plans made for boy or girl. Not enough to rend his flesh, to wrench the claws from his back by force. Claws that will never retract on their own.
You force a weak smile to cover the wobble of your bottom lip. A smile of understanding. Quietly, you say, “You don’t need to explain, Eddie.” You nod, bobbing your head as if you’re agreeing to something he’d said. “Thanks for coming over to talk.” 
Eddie must see the conclusion written all over your face; his contorts with distress, with urgency. He’s pleading with his eyes for you to understand. “No, y/n, I—” 
Each word makes you shrink further. You try to force your voice to raise, to be firm, but it comes out wobbly anyway. “You should go, Eddie,” you tell him, eyes darting from that pleading expression. From the light in brown eyes. Because if you look too long, you’re afraid your moths will disregard the danger, flutter up, and chase it forever. 
Eddie’s hands are still hovering near your waist, extended as if in entreaty; he dips them, and your breath catches as he boldly grasps your hands, squeezing tight. “Please, I really do.” His voice is a husky whisper, the timbre thick with yearning. “I wanna be with you.” 
A flick of wings; a flutter, and then another. You look into Eddie's eyes and tell him the truth, even though your chin wobbles. “You can’t have us both,” you whisper, and he looks even more pained. 
“No, I know,” he says, squeezing your hands so tight it’s almost painful. “I know. I don't…” He breaks off, voice trembling. “Can I please just… can I just hold you right now?” 
It's so tender, the sound of his voice. It’s so poignant, his request. It’s so hard to resist the promise of Eddie’s warm body against yours, his arms holding you close, his heart thumping against your breast, his plush lips skimming your brow, his hand cradling your head as you dig your nose into his neck, breathing him in. And you could let him hold you; you could pretend, for a moment, that there is no Chrissy Cunningham.
You could pretend, but you don’t. It’s hard to resist Eddie, but you do. 
“No, Eddie,” you whisper, pulling your hands from his. He lets you go, but reluctantly; when your hands drop to your sides, and you step back, his fingers outstretch as if by impulse. “I can’t,” you choke. “Not if—” not if I can't have you. But you can’t say that; you would crumble under the weight of those words. “We can’t,” you say instead, entreating him to understand. 
You look up into Eddie Munson’s face, and every fiber of your being yearns for him. Your green quivers, reaching. Your wings flutter, seeking. The fruit of your soul is on your tongue. 
You want to say, Please, Eddie. Touch me. Hold me.
You want to say, Please, Eddie. Love me.
Love me.
But you don't.
"Go home, Eddie," you say, and you try to be strong, but you can't help it; you never can when it comes to him. All the water within you— in your leaves and stems, in your flowers and fruit— rushes up to flood your eyes. It spills over, and with a tiny whimper, you start to cry. 
Eddie’s instant distress is hard to endure. His broken voice begs, “No, no—” He closes the gap you’d widened easily, and you sniffle, inhaling smoke and apples as, in his haste, he misjudges the distance and brushes against you. Calloused fingers reach for you; they wipe your face tenderly, trembling thumbs swiping tears that fall and fall and fall with no reprieve.
And you shouldn’t, but goddamn you, you let him. 
“Please don’t cry,” Eddie whispers, sounding utterly distraught.
But you can’t obey because everything inside you is crying out. The smoke is leaking from your pores— you're surprised Eddie can't see it clinging to you. It's condensing into fat drops of charcoal tears, running tracks down your face. Because you want him so desperately, but not like this. 
It's not enough— to be with Eddie, but know he isn't yours. 
You back away, and Eddie’s hands fall from your face. Three big steps, a gulf of distance between you. Words are hard for you, and there are none you can say right now.
Eddie’s face is creased. Those beautiful brown eyes are big and glassy, and there’s misery in the corners of his lips. 
You’ve never seen him like this, but then again, he’s never seen you like this, either. He's never sounded like this— smoke voice thick and tight as if he’s barely keeping himself at bay. “Don’t cry, sweet girl.” 
The sound of Eddie’s name for you fractures you further. You shake your head as if trying to shake the name free from your ears. Your tears still flow silently; your body trembles as you try to keep from losing control. You feel it pushing up your throat— a desperate cry. Despair. Not a hound, but a snarling wolf, growing fat off the verdancy of your green, now reawakened in the presence of beloved light.
As you shake, breath hitching, tears dripping from your chin, Eddie must finally realize the futility of it all. Abruptly, he fists his fingers in his hair. “Fuck,” he yelps, frustrated, helpless. Afraid. 
He stalks away and back again, pacing restlessly as you hug yourself, trying to press the despair back in. No words to say. Just thick drops of charcoal tears. 
And then, you hear a tortured sigh, like the way he’d said your name. You glance up, and Eddie’s smoke voice whisps from his plush lips, tight and thick and high, lingering in the gulf between you. “Fuck, I’m— y/n, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” 
Your face screws up, breath hitching and catching. Words finally come; you push them out. Firm, loud, and clear. “Just leave, Eddie. I can’t see you anymore. Just go—!”
As soon as you say the words, you feel it. The growl, the gnashing of teeth. You grit your jaw against it, nostrils flaring as you avert your eyes to your socks. You listen, and you wait.
Slowly, so slowly, Eddie’s heavy, slumping footsteps retreat down the hall. You’re fighting, nearly whimpering with your effort. The doorknob jiggles, and you suck in a desperate breath. The door creaks, and then softly, so softly, it closes.
Finally, you're alone, and finally, you release it. The wolf howls; its cry explodes from you in a ragged sob. And once you start, you can’t stop. Not until Penny tries the door handle and finds it unlocked, eyes widening as she hears the anguished sounds echoing down the hall. She finds the vase of flowers, the plates of carrots and bell peppers and onions, the mound of broccoli, and the sharp knife. She finds you collapsed on the kitchen floor, red-faced and howling in a puddle of your charcoal tears.
Eddie’s visit was cruel, but it was cruelty unintended. Eddie could never be cruel to you, and you know that. And you know something else. Something you didn't want to acknowledge, something you'd been trying desperately to numb in the cold of twilight, though seeing him tonight confirms it.
Eddie Munson planted the seed in that dark place at the bottom of you, the one you didn’t know existed. He tended it with his gentle touches and his quiet words. And now, your growth is firmly rooted. It has grown tall, weaving around your sternum, vining through your ribs, sprouting through your center. And it’s not just at the center of you. It is the center of you. The fruit of your soul, budded and ready to thrive; the source of your love, one and the same. Under the full moon, it had gone dormant, but it could not be uprooted. 
And perhaps, in time, your green will cleave from the one who’d cared for it. But it’s clear to you now. 
It will take much longer than four months for your love for Eddie Munson to wither.  
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allmyocsarebritish · 3 months
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His blue hoodie
Pairing: Xavier x reader
What to expect: entirely self indulgent fluff :')
I have a hoodie exactly like his and this has been on my mind for over a year now haha
Nevermore was a school that heavily enforced its rules. This was entirely reasonable; seeing as the school housed students easily capable of mass destruction. Some of these requirements existed to prioritise safety, such as designated areas for werewolves on a full moon, but the majority remained in place to enhance the reputation of the academy. An instance of the latter was the uniform.
Of course, the dress code of Nevermore was not as strict as most uniform schools - for example jewellery had to be permitted, mainly down to the use of amulets to halt siren song. Beyond this, the individuality of students was the basis at which Nevermore was founded, rendering a lack of self expression entirely hypocritical. Thus, the rules were slackened. And, no-one seemed to complain when one of the boys' hoodies made its way beneath your striped blazer. Surely it was no more than a coincidence that the day it appeared was the last day Xavier was seen wearing one.
The rain hammered against the glass of your window on the second Tuesday in November. Condensation began to form on the inside, forming an entirely dismal scene, only enhanced by the miserable grey sky. The gloomy weather dampened your mood, and the temptation to hide away in your room, ignoring all of the day's classes, was steadily beginning to grow. Groaning dramatically, you heaved yourself from the excruciatingly soft, pillowy mattress.
Promptly after dressing in your own uniform, you reached once again into the wardrobe, pulling out a familiar navy fabric. The fabric was endlessly comforting, enveloping you in a warm, safe embrace as you were almost swallowed completely. The scent of oil paint and turpentine mixed with pine needles overwhelmed you, immediately distinguishable as entirely Xavier. It transported you immediately to long evenings in the art shed, soft breezes whilst practicing archery and loving nights spent cuddled together in eachother's dorms.
A smile immediately fixed onto your face; suddenly the day no longer felt quite so unbearable. You quickly pulled on your striped blazer and raven combat boots, leaving your room with a newfound sense of urgency. After all, who were you to keep him waiting?
Practically bounding out onto the quad, your eyes cast the area, scanning the surroundings. With the morning still being early- and therefore having few students around- It didn't take you long to make out a ridiculously tall figure. Paintbrush predictably in hand, he was continuing work on a particular mural, depicting a swooping raven amongst a background of featherlight clouds. It was nothing short of perfection, enhanced by the passion behind the artwork.
You knew how much this specific piece meant to him, especially after the destruction of his painstaking attention to detail by the normies last outreach day. This was the first mural he had painted since, after being borderline forced by Weems. Nevertheless, he seemed to enjoy it, and the labour was paying off.
"It's beautiful, Xav." He spun swiftly around at the sound of your voice, gaze immediately softening and a loving smile replacing the frown of concentration.
"You're wearing my hoodie." You couldn't hold back a small giggle at the expression he wore, a mix of pride and bashfulness.
"I love it," you leaned in to give him a quick kiss. "But I love you more."
Xavier's arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you in. His chin rested on the top of your head, as you each sighed out a tiny huff of contentment.
"I love you too."
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wildhosh · 1 year
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seventeen: mtl likely to tell the members about their crush
pairing: gender-neutral reader x svt
warnings: none!
genre: fluff! sweet pining
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most
mingyu: i have a small feeling that he falls in love at first sight many times a week so i think he would meet someone and immediately turn around to tell the guys how incredible they are. no shame at all when they relentlessly tease him.
dokyeom: he would be so nervous and overcome with feelings about liking you that it would just spill out; you run into the guys and as you're leaving he literally cannot hold in his happiness. literally collapses while talking about how cute you are.
seungcheol: he would be a little shy about it, but would definitely be comfortable turning to the guys for advice on how to get closer to you. he probably blushes and can't hide his smile when talking about you.
jeonghan: would try to be suave about it but definitely is a little schoolgirl on the inside. he's obsessed with you and tends to slip up on his words and his cool guy persona around you. the guys notice fairly quickly so he just owns up to it.
hoshi: obsessed with you and not good at hiding it part two. he literally talks about how hot or cute or fun or talented you are to their faces and then is surprised when they’re like “oo your crush is here”
joshua: i would say he’s definitely on the lesser willing side. he doesn’t really tell anyone but when the guys start noticing he doesn’t fight too hard. a little coaxing and he ends up spilling the beans for sure.
jun: a little more of a private guy but he also seems like when he likes someone he would be overcome by it. he wouldn’t really want to tell anyone but the look of adoration on his face is so clear that he knows he might as well just fess up.
dino: is 100% sure he’ll be teased, but he will definitely mention it eventually. he probably tells someone in confidence and slowly spreads it around to other members. it is less of a dramatic feat and more of a subtle understanding. when they give him reassuring words that you might like him too, he feels much more at peace.
seungkwan: he would be so shy about it. also maybe a little bit insecure or unsure how to navigate even having a crush, so he’s hesitant to mention it. if he does it’s to a small group of maybe three people who he swears to secrecy.
hao: he’ll keep it very quiet. he’s falling for you but he’s doing it on his own accord. he doesn’t like how if he tells others they‘ll have an influence on him. they’ll try to convince him to confess and he doesn’t like that. it’s important to him that he does it on his own time.
wonu: his feelings for you are so incredibly personal to him. he takes them so seriously and feels every emotion he can about you. you make him flustered and he admires you so dearly. he’s worried to vocalize it because he knows no one will understand his feelings as deeply as he does.
vernon: it takes him an incredibly long amount of time to realize he likes you and even longer to tell someone. he's really scared to vocalize it. i feel like he would think another member likes you or has a better shot with you so he would take the back seat :(
woozi: he’ll write hella songs about you and all the members will know there’s someone but he’s taking his feelings for you to the grave. no one notices the small smile form on his lips and his eyes softening when he looks at you.
least
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heartthrobin · 11 months
Text
then brush my nights with black stained palms (2)
mechanic!eddie munson x farmgirl!reader
wc: 5.1k
warnings: reader is a (little) bit less of a meanie, swearing, dirty sweaty eddie, desperate mutual pining, cowboy being a dramatic baby, nauseating amounts of fluff
an: sorry this is late :(( uni is eating me alive i but here it is !!! i tagged everyone (i hope) that asked, let me know if you want to be added to the taglist. love y’all <333
summary: the grease-head was beginning to crowd the space between each of your thoughts. it wasn’t helped by the fact that he was insistent on melting you against the hot soil with those warm eyes and smooth mouth, also that your boyfriend seemed to adore him. 
part one & part three
The next few days passed very much the same.
Eddie would arrive by midday, disappear into the barn - he didn't need navigating again after the first afternoon - and you only really knew he had arrived if you heard his pick-up or when you noticed Cowboy.
Cowboy had taken to lingering by the door of the barn, his front half stuck in the shade while his ass shone in the sunlight, tail wagging amusingly. He would sit and watch Eddie work for hours.
You couldn't say you blamed him.
Around three o' clock, you'd slip out from whatever chores you'd been jammed between to creep into the coolness of the kitchen and rummage around for different sandwich combinations.
Then you'd cross the yard, glasses and plates in hand, step carefully over the almost hundred-and-fifty pound dog before falling down against one of the crates.
Eddie would talk animatedly, and you'd pretend you weren't watching the way his hands scratched at his neck or he licked at the sauce around his mouth.
It took at least couple afternoons, but he'd managed to coerce your name out of you.
You thought about it often. How he'd repeated it back to you, sighing around your name like a song or a refreshing sip of iced-tea and how it made your vital organs liquify.
Eddie was standing now, a piece of salami plucked from between his sandwich and holding it high over his head.
"Sit."
Cowboy stood at his feet, nose level with the man's chest, and blinked happily up at him - tail waggling viciously - but showing no signs of dropping his bum to the floor.
You watched from where you were perched against what had become your usual seat on the crate near the left wall.
Eddie gave the dog a stern look, "Come on, big boy. We practiced this, sit."
The grin on your face was practically criminal.
Cowboy didn't seem the slightest bit confused, seemingly convinced this was the game for the afternoon.
"Listen," Eddie’s head lifted to meet your eye, looking sheepish. "He was doing it fine before you came in, he had the hang of it."
A giggle couldn't help itself when it escaped you loudly.
"Is this what my old man pays you for?"
Eddie rolled his eyes, flashing a embarrassed smile at you. "Whatever. I was just trying to help."
He tossed the piece of salami at Cowboy, who caught it mid-air.
The dog was chomping loudly, clearly pleased with himself, when you whistled lowly.
Cowboy paused his chewing to look back at you.
"Cowboy, sit."
The ninety pound bum hit the floor with a loud thud.
It was almost as loud as the sound of Eddie's jaw hitting the floor beside it.
"That's—" he was pointing at you, eyes wide in awe. "You let me stand here for fifteen minutes and make a fool of myself."
Your head was thrown back in laughter, motioning to the dog who was panting happily: eyes darting between Eddie and yourself. "Not me, him."
The grin that curled into the side of his mouth made you think he wasn't really so bothered.
"You're both conspiring against me."
"Oh, definitely." You went to stand, gathering up the plates and glasses. "Now that I'm done making your life hell, I should get back to my day job."
The barn door creaked loudly when you swung it open for the sixth time that week, ready to leave and have the greasy mechanic plague your mind until the next afternoon.
"W-Wait," his voice held an edge of apprehension. You glanced back at him over your shoulder.
"Mhm?"
His black-smudged, ring-clad hands fidgeted with the dirty rag that hung from his back pocket.
"What work you gotta do now?"
You surveyed him, eyebrows tilting in confusion. "Gonna go into town, pick up some groceries. Apparently there's some grease monkey cleaning out our fridge."
"Madeline’s?"
"That's the one."
Eddie shifted from one foot onto the other. "That's a long way out. Thirty minutes back into town."
"Indeed." You turned to begin walking again, but he stopped you again: this time he jogged up behind you.
It took a sharp turn on your heel to realise he was much closer than before - arguably too close because you could smell the grease and aftershave floating off of him.
"I could give you a ride? I'm almost done here."
Your brow pinched. "And how will I get back here?"
Eddie shrugged. "I'll bring you back, a'course."
“That’s over an hour out of your way?”
“It’s not too bad.”
“No, Eddie. I really don’t need your help, I can—“
“I really insist.”
There was a long quiet moment.
His eyes brushed a soft finger over the apple of your cheek. You huffed.
“Fine.”
-
The truck rumbled beneath Eddie. His fingers trembled against the steering wheel.
That afternoon before he left, Jacob had taken the truck to run some rounds for Carl and spilt half a carton of milk over the backseat.
Eddie had cursed his name when he’d gotten into the car earlier, forced to have all the windows open for the smell - letting in dust and bugs - but found that right then he would kiss Jacob on his fucking forehead given the next opportunity.
The wind flying in through the car was whipping at your face and you’d shut your eyes to feel it’s warmth. You looked like something out of a wet dream with the sun painting the arm you’d stuck out the open window and the side view of your face he was suddenly privy to: how your nose curved against the backdrop of brown Tennessee.
The drive was long, as long as Eddie knew it would be, but you made surprisingly light conversation. The radio hummed and Cowboy panted loudly in the backseat, clearly the second most impressed individual in the car about the open windows.
When they passed the auto-body shop, it was close to closed. You mentioned some Chinese restaurant that used to exist there. You also told him about the flower festival the town hosted annually.
Sooner than he would’ve liked, Madeline’s came into view. He pulled into park.
Nobody in the parking lot turned a head when the giant hound leapt from the back, clearly Cowboy frequented your trips to the grocer, but Eddie himself was catching strange glances.
He squinted, noticing how you’d fallen into quicker step towards the doors. Jogging to catch up, he leaned down closer by your ear: “Why is everyone looking at me funny?”
Your eyes raked the parking lot once, the doors of the market slid open.
“I told you Greenie, you’re a greenie.” You pulled a cart out from a lineup, “People don’t know you. New faces are always interesting.”
An elderly woman was smirking at him from where she was checking out, she wiggled her fingers at him in a wave.
Eddie offered a confused half-attempt at a smile in return.
“Hey, off!”
He turned back to find Cowboy with his paws leaning up against the cart, it teetered dangerously to one side. You swatted at his paw. He dropped his paws reluctantly back to the ground, grumbling quietly.
“Drama queen.” You mumbled.
Eddie squinted at you, considerably amused with the interaction.
You sighed, beginning to push the cart.
“When he was smaller I used to let him sit in the cart. It was wrong of me I guess, cause now every time we come he wants to climb inside.”
Cowboy trailed behind with a miserable look on his long face, Eddie got the impression he knew he was being spoken about.
He patted him on the head consolingly, but the dog only huffed at him.
The store was busy. Every second person they passed greeted you, you’d smile and offer a polite good afternoon.
Some prompted longer conversation: like the middle aged clerk stacking cans of tuna on the shelf.
Her eyebrows shot into her hairline when she noticed Eddie.
“Well, good afternoon sweetpea,” the woman’s voice was light, friendly - as a store clerk’s would be - and she ran a familiar eye over your figure.
“Good afternoon Mrs Washington.”
Her gaze turned back to Eddie, where he was lingering just close behind you. He wondered maybe to a passer-byer if he looked like your boyfriend. He wondered more whether you would mind that. You probably would.
“And who’s your handsome ... friend?”
You looked over your right shoulder to find Eddie, you took a step to the side chuckling awkwardly.
So she does mind.
“He’s a mech from Mr Carl’s, helping my dad out with the Cobra.”
“Aha. Is that why you’re shopping for—“ she peeked into the cart, “—milk together?”
You laughed lightly again, nervously. Eddie was pleased to find that this was the first time he’d ever seen you look nervous. He had a fleeting urge to take your hand into his.
Instead, he stuck his hand out to the woman. “I’m Eddie.”
“Nice to meet you Eddie. I’m Janet.”
Cowboy nudged at his knee, whining loudly.
You took it as a cue to interject again. “Well, Mrs Washington, it was good to see you.”
The cart was being pushed again down the aisle before the woman had chance to respond. Eddie found himself chasing your heels again.
He noticed your red cheeks, how you were quieter as you created distance down the aisle from the woman that had just stopped you.
You paused by the bread. Eyes raking over the selection as Cowboy sniffed at an open packet near the bottom-most shelf.
Picking up a orange packet, you offered it to him. “You like sweet-potato loaf?”
He hesitated, “Uhm … I’ve never—“
“If you don’t like it, we can get something else.” You turned back, beginning to list off other types. “There’s regular brown, sour-dough, ciabatta…”
Eddie could feel the birds returning to fly in circles over his head again, feel his chest turn static.
Here you were in the middle of the store, trying to choose breads that he would like for the sandwiches you so thoughtfully made him every day.
It was just about the most endearing thing you’d done yet, and he was tempted to tease you about it. Watch your face redden at his words.
But he also knew you would suck up and shut on him like a clam. That acting like you didn’t hate him would be the most embarrassing thing you could possibly do.
“Eddie?”
Your voice drew him back to the aisle. Imploring eyes blinked up at him, you held a plain brown loaf.
“Which one?”
“Uh— oh, I’d like to taste the sweet-potato … it sounds good.”
You nodded slowly, watching him with a notably high level of skepticism. Maybe you could see the little birds too.
Passing through the cold meats, he watched you pick up salami and pastrami and ham and chicken loaf, each time motioning over your shoulder: do you like this?
He nodded each time.
It was just after the baking supplies, you were gleaming up at a shelf lined with different boxes of chocolate, when your name washed over him from further down the row.
Eddie turned as if it were his own.
There were two people, a guy and a girl. He could tell in their faces they had to be siblings.
The girl’s braids hung long past the back of her knee and the guy had a fish-shaped birth mark over his eyebrow.
You turned, Eddie had never seen your face light up so quickly.
Leaping into the girl’s arms, your laugh echoed off the shelves. It warmed the pit of Eddie’s stomach.
“Oh my god!”
You hugged the man next, Eddie’s eyes narrowed over where his hand lingered on your lower back.
Pulling back you were still smiling.
“When did you guys get back?” You asked, grabbing Cowboy by the collar as he licked at the man’s knee.
“Just last week. It’s been a crazy semester …” her smile was white as Eddie had ever seen. “How’s … how’s the farm?”
Maybe if Eddie didn’t spend every free second he had with you studying the tugs and twists of your face, maybe he wouldn’t have noticed how the curl at the edge of your eye vanished and your lips sunk at the ends.
“Oh— it’s, it’s fine. Same as usual.”
The boy chuckled. Eddie wished he wouldn’t.
You looked back at Eddie, suddenly realising he still existed.
“I-I’m being so rude,” your voice shivered. “Eddie, these are the twins. Caleb and Imani.”
The man stuck his hand out, “Pleasure.”
Eddie took it. He shook hers too.
“So where you guys coming in from?” He made an effort on conversation.
“It’s summer break, we drove in from college last week. University of Alabama.” She beamed, nudging her brother. “Go Elephants!”
“Oh, nice.”
“We used to go to school together,” Imani motioned over to you. You seemed to busy yourself with a Cadbury box, looking up briefly to nod. “But you are definitely a newcomer.”
Eddie laughed shortly, “That’s what they keep telling me.”
“Dating a newbie, that’s a shocker for you, huh?” She nudged you in the ribs, you choked around nothing. “Not very adventurous, this one—“
“I’m—“
“We’re not—“
You coughed, “we’re not dating. Eddie is helping my dad with the Cobra.”
Caleb looked uncomfortable. Imani looked amused. Eddie felt like he was gonna be sick.
Cowboy had taken a firm seat at your side, watching warily up at the two people.
“Ah, that makes more sense.” She chuckled, “You’re not much of a dater anyway. I remember in high school, you used to stay as far away as physically possible from those poor boys—“
“It’s getting late, I think.” Caleb strung together the first words Eddie had heard since they came over to ruin his mood. “Maybe we should head home, but it was good seeing you … a-and meeting you.”
“Definitely, I’ll see you guys around.” Your knuckles whitened over the cart handle.
Caleb was practically ushering Imani away. “We’ll see you guys around!”
For a moment, you and Eddie just stood. You watched their retreating figures.
“That was completely charming.” Eddie tone was crumpled around the edges. Unimpressed.
The tightness in his grimace loosened lightly when he noticed your expression. You looked more dejected than he’d ever seen you.
“They’re my …” your voice was soft, like you were talking to yourself. “Well, they used to be my friends.”
Eddie huffed.
“No offence, but your friends are pretty rude.”
Cowboy pressed his nose into your hip. It seemed to dislodge you from your hazy state.
You looked back, down into the cart.
“Looks like I’ve got everything I came for.” The wheels squeaked as you began pushing it again. “Let’s get out of here.”
At the counters, the lines were short. Beyond the glass front of the store, Eddie could tell that the sun was minutes from dipping behind the post office in the distance.
The sign against the wall reminded him that the shop was closing in a half hour.
“Hey!”
“Oh, hey Aimee.” Your voice was lighter again, friendlier.
Eddie could feel eyes on him, not for the first time since leaving the car.
He looked up to meet the sparkling blue eyes of the cashier.
She had to be the same age as you, blond hair pinned up in a neat bun and a cross necklace hanging low down her neck.
“Eddie, this is Aimee.” You motioned over to him for what felt like the tenth time since he’d entered the store. “Aimee and I went to school together.”
Is every grocery visit a walk down fucking memory lane like this one?
He nodded kindly. “Hi.”
She blinked her thick painted lashes at him. “Hey. I like your hair.”
Your hand stilled over where it was packing a carton of milk into a bag. Eddie felt your gaze.
The compliment flattered him.
“Thanks.” His hand came up bashfully to pat over the hair on his head. “It’s a lot of work.”
The girl leaned over the counter, closer to him. “Well I’m in hairdressing school at the moment, I’d love to get my fingers in there if you’re ever interested?”
Eddie rubbed his jaw where he’d forgotten to shave that morning. “Ha, yeah. Maybe sometime.”
“I hate to interrupt.” Your lip was twisted at the edge in a way that Eddie hoped he wasn’t misreading. “How much do I owe?”
Aimee cleared her throat, sitting back and offering you a only slightly irritated side glance as she took the bills out your hand.
“Thanks.” You lifted your bags. “It was good seeing you.”
Aimee nodded. “Yeah, of course. And I hope I’ll see you around Eddie?”
He turned to nod over his shoulder. “Sure, yeah.”
The parking lot was busy. Last of the late-comers leaving the store, you traipsed ahead - surprisingly quietly - and Cowboy trotted happily by Eddie’s side: a grocery bag swinging from around his neck.
The hound took no prompting at the door opened for him and leapt in, you cooed at him from where you’d already managed your way into the front seat.
Eddie’s hands found the steering wheel again. The truck rumbled to life.
“Jesus, you know a lot of people.”
You managed a laugh. “Every day feels like a ten year reunion.”
His palms rubbed slowly over the leather. His eyes peered periodically over at you.
Beyond your figure, out the window: sun had long began to set behind Tennessee. The sky had turned a violent shade of dark purple.
It was quiet in the car. Your eyes stayed out against the road, the corner of your lip tormented by your canines.
“You okay?” He asked quietly.
You nodded. “Yeah, of course.”
Eddie nodded back.
“So,” his hand came up to ruffle the side of his hair, desperate to revive your playful nature. “you think I should do something with the mane? Dye it maybe?”
Your shoulders eased. Your face turned to meet his. You were smiling.
“Maybe you should shave it.” Your knee came up to your chest, settling against the seat. “Aimee could help you, she’s just dying to get her fingers all over you.”
Eddie laughed, head meeting the back of the seat. Cowboy yapped behind him.
“Sounds like someone’s jealous.”
You scoffed loudly. “Please. She is welcome to get her fingers into that grease-trap on top of your head any day of the week and I will sleep just fine.”
Eddie gasped dramatically, “Grease-trap? Now that’s taking it too far, farm girl. This head of hair is nothing less than a work of art.”
“Farm girl—?”
“But I’ll let it slide, because I know it’s coming from a place of jealousy.”
Maybe it was the reflection of the blinking indicator on the dash, but he could swear your cheeks had turned a flashy pink.
“Only in your wildest dreams.” It sounded half-hearted.
You reached for the volume on the radio. Stevie Nicks hummed in the space between the two seats.
To the gypsy that remains. She faces freedom with a little fear.
The entrance to the farm driveway came into view in the darkness.
“You close to done with the Cobra?”
Eddie’s heart sank like into his stomach.
“Oh … uhm, not really. Should be a couple more days at least.”
That was a fib.
More than a fib, it was a lie.
Honestly, the Cobra was only a couple hours from completely road ready.
Eddie had begun tinkering in places that didn’t necessarily need tinkering purely because he was scared that the day he finishes that fucking car that he’ll leave the farm down Jasmine road and you will never darken his door step ever again.
Maybe he’ll catch you in Madeline’s and he’ll remember you picking out breads that he liked. You’ll greet him just as offhandedly, as politely and conversationally as you’d done all the others in the store.
He’d go home and fawn over the thought of you, just like he would tonight, but then there would be no solace of sandwiches and lemonade in a hot barn in the morning.
“Jesus, don’t look so disturbed.” You broke through his whirling thoughts, the light flutter of a laugh behind your words brought his mind to a standstill. “It’s just a car. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
He hadn’t even realised that the car had stopped. He’d parked in front of the porch and you’d already gathered the bags in your hands - hanging another around Cowboy’s neck.
“I’m not…“ he stuttered, quickly trying to re-grasp reality and maybe a bag or two to help carry. “Let me help—“
You swatted his hand away.
“Eddie. We’re fine.” But you were smiling.
“You sure?”
“Don’t undermine my decision-making ability.”
He sunk back into his chair, shaking with soft laughter: hands up in surrender. “Fine.”
Both doors swung open. Cowboy bounded towards the house.
You leaned over the open window. “Thanks. For taking us, you were useful. And good company.”
The earnest in your voice made his ears ring.
He tilted his head, maybe if he had a cowboy hat like yours he would have tipped it: “anytime, doll.”
You turned back to the house, boots thudding against the dust.
“Hey!” He called after you, leaning over the passenger-side.
You turned, silhouette against the porch light. “What?”
“You really think I should shave my head?”
Eddie knew you could make out his smirk even across the way by how you matched his - although yours was hidden under a veil of pretending to look unamused.
“No. I was joking.”
He nodded, pressing his luck.
“So you think it’s hot then?”
There was a short, curt laugh and you turned without another word to jump up the three steps onto the porch.
Eddie watched your figure retreat into the house before twisting the key in the ignition, reversing out and into the night.
-
It was on the tail end of breakfast the next morning, crumbs littering the plates, that the phone rang.
Daddy sighed. Setting down his mug, he leaned back in his chair to where the phone was perched against the wall.
“G’morning?”
You were less than interested, only mildly annoyed by the loud interruption so early in the morning. Honey dripped around the sides of your mouth, the toast set down for a sip of coffee.
“Ah, hello son. What can I do you for?”
Son. A young man. Daddy called them all like like that.
You briefly wondered who it might be.
Outside the sun had just spilled over into the sky, Bullseye sat watching it at the edge of the porch.
“That’s no problem. Yeah. You have a good day now.”
The phone clicked back against the receiver. Your dad picked up the mug again. You stabbed at a piece of sausage.
“Who was it?”
“It was Eddie.”
Your head flew up from the plate. Daddy seemed not to notice.
“Eddie? What did he say?”
Did that come off too interested?
“He said that he won’t be working on the car this week, Carl’s asked him to do some extra shifts at the shop.”
“Oh.”
You looked down at your plate, then over at the window, then to where Cowboy’s tail was wagging from somewhere under the table. Then only briefly back to daddy, then the plate again.
You’d hardly slept the last night. The little adventure to Madeline’s replayed like an over-pixelated movie in your brain.
Eddie. Mrs Washington. Bread. Chocolate. Imani and Caleb. Aimee. Eddie.
The car ride home. Fleetwood Mac on the radio.
You thought about how you’d like to do it again, only because he was there. It made facing the changing lives of everybody except your own a little easier to bear.
There was a moment you almost reached for his hand, to walk down the aisles like that. To have Mrs Washington beam at you as she did, but this time when she stuck her nose in your business: “and who is your handsome friend?”
Maybe you could say, “oh, Mrs Washington, this isn’t my friend he’s my—“
“He’s a good boy.”
The thought was sucked through the mouth of a vacuum straight from your head.
“Huh?”
“Eddie.”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m sure.” You nodded, still distracted, but you could feel the old man gauging your reaction across the kitchen table.
“I hope you’re not giving him a hard time.”
You had the nerve to guffaw around the mouthful of toast you’d taken in just to look busy. “Me? Giving him a hard time?” It was muffled.
Daddy chuckled, leaning back in his chair looking amused. “Don’t play semantics with me young lady. I know how you dislike these fellas from Carl’s shop.”
You huffed, trying to cover up a hum. Maybe you liked this one more than you should.
“I don’t give him a hard time, daddy. Besides, even if I was, he's a big boy. He can look after himself.”
Still his eyes lingered suspiciously over your face. You avoided them.
“Right. Fine.” The chair scratched loudly against the hardwood floor. It seemed the topic has been abandoned. “I want you to hose down the shed and give it a fresh paint. There’s still some tubs of paint in the barn behind the Cobra, you can choose the colour you like.”
He rounded the table to press a warm peck against your forehead and picked his hat up from it’s spot on the hanger.
“Don’t get up to any trouble, Cherry.”
“No promises.”
The door shut behind him.
-
It was more than a week before you saw Eddie again.
The first couple days you’d still hang around close by the farmhouse just after eleven, hoping that maybe you'd hear the rumble and find his truck meandering down the road like a white beetle.
You wondered whether he thought about you as much as you did him. You determined the thought to be improbable.
His insistence on taking up perfectly useful space in your brain made you more adamant to find ways to distract yourself.
By the fourth or fifth day, you’d stopped craning your head over your shoulder in the afternoons to find the driveway empty again.
Instead you busied yourself with work as far out from the driveway as you could manage. Repotting plants, cleaning out sheds, tightening screws on old shovels, trying to teach Cowboy to roll over.
It was a Thursday afternoon, late: just before six, when you bumped the back door open with your shoulder and sauntered into the kitchen - a nosy Cowboy lingering at your heels.
You tossed your hat against the counter and made a beeline to the fridge.
Behind you, Daddy emerged from the stairwell.
“Hey,” he neared you, ruffling the top of your head. You ducked out from under his grip, chin dropping in juice from the nectarine you’d dug out from the bottom-most shelf of the fridge. “Don’t ruin your appetite. We’re about to eat dinner.”
You’d stormed in so quickly that you hadn’t noticed the oven ticking, or the sweet scent of cooking chicken roasting in it’s depths.
“Mm, smells good.”
“Damn right it does. Been marinating that bird the last two days.” He ran the water from the tap into a glass, taking a long sip. “Set the table, will ya?”
You nodded, wiping the remnants of the juice around your mouth and tossing the nectarine pip out the back window into the vegetable patch.
The cupboard door squeaked where the plates were kept. You slid out the two at the top of the pile.
“Set for four, Cherry.”
Your hands stilled over the plates.
“Four?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why?”
“We’re having guests.”
You watched him skeptically, bringing the four plates down onto the wooden kitchen table with a soft thud. He didn’t seem half as perturbed.
Guests weren’t uncommon, but Daddy usually mentioned them at a moment earlier than right before dinner.
“Who?”
Daddy opened the oven door, squinting against the heat to examine the food sweltering within. He nodded quietly to himself, seemingly pleased.
He looked back up to you. “Carl Abernathy will be joining us. And I told him to bring that Eddie along with him.”
The cutlery you’d just counted out from the drawer wobbled in your grip. Your stomach gave a hard lurch.
“W-What? Why?”
“Full of questions aren’t ya?”
“Daddy.”
He sighed, taking a long aggravating pause before speaking again.
“I invited them to say thank you. Carl’s been a man down this last week and that poor boy’s been working in that barn day in, day out. I thought it was only right to invite them for dinner.”
Your mouth hung like the latch had broken.
“And I want you on your best behavior, miss. You’ll treat that boy nice, y’hear?”
You scoffed, gulping for air like a fish: “I don’t … I’m not— what time are they coming?”
The quiet evening air out past the porch was pierced by a low rumbling. An engine.
“That should be them.” Daddy leaned over the sink, humming in conformation as the white truck pulled up. “Yep …”
Your mouth felt dry. Your legs itched, itched to dive up the stairs - run a brush through your hair, maybe wipe the dust off your cheeks with a damp cloth.
The socks in your shoes squelched. You looked down to your boots: caked in mud. Your jeans had a hole down by the ankle—
Stop.
Outside a car door slammed closed.
It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
Eddie was just some sideshow mechanic with looks maybe slightly better than the average of his kind that usually strolled onto the farm … but he’s just the same in all the other ways.
He was too flirty for his own good and had preposterously inflated sense of self. Eddie was probably just trying his luck, looking for a fun piece to play with while he was in town. They all did that.
The front door protested against the hinges as it leaned open.
And then he’d probably leave again. Jump town over to the next and find another partially innocent and delusional enough playmate to waste his time on. Well, while he was here: in your town, you’d be damned if you let him mess around with you—
“Hey doll.”
But there he was. Silhouette glowing in the light of the doorway. The sound of his voice eased where your shoulders had grown tense.
You had to work to suppress how relieved you felt at the cadence behind his favourite little nickname.
“Oh no. You again?”
He chuckled softly. “Oh no, me again.”
-
taglist: 
@corrodedcoffincumslut @akiratoro420 @pricelessemotion @chloe-6123 @tiny-bird-of-sunshine @allthefandomstogetheratlast @wyverntatty @munsster @jokersgrf @anicosa-ironlung @sleepy-bunnie @pricelessemotion @sweetgladiatorfesival @eggo-segual @m1rkw00dpr1ncess @introvertedmouse @ctrlaltdel3te @multifandom-l0ver @inarinine @sillysteveharharhar @buckystwilight @hey-lucille 
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stariwrites · 10 months
Text
This is probably incomprehensible cause it’s 2am where I am but I had to get this out.
GN reader x Jason Todd, pining, summer, basically just that feeling where you’re hanging out and don’t want it to be over. The song they’re singing in this is Granite by Sleep Token. This is incredibly self indulgent.
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” Roy said, opening the car door. The lights blinded you at first, so used to the only glow coming from the radio.
Jason smiled, the two doing their excessive secret hand shake from a time where they were both younger, sidekicks of Batman and Green Arrow alike. You watched them in awe.
You wondered what it must be like to have that kind of closeness with somebody—not that you didn’t have close friends, but none of you had your own handshake or secret language that followed Roy and Jason. It made something settle heavy in your chest.
Roy looked back at you, giving you a fist bump. “You’re gonna join too, right?”
Warmth settled in your chest as you nodded with a smile. “I’d love to!”
He cheered stepping out of the car while Jason turned to face you from the driver’s side. He gestured to the now vacant passenger seat.
“You can move up front, if you want.”
If he noticed your surprise, he said nothing. You undid your seatbelt and got out of the car. Roy held the door open for you, dramatically. You smiled. Even though it was your first time meeting Jason’s friends it felt like you had known them your whole life.
“Why thank you,” you said hopping into the passenger seat.
Jason rolled his eyes at the display. “Get inside, Roy. It’s cold.”
“It’s summer.”
“Shut up.”
You giggled while Roy finally went to go inside his house. The two of you waited in silence, making sure he got in okay. Once he shot a thumbs up from inside, Jason began to pull out of his driveway.
The music was quiet, calm. You watched the scenery as Jason drove. The night had crept in on the three of you, after visiting various places and restaurants it was time to call it a night.
“Thank you,” you said. Ending the quiet between the two of you.
“For what?”
You shrugged continuing to look out the windshield. “For inviting me, your friends are really sweet.”
He snorts, putting his blinker on. His eyes glow in the dim light of the car. He looks beautiful basked in the various lights of the moon and radio.
“Wait until you hang out with them more, they’re menaces I swear.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Takes one to know one I guess.”
He scoffs. “Rude.”
“Am I wrong?”
He hums, pretending to mull it over. He keeps one hand on the wheel while the other rests under his chin. “I suppose not.”
You sit a little straighter, basking in your small victory. He shakes his head, noticing. He has that look in his eyes, the one that took you a while to decipher but one you figured out anyway. He did it every time you acted a little too dramatic or did one of your quirks.
At first you didn’t know what to make of it but now you know it means one word and only one word: Cute.
It isn’t until then that you notice the song playing and gasp. “I love this song!” You say excitedly.
Jason glances between you and the radio before turning it up.
“Sulfur on your breath. Granite in my chest. You will never have to talk about it. You never want to talk about it.”
Warmth pools in your chest at the action. Happily, you hum along to the song and begin to dance slightly. You catch Jason stealing glances through the corner of your eye.
“I was more than just a body in your passenger seat. You were more that just somebody I was destined to meet. I see you go half blind when you're looking at me. But I am.”
Without warning, Jason puts the windows down, allowing the summer night air to fly through the car. You laugh, looking at Jason. He wears a large troublemaking grin, his black hair flying in the wind. Your breath is stolen from your lungs just looking at him. For the first time since you’ve met him, he looks like any other twenty year old you’ve met; carefree and full of life.
“When you sit there, acting like you know me, acting like you only brought me in to get below me. Never mind the death threats. Parting at the door. We'd rather be six feet under than be lonely.”
You watch the houses pass by and think about how many people you’ve just woken up when it hits you. You’re going back home, part of you never wants this to end.
The realization is a bitter one: you don’t want to go home.
You want to stay here at this moment screaming to this song with Jason. Both of you head banging and laughing at one another while screaming the lyrics like you’re the only two people to exist in the whole world.
You wonder if you’ve ever felt this free before, when you watch Jason once more. He drums on the steering wheel, his voice deep and hypnotic, your heart twists. You wish you could hold his hand.
Before you know it, the song ends and the two of you pull up to your house. He turns the radio down and turns to you, hair still a mess. You smile fondly.
“Tonight was fun,” he says, carding fingers through his hair.
“It was.” You unbuckle your seatbelt and pull your arms over your head. “Not to quote Roy, but he’s right. We should do this again.” You hide the disappointment of the night ending tucked away. You open the car door just as Jason does.
He rounds the front of the car and hugs you. You return the hug, it’s comforting. You feel safe, always feel safe whenever Jason hugs you.
The two of you pull away as you nudge him playfully. “Let me know when you get home. Okay?” It contains the words you want to say but aren’t ready to. I love you, be safe.
Jason ruffles your hair. “I will relax.”
Satisfied with his answer you walk up your front steps and put your key into the lock. Before you get inside he calls after you.
“Hey!” His eyebrows pinch together. He goes to speak before hesitating. He finally settles on two words.
“Sleep well.”
I love you too.
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chiarrara · 23 days
Note
More music!!!!
Since we mentioned Gojos music taste i think he would absolutely love this song. Alternatively, Gojo being stupidly into Geto
Listen before we start I know the lyrics have some undertones of unreciprocated love but it’s also very sweet. Idk I just like to imagine this as stsg right before they confessed to each other. (Side note: Geto would love The Police)(another side note: he’d also love Sting)
1. Gojo would love Kate Bush 2. Gojo would also love Take On Me by A-Ha 3. This is satosugu in a way that makes me wanna cry
90’s itafushi! When I mentioned goth Gumi teaching Yuji how to dance, I meant the sort of strange but very simple and elegant sort of gothic dancing. Like smooth hand movements and shit. This song is perfect for that and perfect for them.
I think this one is a given but especially the “That season when I cried right in front of your eyes, sttay with me, saying our favourite words, holding on to our little moment (Ooh), I'll never forget how warm it felt” what if I died right now huh
I have typed out replies to this post two times now and tumblr has destroyed both of them. I am a shell of my former self. Here we go again:
(1980s SatoSugu AU + 1990s Megumi AU Playlists)
1. You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) - Dead or Alive
totally agree. i think every time this came on the radio Gojo would blast it and dance so hard the car shakes lol. plus i think he would sing along and tease/flirt with geto like leaning over and singing it to him, which would make Geto smile :)
2. Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic - The Police
love Geto being into the Police, absolutely integrating this, added a few Police songs (do you think Sting was Geto's sexual awakening lol)
Yeah it's got unrequited undertones but it's also so positive I could definitely see this song being a confession song that turns into a love song for them after
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ahhhhhhh Akari visuals 😭 rain and umbrellas being visual motifs for them
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i think geto just feels this way sometimes lol. he's a little troubled. Also added:
this one came out in '83 so I feel like gojo would hear it on the radio and really like it, which would make geto super happy :)
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yeeeeee foreshadowing 😬
3. Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God) - Kate Bush
I don't know Kate Bush that well so I'll take your word for it! also if i think about this song in a stsg context for too long i will become very sad 🥲
BONUS: Take On Me - a-ha
abso-fucking-lutely. another blasting and dancing and flirting song except geto is also singing along and play flirting. you just can't listen to this song and not sing along at the top of your lungs in the most dramatic way possible. especially in a car
4. Lets Go To Bed - The Cure
I hadn't heard this one before!! I was mostly joking with that gif before lol. more like:
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i get you, i can totally see it.
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i love me a mutual pining slowburn lmaoo
5. Mayonaka no Door / Stay With Me - Miki Matsubara
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ouch ouch ouch ouch (really beautiful song tysm 😢)
BONUS:
i decided gojo loves Supertramp (I love Supertramp) like he doesn't actually own too many records, but he owns Breakfast in America. So, here you go :)
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it's the satosugu fix-it song of my dreams 🥲
--
If this doesn't post again, you're getting screenshots I'm so sorry.
BONUS BONUS: I drove home (after the FIRST TIME this didn't post) and listened to Pink Floyd since we already determined Geto has TWO pink floyd tapes in his glove compartment, and
god this one is really fucking me up
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🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲
--
posting w/out the playlists attached in case too many audio links is the problem will edit again if i can
too many audio links is the problem. check the first two tags if you want them lol
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ro-is-struggling · 1 year
Text
Lose Myself || Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: Bucky can’t help but fall in love with his new neighbor even though every fiber of his beings tells him to stay away from her.
Warnings: song fic, fem reader, written from Bucky’s point of view, angst, mentions of insecurities and trauma (from Bucky’s side), mutual pining kinda, Bucky being a total simp for the reader, fluff
English is not my first language
Word count: 4200
Notes: this is part 2 of You Ruined Me (Matt Murdock x Reader) but you can totally read this as a stand alone. All you have to know is that Reader and Matt used to date but they broke up because he was still in love with Elektra. Also, I have plans for part 3 with a little more drama👀 so let me know if you guys would like to read that!
Like the previous part, this one is also inspired by a JC Chasez song, this time it’s Lose Myself so again I recommend you to listen to it to understand the vibe of the story. 
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She loves daffodils and she keeps them on her window sill
When the wind blows her smell fills the room
She dreams in color, but does she know that I love her?
I'm swimming in my abyss of insecure blue
Bucky knocked on his neighbor's door gently, certain that you would be close enough to the entrance to hear him walk down the hallway to get there. You had called him urgently because you needed his help to get rid of a spider that was tormenting your apartment so naturally he dropped everything he was doing to rush to your rescue. You had that kind of relationship. Whenever you needed help killing a bug that you were terrified of or if there was a heavy piece of furniture you wanted to move you called Bucky. He lived in the apartment down the hall from you so he had no problem coming over to help you. It was always small favors and easy tasks that he would gladly do if it gave him an excuse to see you. You usually ended up hanging out together afterwards, and those were his favorite parts of the day.
When you opened the door Bucky's nostrils were assaulted by the smell of daffodils coming from inside the apartment. It was your favorite fragrance and over time he had learned to love it too. It was a scent he associated with you and therefore always brought him feelings of peace, security, love...
"Bucky! Thank God you're here!" you exclaimed, stepping aside to let him pass. "Come quick before it hides again." Closing the door behind him, you took his hand and led him through the apartment and into the kitchen. 
"Where is the monstrous spider you need me to take care of?" Bucky asked in a slightly amused tone. You always sounded so dramatic over the phone, but in his experience it was all your exaggerations. He was ready to meet the world's smallest spider. 
"It's in there." you pointed your finger into the kitchen as you stood in the safety of the door frame. "Between those things on the counter." You refused to go back into the kitchen as long as that thing was there, so you gave Bucky a gentle shove to force him in. He let out a chuckle, shaking his head at your attitude as he went inside to inspect the area you had indicated.
"This thing? Really?" he said when he found the spider walking across the counter. Sure, it wasn't a small domestic spider, but it wasn't the horrifying monster you had described to him either. "It's not that bad."
"It's disgusting. Get it out of here!"
Bucky didn't see the need to kill it, so he trapped it inside a glass so he could release it outside. He walked to the balcony, laughing as you let out a shriek and ran in the opposite direction as he walked past you with the spider in his hands. After releasing it Bucky closed the door to make sure it didn't get back into the apartment.
"All done! You can breathe now, doll" Bucky said as he turned to find you in the corner of the living room, hugging one of the couch cushions.
"Oh my god! Thank you thank you thank you thank you!" You thanked him, letting go of the cushion and running into his arms. "I don't know what I would do without you" you murmured against his chest. Bucky let out a chuckle, wrapping his arms around you as he felt his pulse quicken at the contact.
"Probably burn the building to the ground as soon as a bug enters your apartment."
"Oh you know me so well," you laughed, imagining the situation. "Are you staying for dinner? I have pizza and beer," you added, pulling away from him so you could look him in the eye. 
"Well, I can't say no to that."
It was sort of a tradition you guys had. Every time he helped you, you thanked him with food. It was a ritual that went all the way back to the day you met. You were in the process of moving in and when Bucky came into the building after his afternoon walk he saw you struggling to carry your belongings up to your apartment. He didn't usually interact with strangers, but the gentleman in him wouldn't let him go anywhere without offering his help. You had refused at first, telling him you didn't want to bother him, but when Bucky started lifting the boxes as if they weighed nothing you ended up agreeing. You spent the whole day together that time, carrying all your furniture and possessions up the stairs as you chatted and got to know each other. As night fell you invited him over for dinner. Your apartment was a mess of boxes and bags piled everywhere, but you had a few beers and the number of a pizza place that had been recommended to you. 
Bucky had wanted to say no, the voice of insecurity in his head screaming at him to get away from you before he ended up ruining your life. But there was something about your smile that wouldn't let him say no. You were special in a way that Bucky couldn't describe. You were completely different from him in every way, cheerful and easy to talk to, a splash of color in his gray life. Maybe that was what attracted him to you, the stark contrast you represented. You were everything he wasn't and to his surprise he liked that. 
Your little tradition had been created that day without either of you realizing it. It had been the beginning of your relationship and the beginning of Bucky's feelings for you.
And I'm losing my head
And I can't get no sleep
But if I reached out
Would you reach out for me?
Bucky hadn't been able to stop thinking about you since that day. And his feelings for you only grew as time went by. The sound of your melodious laughter was permanently recorded in his mind, accompanying him in every second of his life. He spent his days waiting for the moment when he could hear it again, longing for your next encounter in the hope of feeling once again that tingle that ran through his body every time your hands brushed.
He was in love with you, there was no denying it. It had been hard for him to admit it, but it was the truth. Though just because he was willing to admit it to himself didn't mean he was ready to act on his feelings.
The love he felt for you was unlike anything he had felt in the past. It was much stronger, much more intense. He lay awake at night thinking about you, trying to decide if he should act on what he felt. He wanted to, God knew there was nothing he wanted more than to hold you in his arms and tell you how much he loved you. But he could never muster the courage to do it. The voice of insecurity in his head always stopped him, reminding him that he was a mess and that you deserved someone better. Bucky knew he shouldn't listen to that voice, but it was very hard for him to ignore it so he kept his feelings secret, loving you in silence.
He was pretty sure you didn't feel anything for him anyway, so he didn't see the point in confessing his feelings to you. You had told him about your ex-boyfriend, how you had found him cheating on you with another woman and how much that breakup had hurt. You were so heartbroken that you had moved out of your apartment to escape the memories, hoping to start over in a place far away from all the pain. From the way you talked about him and your past relationship, Bucky assumed that you still had feelings for your ex-boyfriend. And he used that as an excuse so he wouldn't have to admit that he was terrified of you rejecting him. He had convinced himself of it because it was easier than accepting the truth.
However, there were times when he questioned his assumptions. There were times when you looked at him in a special way. Bucky couldn't describe it in words, but there was a special sparkle he sometimes noticed in your eyes that led him to wonder what would really happen if he decided to confess his feelings to you. And now as he listened to you telling him about your day, laughing over a funny story from work, Bucky couldn't help but wonder if you would take his hand if he dared to take the big step, if you would risk jumping with him or if you would let him fall alone into the abyss of uncertainty.
Knocked unconscious, walking on water cause I'm thinking of you
And don't you know that love's intoxicating and I need the abuse?
Because I'm endlessly falling, you're my destiny calling
What you're making me do
It's all because I lose myself in you
All because I lose myself in you
When you finished dinner you settled down on the couch to watch TV. It was not uncommon for you to end up curled up on top of each other under a blanket while watching a show or movie that caught your attention. Those were Bucky's favorite moments because he had an excuse to put his arms around you and pull you close to him. Normally he was not a fan of physical contact, he had too many painful memories that prevented him from enjoying being close to people. But with you it was different. With you everything was different. Bucky loved to take you in his arms and feel your warmth enveloping his body, it was like a gentle caress to his hurting soul. And that's exactly what he did, leaning back against the back of the couch to give you room to lay your head on his chest.
He tried to pay attention to the movie playing on the screen. It was some romantic comedy that he had never seen before, but you seemed to like it. He was sure it was very entertaining, but despite how hard he tried to pay attention to it, the sound of the television was nothing more than a mere background noise that sounded muffled, completely drowned out by the harmonious melody of your laughter. Bucky could smell the sweet scent of your hair, a mixture of your shampoo and your signature daffodil perfume. It invaded his nostrils with every breath he took, intoxicating him with your scent. How could he concentrate on anything else when you were all he could feel, all he could think about?
Bucky was convinced that you were his destiny calling him. He didn't really believe in that sort of thing, but it was the only explanation he could find for his feelings for you. He believed that you were meant to be together and all the shit he'd been through was a necessary evil he'd had to endure in order to get to you. Bucky felt a little selfish every time his thoughts took him down that route. He had nothing good to offer you and was probably the least qualified person to be in a relationship at the time. You deserved someone far better than him, someone who wasn't broken inside, someone who could offer you a brighter future. He knew that being with him was probably the worst decision you could make, but he couldn't deny how he felt. And even though it was selfish, he was sure that you were his destiny. 
You had made your way into his heart faster than anyone else in his life, both past and present. Somehow you had managed to break down all the barriers he had put up around his heart to protect himself, and you had secured a place in it without asking him for permission. You had become his support, his guide. You were the only person capable of making him feel good in his worst moments, the only one that with a simple smile could make all his negative thoughts disappear. You had never judged him, despite knowing who he was and what his past entailed. You had always been kind to him, showing him respect and affection even when he wasn't sure he deserved it. 
Bucky wasn't sure if you knew how much you had helped him by simply being yourself. Your kindness and caring inspired him to get better with each passing day, to fight negative thoughts and to be a better person. It made him think that if someone as good as you was capable of loving him then maybe he wasn't the monster his mind told him he was.
You had become his refuge, his home. You represented everything good in his life. You were a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, a rainbow shining through the clouds after a storm. Bucky got lost in you every time you were together, letting your light illuminate his dark inner self. He was addicted to you, to the feeling of comfort and reassurance you brought him. He was addicted to loving you. Even if it hurted him, he couldn’t stay away from you.
I don't wanna be invisible, I just wanna be compatible
Longing for something that can only be filled by you
'Cause I'm fighting with my confidence
Build up my courage, give myself a chance
Because the only thing I think about is you
Bucky knew he was being selfish by staying by your side. He knew that the best thing for you would be for him to disappear from your life before he ended up hurting you. And in the beginning he had tried to walk away, to push you out of his heart and forget about you forever. He had forced himself to meet other people, going on multiple dates and looking for that special spark he felt when he was with you. But all his attempts had failed. The women he had dated were nice, but they weren't you. 
You were the only one who could fill the void in his heart. You were the only woman he wanted to wake up next to every morning and the only one he wanted to hug every night before he went to sleep. You were the only woman he wanted to kiss for the rest of his life. You were the love of his life and no one else could make him feel what you made him feel. And the worst part was that you didn't even realize the effect you had on him.
It took Bucky a while to accept that his feelings for you would not change and that it was stupid to look for something in other people that only you could give him. But when he finally gave up, when he finally accepted that he couldn't change how he felt, he decided to invest his energy into getting better every day. He focused on repairing his confidence and self-esteem and trying to make peace with his past. He knew it would be a long and arduous process, too much damage had been done to him and it cut deep inside him, but he hoped one day he would become worthy of your love. So he tried to take things slow, giving himself the chance to experience life in a more positive way.  He tried to revisit the things that used to make him happy in the past and find new things to enjoy, slowly but surely becoming a whole person again.
Do you know that I'm here? Do I even exist?
I'll dance on velvet skies
For just the thought of one kiss
"She has some good communication skills." Your voice brought him out of his thoughts. On the screen the protagonist was screaming at her love interest about how much he had hurt her and he seemed to understand his mistake as he watched her cry. "I tried that with my ex and it didn't work. She needs to give me some tips" you added with a bitter laugh. You were joking, but Bucky could sense a hint of pain in your voice. His stomach dropped and a sharp sting pierced his heart like a dagger.
He felt invisible, competing against the man that had broken your heart. It frustrated him to know that you were still thinking about that idiot who had done nothing but make you suffer when he was right there beside you, longing for a chance to show you how you should be loved.
Every time the subject of your ex-boyfriend came up in your conversations, Bucky couldn't help but think about how stupid that Matt guy had been to let such a wonderful woman like you go. In Bucky's eyes you were perfection itself, the most beautiful angel in heaven who had come down to take care of him. He couldn't believe that there was a single person on this earth who wasn't capable of seeing you that way. He couldn't understand how anyone could want to hurt a sweet soul like you. How someone who had had the privilege of holding your heart in his hands could have dared to crush it to pieces. If it had been him in your ex-boyfriend's place, Bucky would have made sure to take care of your heart as if it were his own, to show you every day how much he loved you and how important you were to him. Matt was a jerk who didn't deserve you and it was a shame that you still thought about him.
I see the beauty in your strength, baby
And you fight to keep it in you
But I break down your walls
With my army of love
"We're not all the same, doll. I would never have treated you that badly." Bucky spoke without even thinking about what he was saying. It was hard for him to concentrate when you were so close to him. When he realized what he had said he stayed silent. It was a very thin and dangerous line he was walking and if he wasn't careful he would end up saying things he couldn't take back later.
"Yeah well Matt said the same thing and he still cheated on me with his ex-girlfriend so.... I don't know if I can trust your words, Buck."
He couldn't stand the pain he heard in your voice any longer. It wasn't fair for someone as wonderful as you to question your worth because of the actions of a jerk who didn't know how to love you. You deserved to hear compliments and to be told how amazing you were. You deserved to be loved with the same fervor that you loved others around you. You deserved everything good in the world because you were everything good in Bucky's world. And if no one was willing to tell you that, then he would have to. He would have to take it upon himself to show you your true worth and break down the barriers you had built up around your heart, just as you had done with him. For a moment Bucky stopped caring if you realized how he really felt about you, it was a risk he was willing to take if it meant that he could give you back your confidence, support you in the same way you supported him.
"That's because Matt is an idiot who doesn't deserve you." Bucky said confidently even though his insides were fluttering with nerves. "He had the most wonderful woman in the world by his side and he let her go to chase after an ex. That's pathetic."
"You think I'm the most wonderful woman in the world?" you asked, lifting your head off his chest so you could look him in the eye. You spoke in a slightly playful tone, but you were really curious about the answer.
"Of course you are! There is not a doubt in my mind." Bucky assured you without hesitation. "You deserve to be appreciated for who you are. You deserve to be with someone who sees your beauty, but not only your physical beauty, the beauty of your soul as well. You deserve to be loved right. So fuck Matt! He's an idiot who couldn't see just how lucky he was to have you by his side."
As Bucky exposed his heart through his words, his eyes didn't leave yours not even for a second. He was afraid of what he might read in them, but at the same time he didn't know if he could keep hiding his feelings much longer. He was already confessing his love to you without saying it explicitly, so he might as well take advantage of it to evaluate your reaction and be rejected if that was what you really felt. It would hurt, but at least he would stop living in doubt. 
However, it was not rejection that he read in your eyes as the words escaped uncontrollably from his mouth. No, it was quite the opposite. Bucky noticed that special glow in your eyes, the one that only appeared from time to time and made him wonder if you had feelings for him. His heart began to beat fast because of his nerves, but also because of the rush of hope that invaded him.
"You really mean that?" you spoke, your voice almost a whisper. "Because I really want to kiss you now, but I don't know if I can go through all that again. So if you're lying, please tell me." Your eyes crystallized, tears quickly forming at the memory of the pain you had gone through after Matt. It broke Bucky's heart to see you in such a vulnerable state and he mentally cursed Matt for hurting you so much.
"I could never lie to you, doll." He assured you with sincerity in his voice before leaning forward and joining his lips with yours.
Take a journey through my heart, it's a test if fate
As we hold each other close our spirits gravitate
Let's drift into forever as our boundaries melt away
It was a slow, experimental kiss, but passionate nonetheless. Your lips moved together as your hands sought to cling to any part of each other's body they could find. Bucky cupped your face with his flesh hand, caressing your soft skin with his thumb as his brain made an effort to memorize every detail of that moment. He wanted to remember it all for the rest of his life, from the way your lips felt against his to the almost inperceptible sighs of pleasure you let out every time he sucked on your lower lip. He had waited so long for a chance to show you how he felt about you and he didn't intend to waste a single second of it.
Slowly Bucky felt you relaxing into the kiss, your lips moving more confidently against his as you let your hands creep up his chest until they found a place to rest on the back of his neck. He took the moment to deepen the kiss, your lips melding together in a real demonstration of how you felt about each other. You both could feel the little that was left of the walls you had built to protect your hearts finally crumbling, leaving you completely exposed to love. You used to think you would be terrified the day that happened. You thought that all the pain you had gone through with Matt would haunt you forever, preventing you from ever giving yourself body and soul to anyone else. But at that moment there was no place you felt safer than in Bucky's arms. You could feel his love coursing through your veins, your connection growing stronger with every movement of his lips. And somehow you knew you could trust him with your heart.
"Would you go on a date with me?" Bucky asked you when you pulled apart. His voice was barely a whisper as he rested his forehead on yours. "I want to take you out on a proper date."
"Are you saying that my cheap beers and pizza are not a good plan for a date?" You joked, putting a smile on Bucky's face.
"No, I'm saying you deserve to go on a date that didn't start with a bug terrorizing your apartment for once." You let out a chuckle, the sweet melody traveling through the air and into Bucky's ears, piercing straight into his joyfully beating heart. 
"Fair enough. I'll go on a date with you, but only on one condition." Bucky nodded, willing to do whatever you asked no matter how ridiculous just to have a chance to show you how special you were to him. "You have to promise me that you'll continue to take care of the bugs that terrorize my apartment."
This time it was Bucky's turn to let out a chuckle. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He assured you before bringing your lips back together in a kiss.
And as he let himself get lost in you once again, Bucky couldn't help but think how lucky he was to have crossed paths with someone as wonderful as you.
Baby, my life is yours, just open up the door
I can't believe I found you
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valeskafics · 1 year
Note
Can you maybe do tyler dating a swiftie?
YES BESTIE UNDER THE CUT I DID HC'S HOPE YOU LIKE THEM 💕
headcanons for being a swiftie and dating tyler galpin
-ok so you and tyler started off as best friends, so OF COURSE taylor was your go to when pining over him??
-when he got his first girlfriend back in middle school? teardrops on my guitar, nonstop on repeat, babe you were so dramatic
-his high school girlfriend, that really cute AND NICE cheerleader? you belong with me. on repeat
-tyler has always LOVED listening to taylor with you, he's not one of those guys who pretends to hate her just to be cool, he's an unapologetic swiftie right alongside you
-when 1989 came out and he heard "you are in love", you were the first person he thought of. (one night he wakes, strange look on his face, pauses then says, you're my best friend)
-he actually serenaded you with a TERRIBLY sung version of "stay beautiful" when he asked you out and you ugly cried
-DEFINITELY got tickets to loverfest, y'all roadtripped for it!!
-when folklore and evermore dropped, you were both SHOOK TO YOUR CORE, listening nonstop
-when taylor's version of all too well dropped, tyler sent you a clip of peter parker killing mysterio on repeat for ten minutes and was like "baby it's all too well peter's version lmao")
-your friends like to tease you both, but IT'S YOUR THING, you love it! (enid thinks it's adorable, xav is just jealous, yoko/bianca/ajax are indifferent, rowan's a secret swiftie, wednesday HATES Taylor the only song she likes is "i did something bad" and "antihero")
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letstevengrantsleep · 2 years
Text
Sex - Corroded Coffin
Eddie Munson x f!bestfriend!reader
summary: you surprise Eddie at one of his concerts, but he surprises you first
word count: 1,586
warnings: swearing, angst?, mutual pining, confessions, not much to warn about really, let me know if I missed anything
a/n: I was listening to Sex by The 1975 and couldn't get it out of my head that Eddie would so write something like that about his best friend (pls let me know if you'd like a part 2 to this bc personally I'd love to write a spicy pt2 to this)
masterlist
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You were late, obviously, when were you not. The venue was already packed with bodies pressed against each other, making it very difficult to manoeuvre yourself through the crowd and over to the shitty bar over the other side of the room.
It was exciting, truly, to be seeing Corroded Coffin somewhere other than the dingy little Hawkins bars that you were used to. Somewhere finally deserving of them and their talent. You couldn't be prouder of them or the fact that this was their first ever sold out show. It was also pretty exciting since you planned to surprise them backstage later on.
"Vodka soda, cheers." Someone bumps into your shoulder as you order, making you turn to be faced with a girl, thick black eyeliner and short, short skirt.
"Oh, sorry," she starts, taking in your appearance just as you're taking in hers, "oh shit, is that new merch? I've never seen that t-shirt before." You look down at your t-shirt, smiling as you look back up at her.
"No, no actually this is old. Me and the band go back a bit, I uh, we made these in my garage when they first started playing shows. We never sold any so we kept them for ourselves."
"No way, you know them?" She practically screams at you as you grab your drink.
"Since middle school, yeah. I knew Munson back when he had a buzzcut." You laugh, hitting it off with the girl. You talk back and forth for what seems like forever, slowly being encapsulated by the hazy fog making it's way through the room from both the smoke machine and from the unreasonable amount of people smoking in the room.
"So are you, like, his girlfriend then?" She asks, raising her eyebrows at you with a smirk.
"Me, no no no, just friends. Best friends. I- he's not interested." You're going to say more when you're interrupted by the dimming lights which leave the room soaked in a warm orange glow from the back-lit stage. The room erupts into loud applause as your best friends make their way onto stage, swinging guitars and drumsticks over their heads. Always so dramatic.
The concert is absolutely insane, everything you could have ever wished for them. Fans hanging on their every word, screaming the lyrics to songs that you've known since they were just scribbles on scraps of paper. It's almost too much, to see them living their dream, but you stick it out, screaming along with the crowd with, admittedly, some tears in your eyes.
"So, this next one is going to be our last song." Eddie mumbles into his mic, earning pretty enthusiastic disapproval from the crowd. "I know, I know we're fucking bummed about it too but we can't stay here all night." He pauses for a second, turning to Gareth to give him a quick nod and thumbs up. "This might make you all feel a little better, we're actually going to play you something completely new tonight to end the show. You guys are getting the real VIP treatment, yeah?" This perks the crowd up, obviously, and you feel a tap on your shoulder: the girl from earlier.
"You heard this one?" She asks, referring to the new track.
Shaking your head, you lean in so she can hear you over Eddie, "nope, I'm just as in the dark about this as you." It's exciting, knowing that this many people get to hear their new stuff, it's a far cry from sitting in Jeff's garage and hearing their demos.
The guitar kicks in and you realise this is nothing like anything they've ever done before.
And this is how it starts You take your shoes off in the back of my van...
The song is good, really fucking good, and you find yourself moving along to it, watching the crowd start to pick up and dance along, loving it just as much as you.
There's only minutes before I drop you off And all we seem to do it talk about sex She's got a boyfriend anyway...
As you listen to the lyrics your heart starts sink to the pit of your stomach, and your left standing dead still, unable to move, unable to think about anything other than the implications behind what Eddie's singing about. You don't want to assume, because it could look really bad if you did, but...
Surely not, surely he can't be talking about what you think he's talking about.
Does he take care of you Or could I easily fill his shoes Do you say no...
You're starting to feel hot, not knowing what to do with yourself as you carry on listening. Last time you saw Eddie (or any of the band for that matter) was about four months ago, when you were dating Steve. He was lovely, caring, kind, but you drifted. No biggie, it happens sometimes.
And I'm not trying to stop you love But if we're gonna do anything we might as well just fuck She's got a boyfriend anyway...
The sudden feeling of guilt and dread that Eddie is up there singing about how he could do a better job than Steve, god it makes your skin crawl. But maybe it wasn't about you, maybe you were being presumptuous. It doesn't help that Eddie looks so fucking good up there in his ripped jeans and cropped t-shirt. Singing with all his heart into a crowd absolutely tailor made for him.
You've got your tongue pierced anyway You in your hightops anyway You in your skinny jeans anyway...
Fuck.
Well. There's definitely no denying it now.
It's you, the song is about you.
-
The lump in your throat didn't leave when the lights went up, or when you said your goodbyes to the girl you'd spoken to all night, and it definitely didn't go away when you presented your ID and pass at the backstage entrance to go and see them.
Hovering at the "bands only" sign which shrouded you in a red light, you second guessed whether it really was a good idea to see them tonight. After all you had just heard a song dedicated to how your best friend wanted to fuck you in the back of his van (you were paraphrasing, yes, but that was the gist of it). And that wasn't even the worst part, you'd let him. It was hard to deny that you hadn't thought about it before. I mean, the lyrics did have some credibility to them.
Unfortunately the decision of whether to stay or go was made for you when the door swung open, revealing a sweaty, hot Eddie only a foot away from where you stood.
"Oh shit... you're here."
"Surprise." You say meekly, trying your best to sound lighthearted an not entirely nervous about this whole situation. You're about to speak when he starts rambling at you.
"Listen, princess, I-"
"Eddie no, don't do that-"
"No, no honestly, go and get Steve and we can-"
"Eddie-"
"I'll explain if he wants, I don't want-"
"Eddie!" That stops him right in his tracks, eyes wide as he stares, waiting for you to storm off to Steve, he presumes. "We broke up, Steve and I. It didn't, uh - we're friends." Taking a deep breath, you look him in the eye, something you avoided until now. "I came on my own. Wanted to surprise you, and the others, obviously."
"Well, fuck." He's itching to move, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"Yeah, fuck." There's a beat of silence before Eddie dares to speak again, he really didn't think he'd be doing this tonight. Having this talk with you.
"Well, either way, for obvious reasons, I'm sorry about what you heard. I was going to call you, tell you... eventually... I just-"
"Did you mean it?" You cut him off, trying to figure out whether your hope in him is misplaced.
"What?" Eddie's taken aback, for once he's fucking speechless.
"Did you mean it, the lyrics?"
There's another beat of silence before he answers.
"Every word."
It feels like your entire world is collapsing in on itself, everything you thought you knew about him now shrouded in the knowledge that Eddie fucking Munson has been down bad for you for god knows how long.
"Since when?"
"Ninth grade. You started wearing that smudged eyeliner and those big fucking boots that you could hardly walk in. I was hooked."
Nothing could have ever prepared you for this conversation. The one you convinced yourself you were never going to have. The one where you tell him you're madly in love with him.
"You didn't say anything."
"You had Harrington."
"I wanted you."
"You- wait what?"
"Surely you know, Eds. It's always been you."
He shakes his head, running his hands over his face. "Don't say that, princess don't say shit like that if you don't want me to jump on you right fucking now." It takes him a second to process the dead serious look on your face. "You mean that?"
"Every word."
The silence between you has your ears ringing, he's taking longer to respond than you'd like and it's making you nervous.
"Come back to my hotel tonight. I want to - we need to talk. We need to... fuck," he's distracted, coming forward to place his hands on either side of your face to force eye contact, "princess you have no idea how long I've been waiting for you."
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bengiyo · 6 months
Text
Theory of Love Rewatch Ep 1 Stray Thoughts
This rewatch is sponsored by @lurkingshan. Shan has the rare honor of being the only straight white person to respect my tastes in the last 15 years and successfully convince me to watch two things that I went on to enjoy immensely. She convinced me to try Coffee Prince when I was willing to engage with kdrama and pushed me over the episode 10 slump. She also convinced me to watch the Pornographer series again, which I found essential. I've given her coupons to use to recommend things to me, and she's chosen to make me reengage with Theory of Love.
I didn't walk away from this show feeling great about it or myself in 2019. I identified with Third a lot, and also hated their entire friend group. I also thought Earth and White went to waste in BL again (I watched Water Boyy the series). So we're going into this on shaky ground. I kindly ask that you not argue with me in my notes about why you love this show.
Let's get started.
Right away I am reminded that I am not immune to Gun Atthaphan mooning over classic romance films that his character has protected way too much into.
Khai choosing to not mess around with folks in his faculty is a pretty good boundary for a player.
So, it's not Khai's fault that Third fell in love with him. Still, I understand the stress and angst of crushing on a straight boy who loves you platonically. Coming out is not easy, especially when you're one of the boys.
Okay, Third pouring a bottle of water over his head to be dramatic is too much. He is unwell.
Gun having second billing on this show is homophobic.
Ep 01: Best Friends
I wonder if Gun wants to produce and direct.
That line about having hundreds of girls if not for Khai feels kinda funny. Like are you gay, sir?
Goddamn this GETSUNOVA song still fucking slaps.
I forgot how this seaweed snack kept the lights on through Bad Buddy.
12,000 baht to see Blackpink? Couldn't be me.
I don't feel bad for Third about these tickets. He said no to getting them, so Khai isn't a dick for getting them from a scalper.
This is extremely tacky of Khai to start shit at someone's screening like this.
They curb stomped Khai for that behavior. You love to see an instant comeuppance.
Okay, but sending Third to reject Milk is clearly his specialty.
I wanted to know what they said about the Toy Story trilogy, especially since Khai did a Vulcan salute.
Third has a Winnie the Pooh, Astro Boy, and Chucky doll in his room. I have questions.
Khai ditching Third on a lie isn't cool and also feels unnecessary since he canceled on Third for a girl earlier. Is it because it was Milk?
Okay, but Khai is also right that he didn't tell Third to throw her shit away.
Ah, Two finds him at the end of the episode to try and keep Third invested.
This show is very different for me in 2023, because now that I'm older I'm doing what I can. I'm not trapped in a spiral frustrated and pining after a guy I struggled to get over. My living situation is also different. There's also so much more BL better suited to my tastes. Me reading Gun a certain way doesn't cover for Third the way it did in 2019, so his bisexual angst about the girls he hasn't scored because of Khai doesn't track as sympathetic this time. I'm also struggling to see what holds Third to Khai. He's just like most dudes I know. Sometimes he's a good bro and recognizes your efforts when you do something he asked for, but they never notice what you do that they didn't ask for.
It'll be interesting continuing this watch, because I've never been an OffGun girlie, and now that I've projected my gay angst into other projects I feel less connected to Third. Now I'm just frustrated for him and also a little irritated.
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viviennevermillion · 2 years
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False Confidence
notes: i'm trying to stop the emotions from going shxjsjsjdjsjrndkenfb in my brain. not sure how many kaveh stans are out there and how many people are gonna read this but if you do I hope you like it. This was kinda inspired by the song False Confidence by Noah Kahan.
contains: kaveh x gn!reader, rekindled love, pining, reader pushes people away at first because they don't want to get hurt
warnings: none, just my internal angst
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You always wished you'd stop thinking about him. The past was a mess and you had all the right reasons to be wanting to look forward to the future. To focus on what was in reach and realistic. But there was no realistic when it came to Kaveh. Only grand dreams and the notion that everything felt so much more alive whenever he entered the room. His mind was beautiful; such a harsh break from the shallow world you were used to and that was exactly what made it so hard for you to let go of him.
You'd think of the times you'd feel his presence without needing to see or hear him coming. The cold mornings you'd chuckle and say "Hey Kaveh" before he'd stop next to you. "How did you know it was me?", he always seemed so surprised. "Trust me, my brain sends out an alarm signal every time you're around", you joked. "That bad?", he laughed as he held the door open to the Akademiya for you, "after you." He did half a curtsy and you pulled him away from the door, shaking your head. "We enter this building every day, no need to be dramatic about it."
Without noticing you smiled brightly at your own hands reminiscing about those times. A smile that faded immediately when you realized they were nothing more than distant images in your mind now. He probably had moved on to greater things and forgotten all about you. After all you were hardly friends. You had dropped out of the Akademiya a while ago and left to travel to faraway nations. There was too much going on in your life at the time and you were not in the right place for a relationship with him. If he even felt that way for you.
Though Kaveh was always critical of your choice, he still wished you the best when you parted. You wished for just one chance to hold him in your arms when he said goodbye to you. You didn't know if you were imagining it but he seemed to be hesitating as much as you did. But pride got the better of you. The fear of rejection, the fear of him teasing you for your feelings, though he wouldn't mean anything bad. You had a hard time letting anyone close to you. Especially Kaveh. It seemed like with every move of his he was trying to take the walls you built down with a wrecking ball. He was honest; a little too honest at times; he was curious, he wanted to understand you and he was bright. Insightful. You didn't understand much about architecture but you loved how passionate he was about it.
He'd tell you to meet him in the library and you always guessed whether you'd find him re-reading Tanger's stories about the Aranara, a scientific book or a classic play. It was always one of those three with him. He'd look up at you and yell "Hi y/n!", across the room which made everyone stare at you two and the librarian shush him angrily. He regretted disturbing the treasured silence in the library and yet he never learnt.
You had looked up to him for his talent and he looked up to you for how put together you seemed. How tough you were and how you always seemed to find the right words to say.
Except when it came to telling him how you felt.
You had bailed, maybe rightfully so, and now you were paying the price.
You had constantly tried to play things cool. Like you didn't have a care in the world, like it was amusing to talk to him but that was all there ever was to it. You let him think he didn't matter to you and now you didn't matter to him. What a fool you had been.
You had sent each other letters back and forth a couple of times after you had set off to Liyue. There wasn't a day going by you didn't curse yourself for getting too ahead of yourself. Kaveh was so critical of everything, he had such a habit of mirroring everything you gave to him into the outside world. Often it wasn't on purpose. Sometimes his words slipped up about things he didn't fully grasp you had told him in confidence. Then he was a bad liar. He always failed to keep his emotions inside. Letting Kaveh into your heart meant letting the world into your heart and that always seemed too big of a step for you.
So spilling your feelings into a letter.....what were you thinking? It was no surprise to you you never received an answer.
And thus you tried your best to push every thought of him away and move on.
That was until the day you returned to Sumeru and you heard him call out your name across the Bazaar. "Y/n!", he looked as happy and pretty as you remembered. You tried to pretend you didn't hear or see him and tried to walk away but those attempts were futile with Kaveh.
"Are you trying to avoid me?", he calls out in confusion, people already staring. So you begrudgingly turned around and braced yourself for a very awkward conversation. Instead, what you got was a "Why did you never reply to my letter?"
Celestia only knows what happened to your confession. Maybe the birds ripped it to shreds or the mailman ate it. The fact was that it never reached Kaveh's hands. In a way, that was the most relieving news you heard that year.
After you explained what happened, Kaveh laughed and raised his eyebrows at you. "You thought, I didnt want to talk to you??", oh he was definitely teasing you now, "weren't you the one who called me cringe the day before you left?" He snickered. "You are cringe", you retorted, grinning at him, "but we're adults and being cringe is very freeing, so good for you."
And just like that Kaveh made your world glow again just by being in it. It was like the giant hole in your heart was finally filled again. You had convinced yourself you were long over him. But it felt like you fell in love with him in less than 24 hours after seeing him again. Of course he picked up on your sudden change of mood. "You seem in high spirits today?", he smiled and held out his arm to you. You two had agreed to go to the theatre together.
You had met and gone on walks for the last couple of days, talking about whatever came to your mind. Over the time you spent apart you had become more open, calmer and wiser. Kaveh had gotten a little less perfectionist and a lot less rigid. Maybe that had to do with that stubborn roommate he kept complaining about. "You've grown", he remarked looking at the stars above you. "So did you", you replied. You've come a long way. Ways that had parted only to cross once again. You were hoping you'd walk the rest of the road together.
You had an engaging argument about the play and you rested your head on his shoulder for the second act. He quoted Tanger's Aranara book about 20 times during the whole evening. And he'd always catch you off guard with whatever he was about to say next. You could never predict his answers to your statements. In the past that had made you anxious. Now it just made you realize how much you had missed him.
A lot of laughter was shared between the two of you. He also seemed to notice this. "Well, I do pride myself on being the funniest person in your life", you joked and Kaveh chuckled. "Keep dreaming."
You sat down on a bench, watching the night sky together. Kaveh rambled on and on about how measuring and charting the stars was similar to architecture. You just smiled at him while he was gazing at the stars.
"Have you ever thought about doing theatre yourself? I recently started stage magic....which is not the same thing but a lot of fun too", he said. "Well, not really much of an actor", you shrugged, "what role would I play anyway?" He suggested the love interest of the story you just saw. "Why? I have like,,, 2 things with them in common", you snorted. "Which would be?"
1. You were a human being.
2. You were hopelessly in love with the one who kept drawing all the attention to him without even trying to.
"Not sure if we want to open that can of worms", you gave him a challenging grin. "You know that's just going to make me more curious right?", he argued. "Sometimes I confuse you on purpose", you shrugged and poked his cheek, "but seriously it'd be more accurate to say I'm the bitter but cool antagonist. Take it or leave it."
You noticed how close you were to him. Kaveh looked into your eyes and his expression softened. "I'll take it", his fingers brushed past your cheek and your eyes wandered to his lips. "So what was in that letter that made you think I didn't want to talk to you ever again?", he teased. You sighed and rolled your eyes. "I think you know."
"I genuinely don't", he argued. You weren't sure if he was actually clueless or whether he just wanted to make you flustered and get a reaction out of you. Both seemed very much on brand. "I....may have had a bit of a crush on you", you admitted and laughed it off like it was no big deal.
"What about now?", he asked quietly, "do you still feel this way about me?" A part of you wanted to tell him that was long in the past and go home. A part of you wanted to take the chance to finally get clarity. But you just froze.
So Kaveh made the first move. Kaveh decided to break down your walls, just like he always had done. "I know I do", he said, "I never thought I'd fall for you and I tried to deny it for quite a while. But my heart yearns for your love like a sapling needs the light to grow." "Geez that was so cheesy, can't you just say you like me and be done with it?", you snorted and kissed his cheek.
"I pride myself on being the most obnoxious person in your life", he grinned but you could see how flustered he was after the kiss you had given him. "I should ask for compensation", you sighed. He was a hopeless case. "Would a kiss suffice?", he took your hand into his.
"I'll decide that after the kiss", you winked at him and Kaveh softly pressed his lips to yours. He pulled you closer to him and wrapped an arm around your waist. You kissed him back passionately, being glad after all the trials of life, fate finally led you to the same path again. Perhaps all of it was just how things were meant to go. Now being with him just felt right. Safe. Less like a ticking time bomb waiting to bring chaos to your already chaotic life and more like two restless souls finally coming home to one another.
You didn't know whose tears were rolling down your cheek because both of you were shedding them. "God, you really need to calm down", you let out a bitter laugh. "You're crying too", he shook his head at you. "I'm dead inside", you replied dryly but the little chuckle that left you after that gave you away.
"Keep telling yourself that", he whispered and smiled into the next kiss he gave you. "You talk too much", you mouthed between kisses. Kaveh rested his forehead against yours and gently caressed your cheek. "I think both of us need to shut up more", he said affectionately and just let himself sink into your arms to let you hold him.
The two of you watched the stars in silence with smiles on your faces. The constellations and the sheer fact how vast the universe was reminded you of how much Kaveh added to your simple little world. You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I love you." "Who could have known, you finally said it", he feigned surprise and kissed you again, "I love you too."
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razorb0x · 9 months
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Hi it’s the hoffheight anon
okay so I’ve been thinking and I think that Narc by Interpol is kind of a hoffheight song?? From Hoffman’s perspective right, and maybe Adam is like still attached to Lawrence because they were in the trap together, but Hoffman still is really attracted to him and wants Adam to choose him over Lawrence.
and like maybe they’re sleeping together during this, given some of the lyrics in the song. And idk the song just gives me possessive Hoffman vibes, I wanna hear your thoughts on it if you have any
(i assume you mean Adam crushing on Lawrence, but if you don't then fuck i'm sorry just pretend i wrote this in a non-romantic sense) you're so right for this. i will admit, i am sorta obsessed with the idea of there being a love triangle between the 3 of them focused on Adam. there's already so much to explore there. i usually pictured it as Lawrence/Adam comes first, and then Hoffman gets involved slowly after, but Hoffman/Adam with Adam pining over Lawrence has so much more dramatic potential. I do have a fic involving the 3 of them in the works right now, so i have explored their dynamic a bit. the 3 of them having a poly thing is already rough enough, but again, the pining thing... omg. some of the lyrics almost make me picture Hoffman like a dragon hoarding his treasure, which ofc is how he would be. always looming near Adam in some way, esp if Lawrence is around. i imagine either Adam himself admitted to his feelings in some form or Hoffman can tell somethings up (this man cannot read emotions very well, but his possessive ass can tell when Adam's acting different around someone) he'll either be subtle, or not at all subtle about his possessiveness. Adam gets to stay with him more, gets to borrow his clothes (you know something up if he does that. if adam wants to borrow clothes he's gotta sneak them himself) and as previously stated, he sorta looms around him. i doubt Lawrence registers any of it as anything out of the ordinary. he just appreciates getting to spend more time with Adam and coming to terms with everything that's happened with them. he just shrugs off Hoffman's behavior as his normal possessive nature, and doesn't pick up on anything different with Adam. however, i totally can see Lawrence teasing Hoffman about it. he may not know Adams true feelings or intentions, but he'll use it to get under Hoffman's skin anyways, but he'll play it off as if he's doing nothing and that Hoffman's over reacting. i can't see it concluding well (if it concludes at all) since none of these men are good at communicating; Hoffman especially. i see 3 endings to this: 1. Adam does leave Hoffman and (may or may not) end up with Lawrence. (ends with Hoffman being not so silently pissed about the whole thing. he's definitely vengeful, and his relationship with Lawrence only gets worse) 2. something magical happens and they somehow open up enough to form a relationship that includes Lawrence (this is me putting my fanboy goggles on. i have no clue how this could start or end without Hoffman and Lawrence fighting and ruining the whole thing, if that doesn't happen, then Lawrece is just passive aggressive to Hoffman like 90% of the time) 3. Adam's affections go unrequited and he either grows closer to, or more distant with Hoffman. (Hoffman acts as his shoulder to cry on through the process. he's almost silently glad it happened because Adam is even more attached to him then before (if we're going down the attachment route) so he gets to subtly manipulate Adam further into being attached to him.)
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