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luveline · 10 months

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𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

you start to second guess your relationship when eddie doesn't waylay you with his usual abundance of kisses after work. meanwhile, eddie tries to work out what's upsetting you, how to fix it, and most urgently, how to ask you a super important question. fem!reader, 5k

cw: eddie skipping meals at work, suggestive flirting

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

Eddie's borrowed headphones slip down your head as you dance. Nothing dramatic, a shoulder wiggle as you do the dishes. You can't hear the racket you're making, plates crashing into one another on the drying rack, the hot water pounding the basin, the clip of your sock-clad foot against wooden slats as you tap it.

Your hands burn at the high temperature. Your fingertips are pruned, palms chapped as you finish washing Eddie's mountain of dishes. His whole apartment was in similar disarray before you arrived, laundry to the eyes and one of his haphazard book towers collapsed in the bedroom. The dishes had been scraped and rinsed but not washed, the laundry designated to one corner of the bathroom; Eddie's not unclean, necessarily, but unfocused.

You had time. You don't mind coming over to help him out.

Though if he knew you were here doing this he'd blow a gasket. I don't want you wasting your time doing shit I should've done a week ago, he'd say.

It isn't time that matters to you. You'd take a couple of days out if it helped him, if it meant he could enjoy the place he lives to the fullest extent. Plus, you spend time here too. And you get to borrow his Walkman the whole time. Eddie has the best tapes.

You hum along to the finishing line of the song and set the last clean cup upside down on the draining board. Satisfied at a job well done, you wipe the sink basin clean, drain suds from the sponge, and turn off the water. Cool air floats in through the open window, kissing your lightly perspiring skin hello.

You dry your hands on a cloth and push Eddie's headphones carefully down to your neck, more than careful with his things. He works hard for everything he has, days and nights and any shift they want him to take. Most of it goes into his savings account. His spare change gets dropped into a washed out pasta sauce jar on the sill for a forthcoming rainy day. Ridiculous amounts of it get spent on you, and if you asked Eddie he'd say it was perfectly reasonable, sweetheart.

You're not asking him. You don't think new clothes and sweet treats nearly every time you see him counts as reasonable, but you'd be a liar if you said you didn't appreciate it.

Hence your unsanctioned use of his spare key. You buy him treats too, but money can't buy the satisfaction of a clean home. (Well, it could. Hiring a day maid might've been quicker and cleaner in the end, but would a day maid have put their heart and soul into dusting his figurines with a makeup brush for fifteen minutes?)

You turn around with Eddie on your mind, feeling grateful and tired at once. Your thoughts stutter at the warm body standing casually in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the jam, a rucksack and a carabiner of keys hanging from his curled fingers.

"Hey," Eddie says.

You flinch like he's coming at you, startled by his sudden appearance.

His laugh is apologetic, at least. "Woah! I thought you heard me, where's your head?"

You slap a hand to your racing heart and huff out a breath that fans up your face. Eddie straightens from his cool guy slouch, dropping his keys on the counter and sliding his bag beside them.

"It's around here somewhere," you say through a smile, trying and failing to glare at him as he puts his hands on your waist. "You scared me bad."

"It was accidental."

He pulls your hips to his and leans back. A close pressure without being particularly sexual. It's obvious that he's looking you over, like you might've miraculously run into harm in the sixteen hours you've been apart.

"I didn't think you'd be back yet, sorry," you say breathlessly, still recuperating from your scare.

"I'm the sorry one."

He brings a hand to your face. If there's one thing you can count on with your boyfriend, it's that he's going to find an excuse to touch your face at least once a day, whether it be with the back of a ring-heavy finger trailing down your cheek lightly, or a flat, hot palm, calluses scratching ever so slightly as he squeezes it into whatever shape he feels like. Never cruel, but melding.

He's in a mood.

Not salacious. Teasing at most, he pulls a rough line down from the corner of your eye to your lips.

"Why are you doing my dishes?" he asks.

His hands smell like citrus scrub and white vinegar. They must've had him cleaning in the kitchen at work again.

"So you wouldn't have to. I know you don't mean to let them pile up."

"I'll find my laundry in the dryer, I'm guessing."

"Nope. Folded in your dresser, more like."

He pulls your chest to his, the heat of his breath kissing your nose. It smells like the spearmint gum he chews obsessively during his morning shifts. Eddie has a theory that eating in the mornings is breaking a seal —you'll be much hungrier for the rest of the day than you would've been otherwise. Better to wait for lunch.

You hate his theory (three meals a day plus as many snacks as he needs would be perfect, if he could find the time) and his gum for what it represents. It reminds you that he likely hasn't eaten today, and you're quick to start brainstorming ideas for dinner from the ingredients you'd seen while cleaning. He has ground beef, enough eggs to make pasta, and a tupperware of frozen soup from last Wednesday. The world's your oyster.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. You don't have time to answer. "I wish you didn't do all the laundry, babe. Those stairs are a fucking killer."

He leans that last inch. A kiss is coming any second now, your pulse capering between your ears. A hundred kisses shared between you and you wait for the next with the same calibre of excitement as you did for the first.

"I owe you a deep tissue massage, right?" he murmurs.

You beam at him, pushing the heel of your palm against his chest to widen the distance between you into something a little less heart-pounding. "You haven't eaten today, have you?"

"I'm pretty hungry," he says, his voice smooth as angora silk.

He looks, again, like he might kiss you. His eyes dip to your lips, a molten brown shining in the kitchen light. You wait, and you wait, but he doesn't close the gap.

You push your smile to one side, your eyelashes twined in the corners from the force of it. Your smile isn't entirely genuine. It's cool if he doesn't wanna kiss you… sort of. He can do whatever he likes, of course, you'd never force him to kiss you just to keep you happy or for any other reason, but you're a little down at the idea that he doesn't want to. You love how they feel. You're used to them as both hello and goodbye.

Eddie might not want to kiss you, but he isn't putting on a show, his amorous smirking a reality you battle with (read: give in to, enjoy, daydream about) on the regular. Perhaps he isn't eager to ravish you after a full day bussing tables. That's more than okay.

However he might be feeling, you aren't going to let him go hungry a minute longer. "Dinner?" you ask.

"I was thinking sloppy Joes," he says, his hand running down your arm. He turns for the fridge. You follow. "Brioche buns?"

You step in front of him, the fridge door a cacophony of glass rattling as you tug it open. "I'm making them."

Eddie wraps his arms around you, moving you bodily to the side. It's too quick for you to dig your heels in.

"You used to be a gentleman," you complain.

"No, I didn't." He taps your ankle with the rubber toe of his converse.

You make dinner together, to each other's chagrin. Eddie steals spatulas and frying pan handles from your grip. You bump his hip away from the stove grill to toast buns. When you sit down together on the couch, it's at war, elbows digging into soft spots and cups placed out of reach on the coffee table.

"Dick," you say.

Eddie takes a bite, says, "You're the dick, dick," and starts shovelling fries onto your plate. "Giving me more fries is ridiculous. We should eat the same portions, we're the same age."

"But one of us had breakfast and lunch, and one of us didn't," you say, using your fork to give his gifted fries straight back.

And here's where you get the first inkling that something's making him not want to kiss you, emphasis on you.

Eddie loves kissing you when he feels loved. For obvious starters, whenever you tell him you love him he makes sure to kiss your lips. When you make him laugh, when you wash his hair in the shower, when you draw stars into his palms, all those things garner a fond peck to the temple. He kisses the space just under your ear so often you're sure there's a contusion in the shape of his mouth there, permanent and purpling, his go-to whenever he's laying on top of you or hugging you from behind.

You can count on a mildly greasy kiss no matter the meal. Eddie loves eating dinner together. He waits for you to get home, sometimes for hours, to share a plate with you. You've never not indulged him with a kiss. Tonight, he doesn't ask.

It would be here. Name-calling dripping in affection, you elbow glancing off of his as you cut into your sloppy Joe, and the TV failing to cover the sound of a quick kiss before he digs in. You're gutted at the lack and surprised to have noticed it, but you don't go so far as to mourn the loss: Eddie's likely too hungry to think about kissing, that's all. Right?

Despite attempts to convince you otherwise, he's hungry. He finishes his plate in what feels like five big bites, hair tucked behind his ears, an innocent but far off look about him as he wipes his fingers in a piece of kitchen towel and leans back into the couch cushions with a small groan.

"We should stop eating on the couch," he says.

"You told me you wanted to sit here." You're confused.

"It's like, testing fate. I'm a mess. I'll ruin it and have to get a new one I can't afford."

You chew on a fry. "I mean," —you put your hand over your mouth, pleased when he turns to you with a ready-made smile, like the act of just looking at you is one he enjoys— "even if you drop something on it, we can Didi Seven it. Or get one of those fancy water vacuum things."

"It's my couch," he says. "You wouldn't have to clean it."

"You're my boyfriend," you respond, "so I wouldn't mind."

"I'm your boyfriend," he says, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side.

His lips close, his eyes tracking up and along the lines of your features with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. You'd like to say that it's love, but you're starting to think it's something else.

"Don't say it like that. You sound too unsure," you say.

Amusement dances across his face. "Are you finished?" he asks, opening his hand for your tray.

"No," you say, faux-stroppy. You take another fry.

Eddie grabs his tray. He skirts around your legs and stops at your side. In his more dopey moods, he'd take your face into his hand again and hold your head still as he kisses your crown.

He squeezes your shoulder. "I'm not unsure about anything," he says warmly. "I'll get you a drink, yeah? Ice?"

A chuck under the chin with his forefinger and he's gone, leaving you sitting there wondering what's wrong with him. Home an hour now and not one single kiss? Is this the end of the honeymoon phase? How do people survive this shit, you think. It's agonising.

Your chewing turns morose.

You and Eddie go through phases, waxing and waning, as most people do. There's always love there, but sometimes there's so much of it you don't know what to do with yourself besides lavish in it. Only yesterday morning he'd been in your bed, shirtless (as you often wish he'd be), dark ink like bruises in the low light where it climbed the lengths of his arms and his bare chest. You were lax under his touch, his nose and lips pressing to your skin as he kissed you from rib to soft tummy. Slow, kissing you as though he had nowhere else to be but there. As though his next shift wasn't thirty minutes around the corner.

You were mortified when he blew a raspberry. Now you're thinking you might peel out of your shirt and ask him to do it again if it means he'll kiss you in any definition.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he returns, his hand sliding along from your shoulder to the other while he steps over your legs.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask.

"Feeling very repetitive today, are we?" he teases, no consideration for your dinner tray as he collapses into the seat beside you.

You're expecting his cheek on your shoulder, his hair tickling your upper arm. It doesn't come. Worried he's discouraged by your tray, you place it on the coffee table and sit back. You really want him to kiss you.

Kissing someone isn't something you thought you'd want to do before you met Eddie. To be kissed, sure. To give a chaste peck, absolutely. But to have someone put their weight on you, to press at the seam of your lips with their own and to wade in like a steady wave, one breath at a time, until you're unsure where the boundary of your mouth begins and his ends, that was all new. Eddie kisses like he loves, loud and brash, rough and eager. Gentle when he needs to be but arduous.

He makes you feel wanted in a thousand ways and the first is his greedy penchant for stealing a kiss or three at every opportunity. It's weird that he hasn't kissed you yet. He's acting weird.

"You're being super weird," you say. You feel like a pressure cooker with steam pouring from the release valve.

Eddie smirks at you. "That so? Any explanation attached to that, or are we name-calling? I have some names for you, if we are."

"Oh, I have to know."

"Figured you would." He throws his leg over your thigh. The firm muscle of it tenses as he wiggles his foot.

"What were you gonna call me?" you prompt impatiently.

"Sweetheart. Angel." He turns his cheek into the back of the couch, bringing his pinky to your face and drawing a line from the smoothest skin under your eye outward. "Pretty. Very pretty."

"Says you," you murmur. If he thinks you're so pretty, why won't he kiss you? "I can't work out your angle today."

"Am I acting differently?" he asks, seemingly unperturbed.

No. He just hasn't kissed you. There might have been a moment when he first came home where you thought he was hesitating to kiss you, but since then he's acted exactly as he usually does (minus kissing, therefore making it unusual).

You sigh, half serious and half wanton sadness. "No." His nose twitches. You startle. "What?"

"Nothing."

"What, do I have bad breath?" you ask, bringing a hurried palm to your mouth to try and test it.

Eddie pulls your hand down, admonishing through a laugh, "You obviously don't. You know I'd tell you, babe."

"Oh."

"I got gum though, if you want it."

You bat his chest. "I bet you do… I don't know what it is, then. I give up."

"What's what?" he asks. He takes a curl of his hair around a painted fingernail. It coils on his finger, where he pinches the end, bringing it up to your chin and drawing a smile under your lips with the tip.

"I… do I have something in my teeth? A zit? What's the issue?" you ask, lost.

"There's no issue!" He laughs, and he curves his hand gently around your neck. "Why do you think there's an issue?" he asks. A thread of his voice wavers. Impossible to notice if you didn't know everything about him, down to the stray hair.

"No, because," —your voice shrinks— "you're being off with me." You won't cry, but it's impossible to stop the doubt that seeps into your voice. "You're not…"

Eddie strokes your neck with his thumb, growing serious. "I'm not what?"

"You haven't kissed me." You avoid his eyes. "Not since you saw me."

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately dipping forward.

You pull back. "Wait–"

Eddie waits. "What?" he asks.

"I don't want you to kiss me just 'cus I asked you to."

Eddie pushes his hand upward, his index finger shaped to your jawline. He rubs a quarter circle from your chin to your jaw tentatively with his thumb, an awful sorry look in his eyes that he gets whenever you're upset. "Well, I always want to kiss you," he confesses. His eyebrows furrow. "You know that, right?"

"But you haven't, today."

Is that pathetic? you panic. Noticing, caring, it feels so, so silly all of a sudden, you can't believe you spilled it that easily. You may as well have written clingy loser across your forehead in glaring pen.

Eddie sees it. He doesn't cringe at you like you fear he will.

"Ah," he says, almost humming, his lips barely parted, "that's just not okay, is it? My girl waiting on a kiss."

He leans in. You shy away, wanting his kiss but wanting the run up more. Eddie follows your lead, keeping space between you, rubbing a diligent and affectionate circle into your cheek. His touch is soft enough to tickle.

"I'm not trying to act desperate, I just figured– I thought there was a reason you hadn't," you say.

Eddie asks you in his softest, most genial tones if he can kiss you.

You don't say yes so much as you lift your chin and close your eyes. Your relief is sharp as he closes the fizzing space between you, as he guides your face to his and holds it there like a treasured pearl cupped in two palms. He makes a sound at the back of his throat that kills any doubts of his affection stone cold dead. Your lips part a millimetre if that, and Eddie slots into the gap, his hands growing less and less careful by the second, the pressure of his touch amping up. He moves back only long enough to turn his head, your noses bumping, another breathy sound slipping past his lips. You smother it gracelessly with a rougher reciprocation.

It's not your longest kiss, but it works. It's the reassurement you needed. Eddie pulls away to suck in a harsh breath, the feeling foreign against your tingling lips. His face dips, his eyes out of view. His hands move in twin down the slope of your neck, languish, feel along the thin layer of your t-shirt as though he's looking for some secret answer.

"I'm not trying to act weird around you, I'm just nervous," he says.

You feel your back aching, stiff as a rod. "Nervous?" you ask quietly.

Eddie rests his forehead on your chin. He whispers a cuss, and then he sits up very tall and looks you in the eye.

It takes him five seconds to tell you what it is that's making him anxious. In that time, you come up with a handful of things. I lost my job. I don't want to be with you anymore. There's someone else. There's no one else, but you did something that pissed me off/made me uncomfortable/disgusted me. I'm sick. None of your guesses are good, and none prepare you for what he asks next.

"Would you wanna move in with me?"

His hand meanders along your thigh. An awkward smile catches his lip like a fish hook, tugging it up on one side.

"I… what?"

"I think it's a good idea. I was trying to ask you yesterday, and now today it didn't feel right. I don't want you thinking I'm asking because you did my laundry." His hand warms your thigh, a pervasive heat. Your face is similarly hot. "We could split rent, and you could keep saving. You wouldn't have to deal with your shitty neighbours. You'd be closer to your job, and– and to me. It's a good idea," he repeats. "There's a ton of reasons it would be good for you, but I'm asking 'cus I missed you so bad last night I couldn't sleep. I wanna be with you whenever we can be."

"You'd really want me to?" you ask.

"You'd never have to wait for a kiss again," he says hopefully. "I know it's a big move. I get it if you're not ready."

"I'm ready," you say. You don't know it's true until you've said it aloud.

Delight sparks and catches like sun-dried tinder. Elation lights his eyes. "Holy shit, yeah? You want to?"

"Yeah," you say, nodding emphatically, trying not to yell. "Yes, I want to. I'd love to! That would be–"

"A dream," he finishes, snatching your waist into his grasp, basically yanking you into his arms.

"Amazing," you say, your arms forced over his shoulders.

You wrap your arms around the back of his head, curls that smell of almond oil and a generous dollop of hair mousse crushed to your face. Your eyes slip closed. You suck in an inconspicuous breath, though your self-indulgent action is interrupted by a groan, Eddie squeezing you hard enough to make the bones in your back click three at a time.

"I can't believe you, sweetheart. I don't kiss you for an hour and you think there's something wrong?" He laughs.

"I'm spoiled," you say sheepishly. To draw his attention, you add, "I can't believe you, afraid to ask me that! Why would I say no? I love you."

"I love you, too," he says, pulling the small of your back tighter still so he can dig his nose into the side of your head.

He kisses you all over the side of your face until you're painted in little warm patches from overexposure. A loved up mess, and dizzy with relief.

Relief and excitement. "How soon do you want me in here?" you ask, sitting back.

"How soon do you want another kiss?" he asks.

"Will we be stealing each other's questions all day?" you ask.

"For the rest of time, if I get my way."

"That's so corny," you whisper, ecstatic.

Eddie pushes you down onto the couch cushions. You know before he so much as pulls up a knee that he's going to climb on top of you. You make room for him, your heart feeling like it could breach through your ribs one bone at a time.

"What are you doing?" you whisper with a smile.

"Making up for lost kisses."

—

Two Weeks Later

Eddie wakes to a kiss.

Your arm thrown over his waist, your hand feeling greedily at the trim curve atop his hip, you've well and truly wrapped yourself around him. Like an octopus. He imagines the popping sound of your suckers if he tried to detach you (not that he'd want to).

You're dotting shy, soft kisses down the column of his throat. "I love you," you say softly between them, a melody that turns him to jelly. "I love you. Love you, love you, love you."

Your kisses are a compromise —after the general holy fucking shit-ism of your conversation a fortnight ago, Eddie put his foot down. He was out of his mind knowing his apartment was about to become yours, but he was also incredibly unhappy about the faces you'd made before he asked. He remembers your voice, your apprehension as you mumbled, "No, because, you're being off with me."

Eddie had been totally off trying to figure out how to ask what was potentially the second most important question he could ever ask you; he was distracted enough by it that he totally forgot about kissing you senseless. And your worrying asked a totally new question he hadn't thought of before. Why does Eddie always kiss you first? And why had the lack of a kiss been seen as a bar, and not an invitation?

Hence Project Kiss Me, Stupid. Or Project Kiss Me Stupid if he's feeling particularly in love (because you aren't stupid at all, but you may have made an unintelligent assumption (Eddie not kissing you for a few hours did not mean even slightly that he isn't gross in love).

The project was more like a proposal. Eddie decided you should be making the first move more often, so you weren't ever left feeling like something was wrong between you for lack of a kiss again. "If you ever think I'm mad at you, plant one on me. I promise I won't be mad much longer," he told you.

You're passing with flying colours, as far as he's concerned. Eddie thinks your moving in was gift enough, but fuck, all these kisses? He's been a walking vestibule of love, and lust, and sickening fondness for two weeks now. Project Kiss Me Stupid is the best thing that's ever happened to him. He's a genius.

"Good morning," you say into his neck, a hint of teeth scratching him with the greeting. Eddie cups the back of your head with a weak, tired groan as your lips close over his pulse.

"Morning," he says. His voice is thick with the grit of sleep.

"This is okay?" you ask, pausing in your kiss.

Eddie tips his head back heavily into plush pillows, your pillows, fresh with new bedding to match the nightstands you'd decided on together. "Please," he says. His arm slides behind your back to belt you in. "I'm gonna think you don't like me anymore if you take any longer."

"Very funny," you murmur.

He knows he's forgiven for teasing when your face dives back into the crook of his neck. His eyes shutter closed, blissed, thinking, God, I could get used to this, when you nip him.

"You didn't like my joke, I take it?"

"It was funny," you say, giving him a scratching kiss.

"That's counter-intuitive," he warns. "I like it rough."

You fall away from him to cover your face with both hands. He knows he's rubbing off on you at the sight, your head shaking a theatrical side to side that fails to hide real embarrassment beneath it. You look especially tortured.

Eddie knows exactly how to fix it.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

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blueywrites · 1 year

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I Will Wait

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness

18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader, alcohol consumption

three (15.3k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes

in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. enjoy! 🐝

The next few months are an absolute whirlwind. Corroded Coffin was in the last legs of producing their new album when you were hired, meaning the period of time when they were gearing up for the debut was just getting started. Photoshoots, interviews, preparing press releases, scheduling future appearances, and a million other things all seemed to be happening at once.

In addition to being the middleman between Eddie and the powers that be, which mostly consisted of Steve sending you constant emails of new appointments, you also were quick to learn some of the other expectations that comes along with being a PA for a celebrity. Mainly: house work.

At first you had thought they were fucking with you when Eddie mentioned that he needed you to come to his brownstone in the morning to do his laundry. As it turns out, he was both completely serious and incredibly amused with your ignorance of all the things you had technically signed up to do for him by taking this position. So you found yourself letting yourself into the Munson brownstone in Greenwich Village a few times a week to do menial tasks for your client.

Today, you’d walked in around 10am, much to Eddie’s displeasure, and were greeted with a bag full of laundry thrown at your feet. “Good morning to you too, Eddie,” you offer, albeit a bit dryly as you place your pocketbook on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Did the maid I hired not get around to laundry this week?”

“Fired her.” Eddie sounds way too chipper for this time of day, and you can only guess it’s because of his smug smile as he forces you into doing things you’ve tried to work around. “Kept looking at my underwear weird; thought she was gonna sell it or something.”

Not believing it for a second, you still give him a tight smile. “I’m sure. I’ll work on finding another maid to clean the brownstone. Again.”

“You do that!” He calls over his shoulder as he walks further into the bright and airy kitchen. In his black sweatpants and bleach-stained tank top, he looks completely at odds with his own home. It sometimes makes you wonder if his wife, Robin, picked everything out or if they had just gotten a designer to come in and make it like a show home. The first floor is beautifully decorated but stale, like no one actually lives there. It gets a bit more personal as you ascend but it still seems strange to have a home feel so disconnected. “Oh—” he looks back over as you lift the bag of laundry into your arms with a huff, “I have a pair of silk boxers in there that need to be hand washed, so don’t even think about putting them in the machine. And, uh… don’t worry about the stains.”

Oh, how you wish you could smack the cheeky grin off his face sometimes. You mumble an acknowledgement as you carry the bag through the first floor and past the kitchen, passing through an open door frame that leads into the laundry/mud room. Sorting lights and darks, despite the very intense lack of white articles that need to be cleaned, you start shoving black fabric after black fabric into the top load washing machine. When the tips of your fingers brush silk, your teeth clench tight together as you clutch it in your fist and throw it towards the deep sink a few feet away.

Once the machine is started, you walk back over to where the bundle of black silk now rests at the bottom of the plastic basin. Upon first examination, there are no suspicious ‘stains’ to be seen, but you still don’t trust it. Pinching one of the hems between your fingernails, you lift it up to eye level to inspect further, wanting to know exactly what you’re getting into before you get started.

The french door behind you pulls open with a stream of sunlight and a brush of floral perfumed air. Still holding the offending garment between your fingertips, you spin toward where Robin has just entered the mud room, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose and a book in her hand. “Uh…” Her hand slowly drops from the door handle, a smile stretching across her face as her eyebrows raise. “Whatcha doin’?”

Embarrassment wells up to warm your face, which you assume was Eddie’s goal all along, while you give Robin a tense smile. “Eddie fired the maid again. Said his silk underwear needed to be ‘hand-washed’.”

Robin’s sigh is one of long-suffering acceptance as she crosses over to you, grabs the boxers, and throws them into the running washing machine. “He’s fucking with you; you know how he is.” The sunglasses are pushed up into her hair so she can fix you with her blue-eyed stare. “You can just… push back a little. Don’t let him walk all over you.”

“It’s my job to—”

“Your job is not to just do whatever the fuck he tells you to do. Like, hiring the maid was a good move. He probably would’ve had you over here everyday dusting his little trophies if you hadn’t outsmarted him.” Her smile is warm, almost like she’s proud. “Your job is to make sure he can do his job. That’s all.”

Since meeting Robin 3 months ago, she has been nothing but sweet and kind to you. Despite being your client’s wife, she very often put herself in your corner, facing off against some of Eddie’s more unreasonable requests. While you don’t necessarily need her intervention, it still is nice to have sometimes. Her reassurance has your tension easing, a deep breath expanding your lungs in slight relief. “Thank you, Robin.”

“No prob,” she taps the cover of her paperback against your bicep as she moves past you and out into the kitchen. “Eddie!”

You follow her through the entry just in time to see Eddie spinning toward her shout, an open gallon of milk in his hand and a white stain on his upper lip. “Hey Rob, what’s the move?”

“God, Munson, you’re so fucking gross.” She pushes his shoulder out of her way to reach into the fridge and pull out a decanter of orange juice. “Remind me to never drink the milk in this house again.”

He sets the jug on the kitchen island and leans on his elbow to keep himself in her sideview, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. “And you married me anyway.”

“Don’t remind me,” she groans, although it betrays a certain level of amusement with her husband as she places her palm on his forehead and pushes him away again. Watching the easy interaction of their back and forth, always acting more like best friends than a more formal married couple, has a pang twisting in your chest. You can only hope for such an easy and comfortable relationship with your soulmate one day.

Two days later, you’re once again standing in the Munson brownstone in the early hours of the morning. Or, Eddie’s version of early, which happens to be anytime before noon. You hadn’t had time to find another cleaning service yet so you were elbows deep in the sink in their kitchen, bright yellow silicon gloves protecting your hands from the hot, soapy water as you washed bowls and coffee cups.

Eddie appears at the bottom of the stairs, yawning loudly as he stretches his arms skyward, shirt lifting to show a peek at the ink beneath. You pay him no mind as you continue your methodical cleaning of ceramics, keeping your eyes down even when he walks right up beside you and leans on the counter. Fully content to ignore him until your task is done, you can’t help but startle away when his fingertips ghost against your temple, pushing the hair back.

“What are you doing?” You finally glance over at him, your voice pitching up a bit in surprise. His smile is mischievous, eyes shining in the light, leaning over further to rest his chin on his fist.

“Oh, I was just fixing it for you. Your hands are wet and soapy.”

Exhaling through your nose, you go back to focusing on scrubbing the burnt eggs from the bottom of a frying pan. Over the last month or so, Eddie has gone from barely tolerating your existence and trying to make your life miserable, to being very pleased with your existence so he can continue to push the envelope on making your life miserable. It has become more and more like a game for him – testing the boundaries on what you will tolerate. Both what you will do for him and how much he can flirt with you until you get terse.

After a moment of awkward silence, at least on your end, you move to break the tension. “We should go over your schedule for today.”

He gives an exaggerated sigh, turning to lean both arms back on the counter beside you. “If we have to.”

“Your stylist asked you to be on site by 10am so they would have time to get you ready before the photographers arrived.” You’re barely halfway through your sentence before Eddie is groaning, sinking a bit lower onto his elbows. Mustering a flat look, you turn your head in his direction. “Why are you pouting?”

“I forgot the fucking photoshoot was today.” A ringless hand comes up to rub at the side of his face, still a bit swollen from sleep. “The only thing worse is those stupid press interviews.”

You turn back to the soap filled bowl in your gloved hands to hide your smile. “Good thing that’s not today. The interview is later this week.” Eddie’s reaction is instantaneous and dramatic – he moans in outrage as he slides all the way down to the floor beside you, leaning over to lightly hit his forehead against the side of your outer thigh over and over.

“I swear, it’s like you hate me,” his voice is muffled from below, face directed down. “You hate me when I have been nothing but nice to you.”

An amused snort leaves you against your will at the idea. His head whips back to look up at you in surprise and you barely manage to school your expression in time. “It’s not personal, Eddie. I’m just doing my job.”

“Speaking of your job,” he picks himself up off the floor in a less-than-graceful fashion, his sweatpants running much lower as he rises. You keep your eyes in the sink as you wipe down the last coffee mug left and pretend you aren’t seeing him adjust the fabric around his groin. “I need you to walk my lizard today.”

Halfway through removing the stopper from the sink to drain the used water, you freeze with your forearm still in the slowly lowering water. “Excuse me?”

He’s leaning on his elbow again, a smug smile on his face as he watches your reactions. “My lizard. You know, the one upstairs?” You make a noise of acknowledgement that you know what lizard he’s referring to. “He needs to be walked once a week. Specifically on sunny days. Normally around noon when the sun is highest, so he gets the most of the heat, y’know?”

You feel your eyebrows drawing together in confusion, trying to think back to what you know about lizards. Which, admittedly, is not much. Still, needing to walk a lizard sounds incorrect. You’ve never seen someone walking around with their lizard on a leash. You’re about to start to question him more when you catch sight of his expression. He has his lips drawn in between his teeth, his eyes pinched tight as he tries not to laugh. “... You’re fucking with me.” The laugh escapes as a bark, his palm slapping down on the counter beside you as it echoes out into the high ceilings of the brownstone. “You almost fell for it too!”

Bristling in annoyance and just a little bit of embarrassment, you take a deep breath and hang the damp gloves over the edge of the now-empty sink to dry. “I think it’s time for you to get ready to leave.”

His mirth dies down fast, his head rolling back to sigh at the ceiling. “But, and here’s the thing right, I really don’t want to go.” You make another noncommittal noise, not looking to encourage his antics right now. Neck rolling toward you, that cheeky grin that you’ve come to loathe is back. “Beg me and I’ll do it.”

Another exhale out of your nose to remain calm, you weigh your options. If you beg, you are playing into his games and encouraging antics like this. But, you also get the result you want faster. If you refuse, you are technically standing your ground, but could end up with a bigger fight to try to get him ready and out the door in time. Deciding to play his game, you give him the flattest expression you’re capable of. “Will you please get ready to leave for your photoshoot?”

This time the sigh he lets out is satisfied, his shoulders falling and eyes closing in what looks like relief. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re accompanied by a lazy smile. “Love when you say please.” He taps the tip of your nose, shocking you still, as he turns back toward the stairs. “I’ll be ready in no time!”

He is not ready in no time.

You’re standing at the bottom of the stairs at 10:10am and have still not seen head nor tail of Eddie since he traipsed back up. The car outside has already honked twice, letting you know it’s waiting, but you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Eddie, we’re already late!” Your voice echoes through the multi-floor space, definitely loud enough for him to hear, but you get no response. Patience running thin, you raise your voice again. “Eddie!”

You finally hear him reply, voice far off. “I got stuck in my pants, maybe you should come up and help me!”

Pressing your fingertips to your brow bone hard enough to pull the skin of your eyelid, you call back, “If you’re struggling to put your own pants on, I should probably call a medical professional.”

The soles of now-familiar boots appear at the top of the tall staircase, your eyes trailing up their occupant as he begins to slowly lumber his way down the stairs. He’s in his usual attire. Scuffed Doc Martens, a pair of black jeans stretched tight over his endless thighs, leather jacket fitted against his frame, those chunky rings adorning his fingers. Around his neck he wears multiple silver chains of varying sizes, dipping low into the collar of his shirt. “Y’know you could stand to be a little more fun.”

You remain firm, arms crossed as you wait for him to hit the final step. “I don’t think I understand your version of fun.” He blows a raspberry in your direction as he crosses the foyer to start shoving things into the already-tight pockets of his jeans. “We’re already late, and that means we are just delaying further when we can get to your preferred portion of the day at the studio.”

He meets your eyes through the mirror before him. Both of you showing an attempt at nonchalance. “I swear, sometimes when you talk it’s like a fly buzzing around my head and I just,” he swats once, “can’t,” twice, “get it,” three times, “to stop.”

“Maybe you should get better aim,” you offer coolly as you cross behind him to hold open the front door, hoping to get him to finally walk through it. “Or, better yet, you should consider actually listening to me instead of letting it go in one ear and out the other.”

“But it's like a buzzing little bee in my ear. Gets so annoying whenever you’re droning on and on about responsibilities and my to do list and shit.” He walks past you as he continues his rant, bouncing down the small set of stairs leading to street level. You’ve just turned back from locking the door when he whirls on you. “Maybe if you wore something a little more easy on the eyes, I’d be able to focus more on what comes out of your mouth.”

When you grit your teeth, his grin only grows, backing up towards the black sedan waiting for you both. Your voice is a thinly veiled warning when you start to say, “Eddie –”

“Careful, little Bee,” he opens the door, lifting a boot to rest on the frame. “If you get too aggressive, you’ll lose your stinger for good.” Then he falls into the darkened car, leaving the door open and sliding across so you can get in next to him. With no other option, you stomp down your frustration and climb in after him.

You’re not sure what to expect as the car pulls up in front of an abandoned warehouse out on Long Island. At first glance, it’s a dilapidated looking hole in the wall. From where you’re sitting, you can see the rusted metal roofing, the smashed in windows, exposed beams standing erect to hold up the exterior of the building. You knew the team intended for a grungier, broken down scene to represent the lyrics of the band’s latest album portraying a man’s downfall; however, you hardly anticipated something such as this in the seemingly middle of nowhere.

Eddie’s knee spreads further right from where he sits next to you, jean-clad thigh brushing yours ever so softly. Your head shifts to take him in, gaze trailing instantaneously to where you’re connected, stamping down the feeling that wells up and lingers behind your ribs with every fleeting moment such as this. His amber eyes are shrouded behind a pair of sunglasses today, tattooed hand nearest to you sprawled over his bent kneecap. There’s a thought burgeoning in his gaze, ever present before he ever even opens his mouth to speak out his reluctant drawl of, “Guess it’s now or never.”

The two of you slide out the car in unison on opposite sides of the respective vehicle, winding around the exterior and meeting to join in the center of the uneven, grassy ground. His lip quirks upward as he takes in the sight of you like a newborn doe on heels that insist on sinking into the ground, head tipping your way in the only acknowledgement of your presence you’ll likely receive. Inside, you’re immediately greeted by rusted over conveyor belts in the center of the room. There are steel beam stairs leading to an upper deck overlooking the central portion of the interior. To your left is the wall least eaten away by rust throughout the years, silver metal spanning from floor to ceiling, with endless lights positioned around the edges of the parameters to illuminate the set.

Your head tips to Eddie, standing there disinterested as ever, head tipping up to the sky, visible through the broken up ceiling. Like this, you can see every dark wave of hair that dances along the leather of his jacket, the ridges on the column of his pale throat, the tattoos that creep up high along the neckline of his collar, hinting at intricate detailing beneath. And then that left hand settles over the bridge of his sunglasses and pushes them upward, the glint of his wedding ring catching in your field of view, and you set your gaze on the glowing set before you as you edge closer to your destination.

The room itself is bustling. People shift and mill about the warehouse, carrying various pallets and crates in hand and positioning them strategically around the room in order to create impactful angles for the intended photos. Workers chat amongst themselves with cameras draped around their necks, clipboards in hand as they mark down a list of tasks you’re not privy to. Once nearer to the group, a woman comes barreling over in a flurry of movement. She’s gorgeous. Deep russet skin, dark hair styled to perfection, a tape measure over her shoulder, and a pair of leather pants curled over a forearm. You catch the glint of her artful gold hoops in either of her ears and the bright makeup covering her eyelids. You admire the rips in her jeans and the fabric of her oversized hoodie as she tuts audibly and glares Eddie’s way. You assume this isn’t the first time Eddie’s run behind schedule, try as you might to get him there as close to on time as possible.

“You’re late!” She admonishes, hand dropping to a popped out hip. For the first time since you’ve been working for Eddie, you catch the slight drop in his steely facade. It’s barely noticeable, just the slightest downturn of his lips, but you capture it all the same, knowing this woman intimidates him in a way no one else seems capable of doing so. She turns to you then, flashing you a megawatt smile. “Erica. Erica Sinclair. I’m Corroded Coffin’s stylist. I’m sure you tried your very best to get him here on time, but you see Edward wouldn’t be Edward if he wasn’t late to everything.”

“Fashionably late, Sinclair.” She glances him up and down, clearly unimpressed by his excuse, and curls a hand around his shoulder.

“Says the man who would wear the same ugly ass Hellfire shirt to every fitting when I first started working with you all. It’s a miracle by my own doing that you know how to dress yourself now. Come on, the team is already paying for your lateness,” she says, and without another word your way, she ushers him to a trailer standing just outside of the warehouse, where you anticipate the rest of the band to be readying for their photoshoot within.

You’re left to stand in the back of the warehouse, trying to keep out of the way of those working around you. With a low sigh, you wander over to the furthest wall covered in sheet metal and broken in windows, looking out into the grassy landscape. A bird flits on by, drawing your attention, just as a voice sounds from behind you. Jolting, you whirl on the heel and spot none other than Steve himself, and beside him, a man you’ve yet to meet before.

The man’s bearded face is twisted in a scowl as he shouts into his brick of a cell phone. He’s gesticulating wildly, dark curls bouncing with every angry movement. You can only catch snippets of his impassioned rant, but you’ve gathered enough to know that he does not suffer fools gladly.

Steve stands awkwardly beside the man, wincing on occasion at his booming voice. The scene is not entirely inviting, but you have no choice but to approach when Steve’s gaze catches yours. His face lights up in recognition, and he waves his hand to beckon you near. As you approach, Steve steps forward and briefly pats your upper back in greeting.

“Glad to see you made it! I want to introduce you to our band manager, Murray Bauman.” Steve motions you over with a warm smile until another shrill taunt from the man in question has him flinching away. “But let’s just give him a minute, shall we?” You agree politely and turn with Steve to observe Murray closing out his phone conversation.

“I don’t care how busy you are, get it done TODAY!” Murray’s barking demand echoes throughout the warehouse, and you stare as he rips the phone from his ear and takes out his frustrations by repeatedly smashing the end call button. He lets out an annoyed breath before pushing his wireframe glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Fair warning, he can be… bold.” Steve whispers this warning for your ears only. Just another hothead for the collection, you snort to yourself. You deal with Eddie Munson on a daily basis. How much worse could Murray Bauman be? Steve walks ahead of you to serve as the bridge during introductions. Before Steve can offer an explanation, Murray’s annoyed face takes in your approach with suspicion.

“Who are you? Harrington, why are you bringing this person to bother me?” Murray interrogates you immediately. He regards you skeptically, assessing whether you are worth his time or attention.

“Murray, this is the assistant I was telling you about,” Steve explains, offering your name as he beckons you forward. “You know, the one who is currently working with Eddie.”

“You mean the one you forced me to hire?”

Steve casts a furtive glance your way before his gaze whips back to Murray, the stare holding weight as he replies, “She’s lasted four months, Murray.”

Murray looks back flatly as Steve tries to impress some knowledge upon him with a combination of wide hazel eyes and bushy brows. Behind his wireframe glasses, Murray squints. “Four months?” He replies skeptically, and Steve nods slowly.

“Four months,” he enunciates slowly, and you watch the men communicate through shifting facial expressions: Steve’s eyes implore Murray to be civil, while Murray appears exasperated by the prospect of niceties. Eventually, Murray lets out a groan before forcing his face into a perfunctory smile.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Murray offers, insincerity lacing his every word. His dark eyes cut to Steve as if to ask - happy now? All at once, his mask crumbles and he returns to his brash self. “Do me a favor, yeah? Keep Munson in line. I’d prefer to not clean up any more of his messes.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” you reply. “It’s very nice to mee–”

“What the hell are you wearing?” Murray sounds appalled, disgust written all over his face. His question makes you stutter to a stop. You look down at your outfit and see nothing untoward - white blouse, black cardigan, plaid pleated skirt, dark tights, and chunky heels. It’s simple and professional. It’s safe. Or so you thought. Confused, you look back up to see that Murray isn’t making eye contact with you. Instead, he’s glaring at something or someone behind you. That’s when you register the sound of heavy boots thudding your way. You turn to see who has inspired such a visceral reaction from Murray, but instinctively you know who you’ll find.

Eddie.

He strides toward you with Erica by his side. She looks proud of her work, and you can’t blame her. Eddie looks… well, he looks hot. To put it bluntly. Erica has given Eddie a monochrome look that’s enhanced by different textures and accessories. His black suit is striking with its satin lapels and tailored fit. The suit jacket is unbuttoned, revealing the pièce de résistance - a mesh top that leaves little to the imagination.

“You look ridiculous! Where’s the rest of your shirt?” Murray’s question is directed at Eddie, but his scowl is aimed straight at Erica. Any other person would have withered under the intensity of his glower, but Erica seems emboldened by it.

“Where’s the rest of your hair?!” Erica counters without a moment's hesitation, arms crossed in defiance. “Leave the dressing to the experts. Seriously, Murray. You look like a sad, middle-aged hack going through a divorce.”

“Oh, spare me, Sinclair.”

Erica and Murray’s jibes muddle with Steve’s pleas to stop, eventually fading into background noise as you observe the man standing before you.

You have to hand it to Erica - it’s a daring look. The mesh hugs Eddie’s torso in a way that flatters his lithe frame and provides just enough of a glimpse of his tattoos to captivate any onlooker. His pale skin is heavily decorated in ink, and you can’t help but try deciphering what you’re seeing through the mesh. Eddie’s collection of tattoos seems to pay homage to his love of music and fantasy. On his left side, you spy an unusual string instrument with the word bard etched underneath. Just below that, you see artwork of a dagger with a blade made of uniquely shaped dice. By his right ribcage, Eddie has a tattoo of a mighty dragon with wings poised for flight. The dragon’s claws seemingly tear into the supple skin of Eddie’s toned abdomen. You follow the dragon’s scales down, down, down until its tail disappears beneath Eddie’s suit trousers - along with a little patch of sparse hair below his navel.

I wonder where that tattoo ends. The thought jolts you back to reality. This is your client— your very married client— whose wife has been nothing but kind to you. The guilt and shame overwhelm you.

You become very aware that you’re still ogling Eddie’s body, and your eyes race upwards to find a more appropriate location to settle. Unfortunately, your retreat to safety is foiled by the glimmer of metal you spot by Eddie’s nipples. You feel flustered by the sudden warmth blossoming within you. Eddie Munson has his nipples pierced. You had been too distracted by his tapestry of tattoos to notice them at first, but now you’ll never be able to forget that the piercings exist. Great going, you think to yourself, you try to avoid staring at your client's happy trail only to stare at his nipple piercings instead. Well done, very professional.

To your horror, Eddie has caught you staring. He sports a look of faux disappointment with his plump lips pushed into a pout. His tattooed hand points to his face, and he teases, “Tsk, tsk, little Bee. My eyes are up here.”

Your mind races to find a suitable excuse for your staring, or better yet, a way to deny it happened in the first place. Eddie is looking at you like he’s a spider that has caught you in his web, and you break eye contact to save some face. It ends up being the wrong decision because your mortification only deepens when you realize that Murray and Steve have witnessed Eddie’s accusation. Erica has long since departed after her verbal sparring match with Murray. Without her there to act as the target for his irritation, Murray is now laser-focused on you and Eddie. “Hmm… that’s interesting,” he observes, his head tilting to the side in curiosity.

“What’s interesting?” Steve asks.

“Keep up, Harrington,” Murray offers no explanation and instead dodges Steve’s question with a dismissive wave of his hand. Steve places his hands on his hips looking utterly bewildered. He goes to speak again, but Murray beats him to the punch. “So, Munson… I hear that your assistant has lasted four months working with you. Is that right?”

Murray’s inquiry has an instant effect on Eddie’s body language. His playful pouting has dissipated, and his stance now appears guarded. He crosses his arms over his chest— over the distracting nipple piercings, thank god— as he eyes his band manager cautiously. “... why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason at all. Just curious,” Murray replies nonchalantly. “You must be getting along.” You don’t know Murray well at all. However, you do know Eddie well enough to take his weariness as a signal that things could soon become uncomfortable.

“I haven’t scared her off, yet. If that’s what you mean,” Eddie scoffs. “But don’t worry, I’m still working on it.” It’s a classic Eddie move - making a joke of something to avoid showing any hint of being rattled. He throws a coquettish grin in your direction, which does not go unnoticed by Murray. Steve looks uneasy, as if this conversation will upset whatever balance you’ve struck with Eddie.

“I sure hope she isn’t stroking your ego too much.” Murray’s tone is blasé, but his implication is clear. “And you better not be giving her a mouthful.” Steve can no longer stand idly by now that he has finally caught onto what Murray found so intriguing. He swoops in to intervene by physically placing himself between Eddie and Murray.

“Well this has been fantastic,” Steve forces a laugh out and runs a shaky hand through his brown locks. “Murray, let’s continue that chat about merch, yeah?” He is practically vibrating with nervous energy as he tries encouraging Murray to move.

Allowing himself to be led away, Murray offers a farewell over his shoulder, “Good luck, kid. If you need anything, anything at all, do not contact me. Bother Harrington instead.” At the mention of his name, Steve turns briefly to mouth I’m sorry as the pair exit.

Mind spinning off kilter from everything that occurred in the last few minutes, you turn yourself back toward Eddie for a sense of stability. Since when is Eddie something constant in your life? You find a very tense-looking man. The muscles in his jaw are pulled tight as he glares at the spot once occupied by Murray. The moment ends quickly as if he can feel your eyes on him. Eddie annoyingly seems to have gained a sixth sense for knowing when you’re staring. His crossed arms fall along with the seriousness of his expression, hands tucking into his front pockets. The action only causes his pants to inch lower and, for a split second, your eyes are instinctively drawn to the patch of skin now on show.

My eyes are up here.

The echo in your brain rings out and has your glance jumping back up in horror. Eddie watches every movement and his lips pull between his teeth again, the same face he made this morning when he was trying not to laugh. All you can offer in defense is rolling your shoulders back to look taller and making your gaze sharper, daring him to say something. He lifts his hands in surrender, his lips popping out into a self-satisfied smile as he turns on his heel and saunters back toward the set, whistling all the while. You begrudgingly follow after him.

Eddie’s pace is unhurried as he drags his feet in a clear display of apathy. You spot the rest of the band gathered around a petite woman speaking animatedly and pointing to various spots on the set. She’s captivating with her high cheekbones, loose brunette waves, and eyes like the ocean. Those eyes narrow upon seeing Eddie’s dawdling.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” she chides. “We’ve been waiting on you. Hurry it up.”

“Hello to you, too, Wheeler. I didn’t realize you were so excited to see me. I’d hate to disappoint a fan,” Eddie teases with a roguish grin wide across his face. Much to your surprise, he picks up his pace and joins the others in listening to Nancy— whose first name you learn indirectly, thanks to Eddie’s habit of calling everyone by their last names— detail the aim of today’s photoshoot. She explains that the media team will be experimenting with several looks in order to use the photos for both album promotion and touring purposes.

Eddie turns to you as Nancy begins guiding the others to their spots on set. “Enjoy the show. You sure seemed to earlier.” He winks and turns on his heel to join the others.

Deny! Deflect! Do something!

“I was only admiring Erica’s work! It had nothing to do with you.” You can see Eddie’s shoulders shaking with laughter, and you know he’s not convinced. To be fair, you haven’t convinced yourself either. It sounds weak even to your ears, like a last-ditch effort to save your dignity. Feeling defeated, you slump over to the chairs lining the wall where you can watch the photoshoot concealed behind the photography equipment.

Two hours pass and the band is still preoccupied with taking pictures. You watch as they’re pushed and pulled into different poses and settings. The process feels overall repetitive, but Nancy does her best to keep energy levels high. She directs the photographers to get solo shots, which leads to hilarious chaos as the band hypes each other up behind the camera. “Yeah, Harry! Rock out with your Cox out!”

Despite the momentary amusement, you find yourself mostly bored watching from the sidelines. You’re both surprised and grateful when you see a familiar face enter the set. Robin peers around at the flurry of activity before making her way over to you.

“Finally some good company,” you breathe out in relief. Robin is delightful to be around, and you mean it when you share your appreciation for her presence. She gives you a sympathetic look before taking a seat beside you.

“These things can take forever,” she commiserates. “But Nancy will keep them on track. Don’t worry. They’re lucky to have her. She’s brilliant.” Her husky voice sounds especially warm with adoration.

Just as Robin said, Nancy is brilliant in her precise and methodical approach. She directs the crew in adjusting the lights and backdrops with ease. Her critical eye allows her to observe each shot and offer valuable posing guidance. It’s impressive to watch someone be so in her element.

You and Robin sit together and make small talk until there’s a break for a set and wardrobe change. Robin excuses herself and makes her way over to Nancy. You notice Nancy’s focused demeanor melt into one of warmth upon Robin's approach, and the sight of their friendly affection for one another brings a smile to your face. Quite honestly, it makes you miss your friends; you’ve been so busy since starting this job that you haven’t found much time to see them.

Eddie walks past the pair on his way to meet Erica, briefling nodding at his wife in acknowledgement. He stops abruptly and looks around at the crowded set before swiveling back to face them.

“Hey Wheeler, did Robin tell you she’s getting new headshots done for her upcoming play?” he asks. “Do you mind giving her some pointers while we break?”

Nancy brightens at the suggestion, “That’s a great idea. I’d be happy to help!”

“Why don’t you two go somewhere private? I don’t want all these people leering at my sexy wife when she’s posing.” Eddie winks at Robin, who whispers a quiet ‘thank you’ before leaving with Nancy. You’re touched by what you’ve just witnessed. Eddie is actually a supportive and loving husband. The longing hits you unexpectedly. When will it be my turn? Soulmate, where are you?

It’s exhausting to pine for someone you haven’t met yet. You have all of this love to give without a person to receive it and reciprocate. It feels aimless, like being adrift in the dark ocean with no light to guide you home. You’re too lost in your yearning to notice that Eddie has returned and is standing beside your chair.

“Everything okay, Bee?” The question physically jolts you from surprise. You wait for the inevitable teasing from Eddie about catching you off guard. Instead, you look up to find Eddie eyeing you closely. Whatever he sees in you in that moment must cause him concern. His brow is furrowed, and there’s an unexpected tenderness in his gaze.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, I got distracted by my thoughts.”

“Well, that’s no good. What did I tell you this morning about having more fun?” Eddie hold his hand out for you to take, and he gently coaxes you to stand. His calloused hands feel rough against your gentleness, but you find it comforting. Once upright, he drops your hand and offers out his arm out as a replacement. “Come on, I’ve got just the idea to break you out of your shell.”

The two of you walk side by side comfortably, and Eddie guides you to where the band and Nancy have reconvened. The guys are looking up at one of the warehouse walls in deep observation. You squint your eyes, searching for something on the wall that might be drawing their attention. Having no success, you look back to the band and realize they’re each holding something. Are those spray paint cans? Your ears perk up at the sound of rattling as Gareth shakes the can he’s holding. Yeah, definitely spray paint. You send a quizzical look Eddie’s way.

“Murray thought we needed some more edgy photos. He suggested we graffiti the wall for the next set,” he explains. “Wheeler was all worried about it, but… Murray knows best.” He mutters the last part bitterly, shaking his head with distaste. “He might actually be right about this, though.” Eddie steps forward, breaking your linked arms, and snags two spray paint cans from the ground. He holds one out to you, his face alight with mischief.

You look around self consciously, noting that Steve and Murray are both within view. You fidget nervously and contemplate whether you can let your hair down while on the job. No one else appears to be partaking; only the band members have been given spray paint. “Are you sure about this? I think it’s just meant for you all.”

Eddie throws his head back with an exaggerated groan. “Come on! Live a little.” He snaps out of his dramatics when he hears the sound of hissing fill the air from the spray paint cans in use. Gareth, Jeff, and Harry have already begun doodling on the wall without him. “See?! We’re missing out on the fun because you’re overthinking.”

He extends the can out to you once more, gently nudging you to partake. He grins widely when you take the simple black paint from him reluctantly. You can do this. Show him you’re not always so uptight.

You slowly approach the wall and think about what to paint. You need to show him that you can have fun and keep up with his jokes. The idea comes to you easily, and you get to work on your masterpiece. It’s a simple piece that only takes a few minutes for you to prepare. .

Eddie is intently focused on drawing a large, crimson devil’s face, and you need to wave to get his attention. When his eyes meet yours, you point to your painting and await his reaction. Previously blank, the wall now sports the image of a humble bumblebee. The bee has two basic stripes, fluttering wings, and most importantly - a stinger. Eddie’s warning from this morning is fresh on your mind. If you get too aggressive, you’ll lose your stinger for good.

Your artistic choice has the intended effect, and Eddie lets out a hearty laugh. He smiles at you, and those brown eyes crinkle at the corners with joy. He looks proud, and it stirs something unexpected inside of you. You find that you like pleasing him.

“Atta girl.”

You suppress a shiver that the hum of his voice conjures despite the flippancy of his words.

That photoshoot, though chaotic in and of itself, somehow ended up becoming the calm before the storm for you. A demarcation point beyond which your days became filled with the relentless pursuit of planning a multi-month tour for a moderately famous industrial metal band. Days that had previously been spent ushering Eddie around to meetings with some semblance of timeliness and bringing him snacks when he gets cranky are now consumed by filling a thickening manilla envelope with neat documents, each marked with your precise handwriting as you plan and record each aspect of the trip logistics: contacting venues as per Steve’s direction, managing their hospitality riders, tracking expenses and budgeting for food and accommodations, as well as other minutiae that, frankly, has begun to make that vein throbbing in your neck a near constant companion by the end of the workday. The hours feel long, longer than they do when you’re trying to wrangle Eddie; though the days aren’t physically taxing as you spend them holed up at a desk fitted snugly into the closet you’d reorganized, they are mentally exhausting as those dates, dollar amounts, and contact names begin to tangle up in your head. You spill them out onto your trusty desk calendar, collecting them there as you stretch the strands and detangle them in order to begin weaving together Corroded Coffin’s first tour. It’s a feat you take no small measure of pride in.

Thankfully, during the weeks you spent taming this beast of a task, Eddie and the guys had been occupied almost entirely with rendering the final mix of their album. They’d worked closely with Argyle in refining the balance and levels of instruments and ambient sounds that would create the dirty industrial feel they were seeking with this upcoming release. You’d popped out of your stuffy little closet occasionally to check on them, though they didn’t seem to need much beyond being fed. Eddie, in particular, seemed quite consumed by a desire to see the vision brought to life, and was as serious and engaged as you’d ever seen him with a chair pulled up next to Argyle. That’s where you’d almost always see him when you emerged— long fingers idly twisting chunky rings, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed while he listened carefully and assisted in tweaking such small changes that you hardly could tell the difference with your unpracticed ear. He had a beeper to page you, but through your months of working with him, you’d begun to anticipate what he needs to sustain him daily in this routine— a hot to-go cup of black coffee first thing in the morning; at least half a box of cigarettes in the pocket of his leather jacket, on call for a smoke break; a salty snack around his lull time of four in the afternoon, which you rotate to keep him from getting bored; and next-to-no interruptions except a quick meeting of your gazes a few times a day in case it reminds him to ask you for something.

And now, finally, as late August adorns the New York streets with haze rising from the asphalt and paints sidewalks with the frantic bustle of summer tourists, your strands of dates and locations and prices and contact names have now been woven together to form a complete tapestry: Accommodations for Corroded Coffin’s ‘95-’96 Album Tour. All the knotted muscles in your shoulders, the bloodshot eyes, the late nights and early mornings had been worth it to get to this point— the point at which the final picture of what exactly that tour would entail has been tied off into neat and tidy knots of thorough efficiency. You stretch your arms above your head and your spine pops with relief; despite the fatigue you feel fuzzing between your eyebrows, you push back your chair almost cheerily and pull the headphones from your ears, prepared pop from the closet and join the men whose tour you’ve just planned.

When you emerge, you expect to see them all in some approximation of the same position as usual— Argyle and Eddie sat in front of the mixing board, Harry hovering close behind, and Gareth and Jeff either mucking about in the studio or sprawled on the couches in the corner where they call out their contributions. Instead, you’re surprised by the presence of an unexpected figure, who acts as the nexus point around which the rest of the band hovers. He’s got his hands stuffed under his armpits and his hip jutted out, one loafer tapping against the floor, though behind his wire-rimmed spectacles he looks less irritated than the last time you’d seen him. I suppose having the tour booked and the album finished would put any band manager in a decent mood, you think, eager to join the throng of smiling men who gather around him.

“What’s on the menu? Anything good? ” Gareth is asking as you walk up.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is free food not good enough for you? You eat Smarties in Yoohoo as breakfast cereal. Get a grip,” Murray snipes, and laughter rumbles through the group.

“Oh!” All eyes turn to you at your little sound of surprise. “What promo event are you discussing? Did Steve plan something? I don’t remember seeing it on my weekly agenda notes from him.”

There is a beat of uncharacteristic silence from everyone before Jeff speaks— not quite tripping over himself, but with an extra edge of enthusiasm you don’t typically hear in his voice. “No, no,” he assures you quickly. “You didn’t miss anything. It’s a celebration for finishing the album, not a promo event. Just a get together Murray planned for us tomorrow.” He lifts his brows, eyes warm and sincere, if not a little too wide. “You gonna be there?”

That familiar feeling in your chest— that subtle deflating that sinks into your stomach, reminding you of cafeteria tables lacking in saved space and friends reminiscing over shared experiences you hadn’t even been aware of— weighs you down inside as you look into Jeff’s kind face. It stings, the knowledge that you hadn’t quite been forgotten or excluded, but only just— only because you’d emerged from your makeshift office and wandered into the conversation at just the right moment. Had you not, you would have been none the wiser, and it makes Jeff’s question— ‘You gonna be there?’ — feel awkwardly like you’ve invited yourself.

Still, you choose to save face. “Oh, gotcha!” you say, turning to Murray. “Where is it?”

The neutrality in Murray’s expression in place of his typical sardonic scowl almost makes you feel worse. “My place. You been to the Upper West Side?” You nod. “You can show up anytime after seven. I’ll have Harrington shoot you the address, kid.”

You brace yourself against this second blow— being called ‘kid’ as if you really are just Eddie’s babysitter, as if you hadn’t just single-handedly coordinated an entire tour’s-worth of hotels and restaurants and activities— and smile. “Thank you,” you say, avoiding the dark brown eyes of one curly-haired menace.

Because if there’s pity there, too— pity like the kind you felt in Jeff’s too-wide smile or Murray’s soft nod— you think you might just burst into hot, utterly humiliating tears.

On Friday night, it takes some time for you to dress and even longer for you to resolve to actually attend the celebration party. That last-minute invite has rocked your sense of self, manifesting most clearly in the lack of clarity regarding your outfit. Clothes are strewn across your typically-orderly room like a cyclone of indecision has torn through it, and what you’ve chosen feels barely adequate: silver jewelry, simple mary janes, and a black silk blouse that flows like water against your skin, tucked loosely into the waistband of your bootcut blue jeans. You’d settled on the blouse chiefly because of the color, as if with some subconscious desire to blend in with the men you work with so that maybe next time they won’t forget about you.

After a good nights rest unencumbered by that looming task still hanging over your head— since you’d finally completed it, to your relief— and some consideration, you’d reasoned that the reason for your late invitation was probably not malicious. And when you’d checked your email to see that, not even twenty minutes after your conversation with Murray had Steve emailed and sent you details and the address, it essentially confirmed it. Sure, it certainly still stung knowing that you hadn’t been thought of from the get-go, but you chalked it up to your newness and the fact that you’d been cloistered in your ‘office’ so often lately.

You’d concluded the mistake was likely innocent, and as you stand outside the front door to Murray’s apartment hesitating to knock, you find yourself desperately hoping you’re right, and that you haven’t made a mistake by coming after all. This job is already so different from any you’d had before— nowhere else had you spent so much time intimately intertwined with the details of your employer’s life outside of a professional context. Spending time at Eddie’s apartment to wash his dishes, coordinate his meals, take him to his appointments, fetch him the things he needs… look after him… it all feels more domestic than professional, though in this role, really, those things are one in the same. It blurs the lines and leaves you strangely yearning for inclusion, leaves you feeling more vulnerable, as you finally press your index to the doorbell, than you’d honestly prefer.

A flash of panic hits you as you hear the approach of footsteps beyond the door. You prepare yourself for the sight of Murray’s face half-twitched into a reluctantly-polite smile as the rest of the men stare at you from their seats, drinks dangling from their hands as their eyes turn quickly from you and back to one another.

But when the door swings open, you’re instead greeted with the sight of Gareth’s poofy brown bangs and pink cheeks as he smiles so widely at the sight of you you’re sure his face must ache from it. “She made it!” he exclaims into your face, breath puffing loose and acrid with alcohol as he hooks an arm around your shoulder to pull you inside amidst a rousing chorus of elongated ‘ay’s from the rest of the band.

Your apprehension dissolves like seafoam as he pulls you eagerly inside.

The interior of Murray’s apartment feels as though you’ve walked into a time capsule. You aren’t sure whether the mid-century modern theme is because Murray is partial to the style or because he hasn’t bothered updating the furnishings since the seventies, but judging by his half-unbuttoned ‘party’ shirt striped with deep brown and cream— displaying no little amount of bushy chest hair within which a gold chain is nestled— you figure it’s probably the latter. You look around with interest at the furnishings, intrigued by the design’s ability to feel both high end and also warm, quite a contrast from the modern crispness many favor nowadays. Gareth doesn’t give you much time to sight-see as he leads you towards the party’s epicenter in the living room, though you do notice that the walls are a bold burnt orange, accented by geometric wallpaper and bookshelves filled with vintage books and knick-knacks likely gathered on Murray’s travels. As you pad over the shag carpet in your mary janes, your gaze is drawn to the men crowded on the low-slung sofa around a sleek, glass-top coffee table. The air is hazy with smoke, which wafts from a cigar resting in a crystal ashtray near Murray’s elbow, and the record-player in the corner is crackling with jazz— Miles Davis, if your memory serves you correctly.

All-in-all, it’s nothing what you expected Corroded Coffin’s album-completion party to look like, down to the way they all perk as Gareth leaves you to hover near the side of the couch while he plops back down in his spot on the floor. It’s all the familiar faces you would expect, and no one else. Murray, Steve and Argyle sit on low-profile armchairs pulled up beside the coffee table where cards and poker chips clearly indicate they’re in the middle of a game; Jeff and Gareth are seated together on the floor, and they lift their drink glasses to you when your eyes pass over them; and finally, Harry and Eddie are on the couch, knees spread wide and comfortable as they slouch, though they straighten at your approach. The mens’ greetings become a cacophony of friendly voices you can’t possibly discern as they overlap happily, and you accept them with somewhat shy nods but a pleased smile. Harry immediately shifts over towards the couch’s arm, and when he notices, Eddie does the same, narrowing his knees and shuffling over to the opposite side to make room for you.

It’s a clear invitation, one that makes warmth bloom in your chest as you step carefully over Harry’s shoes to sink onto the low velvet couch between them.

“Did you find the place okay?” Steve asks, and you meet his hazel eyes as you reply,

“Yes, thanks. Actually, my aunt lives—” You find a cup suddenly thrust into your fingers, and you close them hastily around textured glass, glancing down at the amber liquid inside. “What is this?”

“Whiskey, my dude,” Argyle replies, settling back into his chair with a lopsided grin. “Bottoms up.”

You stare at it for a moment skeptically, already balking from the burn in your throat. But, like sharks in the water, they sense your hesitation; as if with one mind, the guys lean forward to goad you with some light ribbing, flashing brows, and wide grins. All except Murray, that is, who seems more impatient to get back to the poker game as he grouses and sighs impatiently.

In the end, it’s Eddie’s elbow in your side and his brown eyes catching yours that do it— his gestures are loose with alcohol, and yet more gentle than you typically see him. “C’mon, little Bee.” He smiles, and something catches in your throat as it brightens his flushed face. “Time to get buzzed.”

Your head tosses back of its own accord as you laugh, tickled by the pun; when you look at him again, Eddie looks inordinately pleased with himself. “All right,” you concede; the guys cheer as Murray shakes his head. And though it burns just as much as you knew it would, when you clink that glass down against the coffee table, coughing slightly as Harry claps you jovially on the back, all you feel is warm. Warmth in your belly, warmth against your sides where Harry and Eddie sit beside you, warmth in your cheeks as you settle back against the cushions and look around at the friendly faces that surround you.

Now that you’ve been christened with your first drink, the group turns back to the game of poker your arrival had interrupted. You watch with interest as they take up their hands again, hiding your giggle behind your hand as Gareth dramatically flops backward in a sprawl on the floor when he loses to Jeff, who rakes the pile of chips in the center gleefully and dramatically into his corner of the table. “I put thirty dollars on that hand; come on, man,” Gareth whines, but Jeff pays him no mind nor offers any mercy.

“D’you know how to play?” Eddie asks you, and you shake your head.

“We can teach you,” Harry offers.

“Oh, I’m fine watching—” You begin to protest but it’s cut off almost as quickly with a sharp movement from Eddie, who snatches a handful of chips from his pile into his broad fist, heedless of the way some bounce to the shaggy carpet below. You’d felt warm in your belly, at your sides, and in your cheeks, but more than anything else, you feel that warmth in your heart as Eddie presses some of his poker chips into your open palm.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to play,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just have some fun.”

You smile at him, a gentle curve of your lips to match the way he pats your wrist before lurching forward to pick up his fallen chips and receive his next hand.

Throughout the games of poker you play, you find yourself both having the fun Eddie had instructed you to and simultaneously watching him, marveling at the way the haze and jazz and laughs and velvet couch have… softened him, almost. He's clearly drunk— more than a little glassy-eyed, with flushed cheeks and loose, heedless swinging of his wild curls and his limbs as he celebrates victories and laments losses— but it’s accompanied by more easy smiles and cackling laughs than you’ve heard from him in the last few months combined. He’s full of life tonight, but without as much biting edge. And you can’t help but think that to see him like this, so relaxed, so happy…

It’s nice. Nice in a way that makes that feeling bloom again— the one you’d been feeling more often since the photoshoot. You shake it quickly away.

His joy fuels the others, you notice. You suppose it makes sense; Eddie’s boisterousness and overwhelming energy tends to dictate the tides despite others’ attempts to direct situations otherwise. And as the night wares on, that easy looseness eventually devolves to become a bit more wild. Of course, it doesn’t take much for some of the others to follow suit.

Somewhere between the umpteenth hand of poker and your third round of drinks, Argyle wanders into Murray’s kitchen and helps himself to the bottle of champagne chilling in an icebucket, most likely prepared by Steve— you can’t see Murray bothering with that. Steve perks up when he comes back over, rubbing his hands on his trousers and rising as he reaches to take it from Argyle.

“Thanks, Arg,” he says, but his gratitude ends up being a little hasty. Because rather than passing the bottle into his waiting hand, Argyle instead begins to shake it with a jerky flail of his arm, forcing Steve to retract his fingers, who huffs affrontedly. “I was gonna say something,” he protests, and while the exasperation is easy to read there, it’s overshadowed as Eddie leaps suddenly off the couch, crouching slightly, face alight with mischief as he circles Argyle on the rug. Once Eddie’s up, everyone follows suit— Jeff and Gareth scramble to join him, and you and Harry follow close behind, your hands clasping your elbows as you eye the proceedings with cautious amusement.

“Yeah, yeah, Steve, we all know what you’re gonna say,” Eddie drawls, but the wide smile on his face takes the edge off the sarcasm. “‘What an incredible accomplishment, we’ve worked so hard, the culmination of many months of effort—’ blah, blah, fuckin’ blah.” Eddie cackles as he flings his arm out to smack Steve companionably in the stomach, making his PR manager stumble slightly due to the accidental force behind the gesture. “Allow me.”

Eddie flourishes and bows dramatically, his wild curls splaying around his shoulders as he jerks his head up to address the group— his face is flushed, pink rather than pale, with a vein popping on his forehead, and you can’t help but shake your head in reluctant, wry amusement as he declares, “Fuck bitches, get money, make metal, and raise fucking hell, boys!”

And with that— without any forewarning, really, besides a slanted smirk— Argyle pops the cork from the champagne bottle, spraying Eddie directly in the face with it.

You don’t know why you wouldn’t have expected it, but you stiffen with a little jerk as Murray roars, “Fuckin’— dammit, Argyle, not on the goddamn rug—!”

His ire is quickly overtaken by joy that fills the room as Jeff and Gareth jump towards the spray, mouths open wide in wait; ever obliging, Argyle coats their faces, too, directing most of the alcohol into their mouths but playfully directing it toward you and Harry too. You squeal and giggle as fizzy drops coat you lightly, turning into Harry’s broad shoulder for protection as the spray gradually weakens until it’s nothing but a dribble dropping to the shag.

In the ensuing silence, Steve looks at Murray sympathetically. “I’ll bill him for the carpet cleaning,” he promises, wringing his hands until Murray’s face calms from apoplectic to merely deeply aggravated.

You’re briefly worried he may pop an aneurysm until Argyle— the only one of you still bone dry— distracts everyone by pulling something casually from his pocket. “Oh, brochachos. Almost forgot. I got this advance copy of the album finished last night.”

The boys explode in a flurry of potent outrage and glee. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us sooner?!” Jeff shouts, and you’re taken aback to see the most even-keeled member of Corroded Coffin shake his producer by the shoulders.

“Relax, dude,” Argyle drawls. “S’not fully mastered yet, but it’s close enough.”

And when the needle scratches to a halt on the record player, replacing smooth, dulcet jazz with the rhythmic drum beat of what you know is the boys’ favorite song on the album: ‘Closer.’

It also happens to be one of the best tracks to dance to, and the boys take advantage of that, though their movements— mostly just flailing limbs as they jump and headbang— are really just some crude approximation of dancing. Yet that doesn’t detract from the glee of the moment as, at some point you get pulled in, too, finding yourself in the middle of it all— laughing and swinging your head and shouting along with them. “I wanna fuck you like an animal!” you scream, chest effusive with bubbling joy as Eddie doubles over in wild, joyful laughter at the crudeness of the lyrics shouted in your alcohol-hoarsened voice. You find yourself swung by hands, twirled under arms, spinning and sing-shouting until your throat goes scratchy and your head a little fuzzy from all the activity.

As the song ends, Eddie steadies you with a hand on your shoulder, and you smile up at him appreciatively but are surprised when he doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he tips his head, jerking it toward the kitchen. “Come on,” he says, and you see his lips move but barely hear his words underneath the booming of the next track, which echoes so loudly it nearly rattles the knick-knacks on Murray’s shelves.

You trail after your employer as he leads you to the kitchen, sloppily filling an empty glass with water from the sink and handing it to you without any explanation. The intuitiveness of the gesture surprises you, as does the way he hovers nearby while you take tiny sips to soothe your parched throat.

Eddie leans a hip against the counter, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his dark jeans and looking you over appraisingly. It’s the first time you’ve really gazed at him all night, and as he appraises you, you don’t feel that instinctual need to hide, the impulse dulled by the warmth buzzing in your veins. Instead, you just appraise him back, eyes trailing over the silver of his handcuff belt buckle, the chain at his hip, the soft, faded black of his band t-shirt, your eyes lingering where he’s clearly torn the sleeves off, evident by dangling threads that tickle the alabaster of his pale biceps. His curls are frizzier than before, still damp and sticking to his neck from the champagne, and his plush lips are pinker than they typically are— shiny and wet as he licks across them with a swipe of his tongue.

You feel a distinct stirring deep in your belly and wrench your gaze from his mouth to his eyes, face heating as you anticipate a smirk and a crude remark, or perhaps a pointed comment about your wandering gaze. Yet Eddie’s face is calm, almost a little hesitant as he opens his mouth to speak— seemingly entirely consumed by what he wants to say. “So, you know we’re going on tour,” he says matter-of-factly, and you can’t help but snort at the ridiculousness of it.

“I think I’ve gathered that. I mean, I’ve only been working out your accommodations for said tour for the past few weeks now,” you retort with a little smirk, and his lips curl in a lopsided grin at your sass. You anticipate a rebuttal, but Eddie continues without comment.

“Well, I know it might come as a shock that I’d be admitting this, but, ah…” He scratches the corner of his lips with one dark-painted fingernail, mouth stretched wide before he continues abruptly, “things have been running a little smoother since you came around. ‘Specially once you got the hang of washing my silky drawers right.”

Your growing pleasure at the praise flattens along with your expression at that final comment, though it eases when he smiles at you, crooked but wide, as eager as you’ve ever seen his smile be. “So,” he says with an air of dramatic finality, “how’s about you take that laundry service on the road?”

In what is almost more to goad him than in genuine disgust, you wrinkle your nose, and your chest warms again when he chuckles huskily, knocking you with his elbow lightly again. "What I'm try’na say is... you wanna come on tour with us?"

When you think back to the way this party began for you— with a split second of awkward silence and a hastily extended invitation, clearly late-to-come— you hadn’t anticipated the way it would end up. In that moment at the studio, you couldn’t imagine being welcomed in so readily, sprayed with champagne, twirled underneath their arms, and cared for with poker chips and glasses of water. You hadn’t thought you’d be here, standing with Eddie Munson in his manager’s kitchen, being invited by him personally to go on tour with the band.

It’s confirmation that you do have a place amongst them, and it’s also exactly why you took this job in the first place— the opportunity to explore beyond the limits of your current world.

"Yes,” you reply, and you can’t help it when your voice comes out honey sweet. “I'd really like that."

"Well, good,” Eddie huffs good-humoredly, “‘cause you kinda have to whether you like it or not. But I'm glad I don't have to twist your arm after all."

You nod, and something small— small and tenuous, trickling like briny water— flows between you and Eddie as you gaze at one another. "Well... thank you," you say, your voice soft and almost shy as you look up at him.

Eddie blinks, looking a little taken aback by the gratefulness in your expression. Quickly, his eyes jump from yours to track around the room as he says distractedly, "Sure, little Bee— Hey, Murray!” His hoarse voice rises in a shout as he skirts around you, trailing out of the kitchen as he calls wolfishy, “Where's your top shelf shit? I wanna get fuckin' blasted tonight."

You watch him lope off toward the living room again without sparing you another glance. Quickly, you drain your water glass, leaving it in the sink and wandering back into the fray until you find yourself elbow to elbow with Steve.

“So—” Your eyes find hazel as Steve regards you with a friendly, knowing smile. “You ready for that travel I promised you?”

Another wild cackle— one that, after tonight, threatens to haunt you in your sleep— draws both of your gazes. For a moment, you and Steve watch as Eddie sneaks up behind an unsuspecting Gareth, grappling him around the neck and tugging him into a headlock as the other man sputters and kicks at him. All at once, they seem to you much younger than their years, and it makes you consider the question.

Are you ready for the travel Steve promised you— travel where wrangling these unruly rockstars, and one in particular, is about to become even more of your daily existence?

You find, as Eddie shoves Gareth into Jeff and licks across his bottom teeth with a manic grin when the two recover and face him, readying themselves to retaliate, that you have no damn idea whether you’re ready or not.

Dear Soulmate…

The early morning of the first day on tour, your feet carry you around the familiar walls of your apartment, taking in the comforting sights you’ve woken up to for the past year. Angela watches from the kitchen island, eyes full of unshed tears, an unspoken awareness settling over the room. Your life has changed since becoming Eddie’s assistant. It’s a reality you’ve accepted for some weeks now, but it feels real now—more than it ever has before. Because now you’ll be traveling on tour with the band, with him, moving across state lines you’ve never roamed. It’s a world of endless opportunity ahead, new sights to see, places to explore. It dawns on you that your home in New York City will be a far and distant memory for the next months you’ll be following Corroded Coffin around the country.

I’m leaving on tour with Eddie and the band today. Isn’t that crazy? I’ve never been this far from home – traveling was just never something I had time to do. I was always so focused on school, on trying to make my parents proud, on trying to be perfect. And now, I’ll be traveling with a metal band across the country! I never thought this is where I’d end up, but I’m trying to learn to embrace the unexpected (it’s so scary though!). I definitely didn’t expect Eddie to be the one inviting me. Although, he acted like he really had no choice in the matter, it’s still strange.

Angela helps roll your multiple suitcases out into the main living area, mouth a wobbly line as you push them over onto their side and make sure you have everything you need one final time. Heels and other shoes, boots and sneakers in one duffel bag, each one a proper pair, freshly wiped down for any imperfection or defects. Another bag holds all your toiletries, makeup products, and hair tools should you ever need them. You unzip your suitcases next, peering in at various tights, dark skirts, dark colored sweaters, dark wash jeans for your off days.

Eddie is… well, we’re still working on our relationship. I think most of the time he feels like I’m annoying him on purpose, but I’m really just trying to do my job. He’s not used to being on a schedule, which is a little wild to me because that’s all I’ve ever known. And maybe that’s what makes him push me away so much. His wife says I need to push back a bit, but I’m worried about keeping my job… I think I’ve grown to like working for him.

Angela walks you down to the street, helping roll one of your bags down and onto the pavement. Cars and taxis speed by in a kaleidoscope of color, but your eyes latch solely on the rolled down window of the car sitting on the curb’s edge.

Eddie’s thre with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, those dark sunglasses of his shrouding his eyes, tattooed arm on display in the bright sun of the morning. An inky tapestry of intricate detail, etched with countless stories and meanings he’ll never divulge. In the front is Hopper, his usual bored demeanor in place as he opens the driver's side door and walks around to join you and your roommate. The back trunk of the vehicle pops open with a small beep, your heart hammering away as the heftier man helps hoist your things into the back and latches the car back into place.

“Ready?” Eddie calls from the car.

You’re on the clock, sure, but you still remind yourself to quench the desire to raise your middle finger in a vulgar gesture, annoyance writhing in your gut. Instead, you focus your tangle of nerves on the girl standing before you on the street, with her shiny blonde hair and mournful expression on her face. She takes a slow step forward, arms coming to curl around your shoulders. There’s a suddenness of the realization you won’t see her until you return to New York for the holiday season. For the last year you’ve woken to the comfort of the four walls of your bedroom, the warmth of your apartment, and your friendship with Angela.

“Go crush it,” she says, smoothing a palm up and down your spine, head close to your ear. “Take all the pictures. Try and enjoy yourself. New York will be here when you get back. I’ll be expecting as many phone calls as possible, and postcards of all the places you travel to! I want to hear about it all.”

He’s challenging, and yeah he calls me Bee (which I am STILL certain is short for Bitch despite his reassurances otherwise) but the work genuinely feels rewarding. Also, I am really enjoying getting to know the other guys in the band. They’re not friends, no, but they’re kind enough. And who knows? Maybe Eddie will come around. We don’t need to be friends, but I would like it if one day we could become colleagues, at the very least.

Eddie regards you with little interest, still unchanging in his distaste for any time before 12pm, as you clamber into the back of the car with him. He does not shift whatsoever to accommodate your presence, only haphazardly flicks his cigarette onto the concrete below and dips his head at Angela. The blushing blonde raises her hand in a nervous wave, an uneasy smile crawling across her features as he glances along her frame, telling her to have a nice rest of her day. It’s almost comical, though no laughter bubbles up from you, the easy kindness he shows her way; meanwhile, he regards you most days as though you’re no more than a pest when he’s not relentlessly flirting with you. Hot and cold, dependent on his mood on any given day. A bee to be swatted away. You suppose it’s understandable—knowing your mere presence is a reminder of the mistakes he’s made in the public eye. Huffing audibly in your mild upset, your fingers lift to wiggle in the air to wave goodbye to her as Hopper slides the tinted windows up to keep the air conditioned temperature within the vehicle, obscuring her from view.

I wonder about what you’re doing a lot these days. It’s summertime, the season of endless possibilities. Are you traveling? Maybe you’re on a beach somewhere tropical. Maybe you’re celebrating some good news. Or, maybe you’ve taken up a new hobby. Angela and I tried hot yoga last week (never again), so I suggest you stay away from that one. To be honest, and maybe it sounds silly, I just think about you a lot. With everything changing, it seems like knowing you’re out there is one thing I can rely on. Even if I haven’t met you yet.

Your fingers drop and curl around your notebook tucked within your pocketbook for safekeeping, trailing along the pages littered with words meant for the one person in the universe who will understand you better than anyone. It brings you comfort as Hopper peels away from the road and into the bustle of New York City traffic.

Outside, taxis speed in and out of lanes, regardless of bodies surging forward in intersections, heedless in pursuit of their destinations. The car jerks and thumps over numerous manholes and metal grates around street corners, Hopper’s fingers reaching across the center console to raise the volume on the radio.

One of Corroded Coffin’s songs is playing through the elaborate speaker system. There’s a spark of pride that springs to life within you. It’s not one of the newer, to be released singles—no; but there’s a sense of excitement for them, knowing how hard they’ve worked to get where they are, especially because you’ve witnessed the effort they put into their craft first hand.

Eddie seems unphased by his own voice on the radio — as if it’s a normal occurrence for him, and you suppose it is. While you’re still adjusting to your new life following alongside a public figure, he’s had some time to become acclimated. He’s experienced sold out concerts, screaming fans singing along to his songs, crowds surging forward to try and get closer to Corroded Coffin. He’s been on the receiving end of good and bad press that paints him in a caricature of himself; one that’s larger than life and not entirely accurate.

And you’re once again reminded you’re here with him because you’re his assistant when his thigh accidentally brushes yours as the car jolts over a particularly large bump, skin burning at the point of contact, seated beside him in the quiet space around you, watching as the city blurs behind your eyes.

“Remind me of what you have planned for the day,” he drawls, and you’re grateful his stare is presently focused on looking out his window and not on your face. He doesn’t capture the deep inhale, nor does he catch the slight gathering of tears on your lashes that you swat away with the pads of your fingers, brought upon by the suddenness of your change in scenery and leaving Angela.

It's as easy as breathing after that. With his cold, quiet words a distraction from the sadness swirling in your gut, you swiftly breeze through the mental list you woke with. You remind him you’ll arrive on schedule at six, where you’ll get on the tour bus around seven after having a meeting and breakfast with Murray and the rest of the band. After that it’s a two and a half hour drive into Philly. It gives you all enough time to get situated once in the city and for the band to relax a bit to get into the proper headspace before getting ready for their soundcheck in preparation for the first concert scheduled later in the evening.

You tamper down and try to hide the thrill of excitement that buzzes in your veins at the prospect of seeing the guys all perform together. It’s been one thing watching them in the studio for the months they’ve been working on the album, and another all together to see the culmination of all their hard work come to fruition. However, it also brings up a new bout of anxieties over what exactly will be required of you while on the road. Thus far you’ve run errands and kept Eddie on schedule for meetings, interviews, photoshoots and other appearances. Following him across state lines and watching him on the stage, however, seems like a new, daunting task you’re hoping to tackle head on.

“Ever been to the exotic Philadelphia?” Your head jerks as the words break through the silence, those dark eyebrows of his furrowing in confusion when your mouth opens and closes, no words falling freely from your lips. “I’ll take that as a no.”

You swallow thickly, pushing aside the indignation that burns and builds at his words. His inked fingers reach up to grasp the sunglasses perched on his nose, sliding them down slowly to fold them away beside his thigh. You’re no stranger to Eddie’s features at this point. Those amber eyes of his, emotive and magnetic, immediately capture your attention. You regard him carefully, just as he is you, his gaze trailing your features in a slow perusal. When you finally speak, it’s a soft utterance of, “I haven’t really ventured too far out of New York.”

He chuckles gleefully, mouth drawn upward enough where your eyes catch on the dimple in his cheek. He’d be prettier, you think, if he scowled less. Like this he’s vibrant and bright, and appears much younger than his twenty nine years. For a moment you wonder what he was like before all the fame, before the party lifestyle, before the allure of the industry sunk its greedy teeth into him and spat him right back out. His head shifts toward the streets, and your eyes drop down to your lap, fingers toying with a frayed edge on your pocketbook. You hear him then, voice a husk of, “Looks like it’s time for my little worker bee to finally leave the hive.”

My first stop is Philadelphia. I’ll definitely be sure to take a bunch of pictures to share with you someday! I’d like to try and draw a bit too while I'm gone, but who knows. I haven’t really had much time for that lately with the new job. If I create anything worth keeping, I’ll definitely save it so I can show it to you.

You offer him an easy smile, returning your gaze to the world outside the vehicle, exhaling deeply when Hopper pulls up into a parking garage. He mutters briefly that he needs to go check on the tour bus and leaves the two of you to your own devices. You can hear the echoes of voices closer to the tour bus, whoops and calls from the other band members reach your ears through the softly parted window as they catch sight of Eddie’s vehicle. Vaguely, you even catch the utterance of your name in the midst, teasing in nature, urging the two of you outside.

Before you can even say a word, Eddie’s opening his passenger side door and getting out of the car, leaving you behind with your things. Exhaling deeply, you move to open your own side and nearly fall out when the man in question tugs the door open and extends a hand in your direction. There’s a brief clash of stares while your eyes drift from his to his palm, uncertain as to what he’s doing.

Unamused, Eddie huffs out, reluctantly explaining, “So you don’t bust your ass like you did your first day working for me.” His eyes drop to your largely inconvenient heels. You’d only worn them because you weren’t sure what one would wear before heading off on a concert tour. Noting your apprehension, he continues, “Bee, I’m not going to pull my hand away at the last second. I can be a gentleman, you know?”

You snort, wrinkling your nose. “I didn’t doubt it.” It’s not the fullness of truth, but you suppose for your client, it’s better to abstain from telling him that most days he is quite determinately, or at least it seems that way, driving you to the brink of hysteria. It’s probably also best to not remind him how not very long ago, before you hired him another maid you insisted he keep this time, he would make you clean his brownstone top to bottom. A task that also included tending to his clothing and highly suspect underwear on more than one occasion.

Deciding to appease him, you envelop his palm within your own and allow him to help you down onto the concrete below. Your feet wobble a bit from the drop, but he’s there with a gentle hand at your bicep to steady you, before the moment fizzles and he pulls away all together. You walk side by side, though not together, to join the rest of the band where they stand in an excited huddle around the tour bus.

Even the vehicle itself is larger than you anticipated. It looms above you, imposing and impressive, signifying the success the group has seen in the time they’ve been in the media spotlight. You have little opportunity to think about it, however, because the boys greet you with warm welcomes and hellos, trading their normal handshakes they’ve given you for hugs. A recent development, brought about merely by spending as much time with them over the months as you have. Jeff in particular lingers a little longer just as Murray calls the band into a circle for a meeting, muttering a “Happy you’re here,” before rejoining with the rest of his band mates.

You’re not left alone long in that parking garage, luckily enough. Steve’s there to urge you off to the side when he pulls up in his car. He’s a little worse for wear, acknowledging his lateness with a wave to the guys and a pleading look shot your way. He requests you follow him, putting yourself out of earshot from the rest of the men. For a brief moment, you worry you’ve done something to muddle your position. Stomach dropping at the thought you might have unintentionally said the wrong thing to Eddie, a vendor — maybe even Robin, but that fear is quelled immediately when Steve clears his throat, his hand coming to cup around the back of his neck, kneading the muscle beneath his fingertips.

“Look, you’re doing great. I’ve told you more times than I can count on two hands how grateful I am you’re here and everything, but I need you to know that the Eddie you’ve seen thus far is nothing like Eddie on tour. He’s — ”

Your mouth opens briefly to ask what his meaning is behind the clear warning, just as Eddie appears out of the blue and claps Steve on the shoulder, chuckling brightly as he asks, “Ready to go, Bee?” He looks to you imploringly, and you haltingly meet his stare before shifting back to Steve’s kind features. He tips his head, dismissing you, and you join at Eddie’s side, following him in the direction of the vehicle. Murray shoots Eddie a stern look as the two of you walk along by, your eyes darting to the Corroded Coffin logo stretched across the entirety of the exterior. “Here is your home for the next few months.”

You’re uncertain as to what you might expect. You’ve never been on a tour bus before. The closest thing you can attribute it to is a coach bus for a school field trip back in your early education days. What greets you as Eddie turns back to extend a hand once more and assist you in climbing up onto the first step is greater than anything your mind might have conjured.

He’s not kidding by his assessment that the bus will quite literally be your home for the duration of the tour. At the head of the impressive vehicle belies Hopper’s station, full of buttons and displays you’ve never seen before, and a dashboard with a hanging Corroded Coffin logo dangling from his rear view mirror. The burly man raises his hand in a wave as you and Eddie pass, heading into the lounge area that follows immediately. Your eyes are drawn to dark red couches, like that of a red wine, with black pillows strewn about. Nestled in front of the couch is a table pressed against the corner wall, new magazines displaying photos of the band and a headline that details the upcoming tour.

Deeper into the vehicle is the adjoining kitchen, all in the same color scheme of dark black furniture, with red and silver accented bits. Eddie shows you around the space, opening the fridge for emphasis, showing you how to use the different amenities, before moving on down to point out the bathroom. Lastly, you’re brought into the bedrooms. Or rather, one spacious room lined with bunk beds on either side of the bus.

“Normally I like being on top, but when it comes to sleeping I prefer the bottom." Eddie says suggestively, gesturing to the bed on his right. Your head shifts his way, taking in the little alcove he’ll be sleeping in for the night. He waves his hand to your left, smirking. “That’ll be yours. In case of an emergency.”

“In case of an emergency,” you repeat slowly, placing your pocketbook down on your assigned bed as you settle down beside it, positioned specifically across from Eddie’s in the event he requires you for anything. You quickly reach inside and jot down a few sentences in the unfinished letter, affixing a bright floral sticker to one of the corners.

I have to go. We’re about to leave, but I just wanted to let you know what I’m up to. I’ll talk to you soon. Wouldn’t it be fun if we met in Philly?

As you shut your notebook, you realize you never heard the rest of Steve’s harrowing warning. I need you to know that the Eddie you’ve seen thus far is nothing like Eddie on tour. Your eyes narrow in piqued curiosity as you take in Eddie, that now familiar lanky form of his flopping down against his own mattress. He nods his head in your direction and you wave back numbly.

You hear it then. That soft howling in the distance, a creeping sense of something looming with no name to place on it.

You offer him a soft smile, and he throws a pillow over his head, settling down to nap.

Steve’s warning is suddenly very far away from your mind.

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littlelovelore · 2 months

Text

Bergamot and Blood Stained

WC : 494

Fluffier Read

laundry day

With hair blowing past your face, you grab a piece and pin it out of the way while looking over the grassy hills to a beautiful spring day in the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. The home you and Astarion had built stood tall over the lower city, acres upon acres of land seperating you from the hussle of the town. Casually admirng this, you take another pin out of your pocket and expertly hang up you and your lovers garments on the laundry line. Even though this day comes every week, you still enjoy the simple time to slow down and tend to such things. Astarion is famously know to be the one to stitch up our clothes as well as being designer and often the creator of most of your favorite outfits. It's the least you can do to tentitivly care for these items and make sure they're in top shape, ready to note any ware and tear to astarion. This work doesn't come without some fun though. Your mind carries away while hanging up the last of the clean laundry, headed to the next load. This next one was only stars clothes. Even after the years you've spent together this never loses its appeal. His musk cradles your nose as you lean over to grab the basket chocked full of his favorite shirts. "mmm" you take a whiff of his cherished white ruffled shirt, still teeming with bergamot, his essence, and a patch of lilac where you remember your head laying. You blush at the thought of burying your head in his chest, holding the memory with you, you carry on with work.

The sun shone brightly on your face while you washed, creating a wet brow and damp hair to match. The spring heat had crafted a tiring process and while rinsing the final garment you settle on a wash yourself. Hopping up off your knees, making your way down to the outdoor basin. Star insisted in having an outdoor wash station at the back of the house; you werent sure if it was beacuse he wanted to keep the house tidy or he just had an urge for some unique place to get frisky but you had no qualms with this obviously, who wouldn't want a man with such splendid landscaping ideas.

Biting your lip you see his jar of soap sitting on the edge of the tub sat parallel to yours. The idea of his scent coating your body flooding your mind. The animalistic nature of your thoughts excite you letting intuition take over. You eagerly grasp the jar and tink the lid off.

As you lather your body with the suds your olfactory system tingles with joy.

When he smells me he's going to lose his mind

The warm water washed away the soap from your skin and taking your time you drain the tub and stand to expose your bare skin to the open air.

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ave-aria · 1 month

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#they're designed that way so you can wash your hair in the sink #without hitting your head on the faucet

Are people really bending so low to wash their hands? /gen I thought that was about public bathrooms, and people aren't usually expected to wash their faces in there...

Though even at home I have a tap that rotates for that reason, so I can put my face in the sink without bonking my head on it XD I hate the "very close to the edge" designs so much, ugh

Yeah, actually it's kind of fascinating how much like, R&D goes into even the simplest and most everyday things we use! if you can get your hands on it you should take a look at The Design of Everyday Things by Don Norman, who talks extensively about just. Usual things we use every day and why they were designed the way they were.

But basically, the author goes into how a lot of "updates" to things like faucets to make them 'improved' often fall flat, because people's ideas of what "improved" means, is... very narrow compared to the broad needs of people who use those everyday items in a variety of different ways. You, for example, can only imagine washing your hair in the sink for emergencies maybe, but I bet my sink at work (public, retail) has been used that way by multiple homeless or traveling people nearly every day. I know this for a fact. I find hair in the drain.

It might not be its intended use as a public space, but it IS a common use for a sink (among other uses like washing plates, washing clothes, making a small basin, dumping liquids, etc.) that persists because people are in fact out there, every day, using them in unconventional ways. Our janitor fills her portable mop bucket in those sinks and dumps the used water in there, too. If the basin was any smaller the bucket wouldn't fit, or the dumped water would go everywhere, which doesn't help anybody at all. She's the only person I know of who uses the sink in that way, but she's also pretty important to keeping our bathroom functional! So if the sink didn't have those extra uses, it would be a worse bathroom experience over all.

The book actually talks about that - about people trying to "reinvent" simple things to be more sleek modern and convenient and somehow getting a worse product out of it in general. Because the person redesigning didn't understand the thought process behind the original design, so the *re*-design misses the mark.

Sinks might seem a bit uncomfortable to use, because the faucet is crammed closer to the back of the sink and leaves all that open room for the basin. But it DOES still work to wash your hands, even if the setup is a mite uncomfortable - AND it leaves room for the sink to be used in other, less conventional ways. I.E. washing hair. Certain "improvements" can be made, that are nice in theory but bad in practice. Like: A movable faucet for a sink is more convenient for home sinks, but is also more breakable, (yikes!) and thus unsuitable for public bathrooms, for example. People who try to implement this improvement end up with broken sinks that are no use to anybody. You ever walked into a restroom that's been completely trashed? Do the sinks usually survive the trashing? They do, actually, thanks to proper design.

And that's just one example! I'm sure there are things I don't even think of, like handicapped folks or new mothers or whoever who might use the sink in ways I'm not aware of, that might be impacted by the small change in design. It might make sense to redesign the sink to make it more convenient for hand washing - since that's its stated purpose and also what it's most used for - but those invisible forces are BIG. Those that try to reinvent the wheel often just get a crummier version of the wheel unless it can do all the things the previous wheel did and more. So instead of reinventing the sink, most people take the easy route - they just copy what came before, copy what works. And it keeps working.

I'm rambling augh

Basically what I'm saying is that sinks were originally designed to be good for washing hair and other big, clumsy actions, in addition to handwashing. And since it's easier to copy paste than it is to redesign the wheel, that's what we get. A sink that's a little bit uncomfortable to use for hand washing but one that WORKS, and also can do all these other little things if the need arises. And they didn't have to dump money into redesigning it, lol.

There are actually newer sinks starting to make an appearance that have the basin open but the faucet is pointed more towards the center of it, without being more breakable or in the way, etc. But adoption of the new sink archetype is slow going. Might not catch on, for a variety of reasons, social and political as well as functional. :( The one place in my town that I know has these new sinks also has a 'sharps box' (a place to dump used needles) and despite how objectively useful that feature is, like... The gas station had to FIGHT for that addition.

Again. Crazy how much forethought and consideration and debate goes into one bathroom. You could write BOOKS on the subject.

Anyway, sorry for the infodump! Apparently I think about these things way too much haha

Edit: WAIT I FOUND THE PDF if you're interested

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deardjarin · 1 year

Text

one hundred miles

oberyn martell x f!reader

oberyn comes home.

words: 732

rating: mature

a/n: i am reentering my game of thrones era.

⋆⭑✦⭑⋆

You find yourself walking the length of the Water Gardens whenever Oberyn is away.

Despite living amongst Oberyn’s family and the House’s many advisors, the palace feels empty without your husband. You despise waking up to an empty bed, only able to imagine the touch of your partner. Everything is too big—too grandiose—for just you. But you understand that it’s his duty, even though you wish it wasn’t.

The sun beats down on your skin as you stroll through the gardens. You don’t mind it, though, as the orange fabric of your dress is thin enough to relieve you of the heat. Occasionally, a slight breeze rustles the leaves of the towering palm trees.

You’re studying the colorful fish in one of the ponds when you hear light footsteps. One of the palace assistants, a young man who Oberyn is quite fond of, approaches you.

“My Lady?” He asks, a bit breathless. You smile, turning away from the shallow pond.

“Yes?”

“Prince Oberyn has given us orders to prepare a bath for you. His Highness wants you to soak for as long as you’d like, and-“ He hesitates, cheeks red from embarrassment. “He’d like you to forgo clothing for his arrival.

His request isn’t what surprises you: it’s his return.

“He’s coming home today?” You ask, taken aback.

“Yes, your highness. Prince Oberyn left King’s Landing a few weeks ago. He said you’d pull out your hair from waiting if we told you.”

You curse softly; your husband knows you too well.

“Thank you,” You tell the boy, dismissing him with a flick of the wrist.

Later, the heat of the bath is a welcome sensation, relaxing your tired body. Rose petals float atop the water, filling the room with a floral scent. You take your time washing each part of your body, massaging deep into your skin.

Suddenly, the double doors to your bedroom open.

You cover your bare chest with your hands, prepared to shoo the unwelcome visitor away. But, instead of a nosy guard, your dashing partner emerges from the hall.

“Oberyn?” You squeak in surprise, watching the doors swing closed behind him.

He smiles, and you’re sure it’s the happiest he’s been in weeks. He’s draped in the robe he always wears, adorned with intricate gold designs and tied at the waist. There’s a tension hanging in the air, thick like fog on an early spring day.

“Hello, my dear,” He greets, slowly crossing the length of the bedroom. You drop your arms back into the water, leaning against the edge of the basin.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be home so soon,” You tell him. “I actually had no idea when you’d be returning, because you never told me.”

Oberyn chuckles softly, avoiding your gaze by studying a bottle of wine from the year 285. He always keeps a bottle and two glasses on the vanity, which are perched on an ornate gold plate.

“I never know how long these trips will last,” He says, a bit defensively.

“I’m not mad at you, Oberyn,” You say softly. He meets your gaze, expression soft. “I know you were gone for a good reason. I will be mad, however, if I do not get a kiss in the next few moments.”

Your lover grins, approaching the side of your wash basin in a few wide strides. He lowers himself onto his knees in order to be face-to-face with you, as the wooden basin is quite low to the ground.

Oberyn Martell kneels for no one but you.

“My beautiful wife,” He murmurs, cupping your face in his large hands. His wedding band is cool against your warm cheek. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

Oberyn kisses you gently, relishing in the first contact you’ve had in weeks. You lean into the kiss, but refrain from grasping onto his hair. He nips at your bottom lip before pulling away, much to your disappointment. Silently, Oberyn undoes the tie around his waist, dropping his robe to the floor and leaving him in his sleeveless tunic. He reaches into the water, grasping your arm and pulling it to the surface. He lowers his lips to your wet skin, kissing down the length of your arm.

“Oberyn…” You say softly as he kisses your wrist, gazing up at you, his pupils wide.

“Dry off, my love,” He murmurs. “I am going to ravish you.”

#oberyn martel x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #oberyn martell x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #my writing

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actualbird · 8 months

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not artems cinema ass having a couch behind a couch what is this interior design (relating to the new map mhy posted for his second chapter thing)

and on the same note WHERE is the wash basin/bathroom in marius art studio like does he walk home covered in paint? mans has a bed but not a place to wash his hands in the studio,,,?

help, this made me laugh so much, i hadnt thought it was too odd when i saw it but now that u point it out

why ARE there two more couches behind the main couch?? and why do the couches make a sad face all together?? and why are the two couches behind only for one person, so the occupant may peer upon the group in the larger couch and feel lonely???? OBSESSED WITH THE DECISIONS MADE HERE SHKFJKSH

and for marius u raise such a good point omg. a dirty dirty paint splotched artist comes out of that studio every time

okay time to end this ask response aaand---oh a new ask from you anon what does it sa---

afajvkJHVKJHK REST ASSURED ANON I STILL THINK THE COUCHES ARE VERY STRANGE EVEN IF IT'S A HOME CINEMA because like......artem, honey, you lived ALONE with NO FRIENDS (OR MINIMAL if we count celestine and neil) for a good portion of ur life. yes yes now mc is here but that is still entirely too many couches. and i feel as if the single person couches should be in front of the group couch, so that the view isnt completely covered........sorry im not getting off artem's case for this. the couches are confounding. artem is not free from couch sins

#asks #anon #it has been 0 days since artem has made strange couch choices

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clove-pinks · 2 years

Text

A circa 1840 print by Paul Gavarni (Paris Musées) dated 1839-1841, showing two Parisian students in their less than ideal quarters. The caption reads, "Orestes and Pylades would gladly have died for each other, but they would be at odds if they had only had a basin and a water jug."

It's another wonderful look at early/mid 19th century men's underwear, and the long shirt of the man washing his face is reminiscent of this (undated, 19th century) extant garment in the collection of the Musée de la Chemiserie et de l’Elégance Masculine:

I have been trying to date this particular shirt. The relatively plain front and lack of frills makes me think it's not very early 19th century—but Phillis Cunnington and C. Willett Cunnington's book The History of Underclothes has extant shirts that look like this from c. 1795-1800 and 1813. They quote the Beau Monde magazine in 1806 and 1807 promoting shirts without frills. (But some men clearly were wearing shirt frills, if you have ever seen a portrait of a Napoleonic/War of 1812 era officer).

The Story of Men's Underwear by Shaun Cole has some more clues dating this shirt, namely that "after 1850 the bottom of the shirt was curved rather than square cut."

So is this an 1840s shirt? It does look like the student's shirt in the Gavarni cartoon above, and here another Gavarni dated 1840-1841 (also Paris Musées):

(I THINK they just went swimming? The caption is about how they have to hurry up for the dinner bell or their aunt is going to be annoyed).

Finally, the Musée de la Chemiserie is located in an 1860 shirt factory, could this be one of their own creations, despite the straight cut bottom? It's a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. While it seems like all 19th century men's shirts are pretty large, compared with their 21st century descendants, they did become more tailored and fitted over time:

Men’s shirts had traditionally been made from a series of rectangles and squares, which resulted in a voluminous garment. By the mid-nineteenth century, a desire for closer fitting garments led to the development of patterns that allowed shirt makers, tailors and the home sewer to produce well fitting garments. In 1845 a scale pattern was featured in the Journal des Demoiselles with complex written instructions that ended with the statement ‘If you succeed, be proud! Because ‘a shirt without a fault is worthy of no less than a long poem’.” By the 1850s, tailors were applying their pattern drafting systems to shirts and tailors and other producers strove to introduce developments that made their shirts closer fitting and more comfortable. Patterns for shirts were included in magazines aimed at men such as Devere’s Gentleman’s Monthly Magazine of Fashion and The West-End Gazette of Gentlemen’s Fashions, as well as trade journals such as The Tailor and Cutter. In 1871, London shirt-maker Brown, Davies & Co. registered a design for “The Figurative Shirt”, which buttoned all the way down the front, removing “the old and objectionable way of putting on the shirt by putting it over the head”

— Shaun Cole, The Story of Men's Underwear

#1840s #fashion history #dress history #men's fashion #paul gavarni #historical men's fashion #shirts #victorian #july monarchy #fashion #undergarments #19th century #shaun cole #phillis cunnington #cecil willett cunnington #extant #Eighteen-Forties Friday

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owlwithanapple · 5 months

Text

Your Hero

He is one of my favorite characters in mha. I want to write a future version of Bakugou Katsuki, I hope you guys will like it. 😘

Part 12.

( Bakugou Katsuki X Y/N )

When got home, you walked into study room and placed Endeavor's Figure on a glass shelf. You put the books on the desk back on the bookshelf, and Dynamight Figure placed next to the computer.

You originally planned to buy one but he couldn't bear it and instead gave it to you. You admire his Figures with a face full of intoxication, seeing how the hand-made work and high quality show off its details.

Out of curiosity, you on your computer and search for the price and production quantity of the Dynamight Figure. The price listed on official website is so high! Global production only 30 units! The pre-orders are currently full and it won’t be officially launched until next week?

The company that once specialized in producing All Might and Endeavor Figures. The maximum production units of each figure is 50 units. When you check Figure's site, there is a mark with the number 1/30 engraved on it! You were the first to get it!

The official website uploaded a video interview about the cooperation between Dynamight and the sculptor. The sculptor wanted to restore the details of the Figure's movements and equipment, so Dynamight cooperated with the request and put on combat equipment.

This guy is a lot more attentive than you thought! No wonder this company's products are so expensive. They rely on the high level of reproduction and detail. It's worth the price, it's great value for money.

What about the Figure of Endeavor just now? You found out that they are produced by the same company, and the number engraved is 20/20, which is the last one! The model has been officially announced to been discontinued for 2 years and cannot be pre-ordered.

"This should be worth a lot of money if sold..." You had an evil thought, but gave up because you afraid that he would blow you up.

When you are intoxicated with joy, your computer screen displays a message. Sender: Unknown, Content: Video. You watched the video and found out, Why is this video......!

Video content makes you feel actively uncomfortable. You covered your mouth and ran to the toilet to throw up, your body shaking. Why is this video still there?

"Why..." You collapsed on the ground, hugging yourself and crying.

10am—

You wake up from a nightmare, sweating and shaking all over. Last night you cried in toilet until you fell asleep. You remembered that you felt uncomfortable after watching the video last night, so you kept hiding in the toilet and crying.

You stood up and leaned in front of the wash basin, taking a deep breath slowly. Last night's video made you have bad memories, so you were a little out of control. Damn it! Makes you feel sick just thinking about it now. But why hasn’t the video been destroyed yet…

"Fuck..." You clenched your fists angrily and gasped.

Suddenly your phone rang again. You hurried to the study room the phone showed the contact was the police. You calm down and answer the call, they ask you to assist in the investigation at 12pm Tartarus.

Special Prison For Villain Criminals - Tartarus is a prison distanced from civilization where extremely dangerous Villains are imprisoned and interrogated under the highest security standards possible.

You answering the phone, you go to the kitchen to make coffee and put it on the table before sitting on the sofa to rest. Close your eyes and cover your ears with your hands, not wanting to hear any sound, because now will make you feel suffocated.

After calming down, you reach out your right hand to get a cup of coffee, but your hand is still sweating and shaking. You grab right arm with your left hand and tell yourself to calm down.

"Damn..." You covered your head, wanting to cry.

You take out a brand new hero costume, a dark blue cape, all black clothes, a blue skirt, white gloves and white boots. The design this time refers to All Might Young Age Costume. You prefer a cape-style design than wings.

Forget about the video for now, there are more important things to do now. You are suddenly asked to assist in the investigation, which means there is something wrong with Tartarus. You're ready to go straight away.

12pm Special Prison For Villain Criminals - Tartarus Entrance

When you arrived saw Shoto and Froppy standing at the entrance, you stepped forward say hello to them. They also gathered here after receiving notification from the police this morning.

The details haven't been explained yet, but the tone sounds like it's an emergency. While you were talking to Shoto, you felt Froppy staring at you.

"What's wrong, Froppy?" you asked her curiously.

"Kero, just call me Tsuyu chan. Wind Chan, you look bad. Are you okay?" Froppy looked at your face.

"I'm fine. Maybe I didn't sleep well yesterday..." You smiled at her.

"Kero..." Froppy is still staring at your face.

"Go in first." Shoto said calmly.

The three of you go in together, there are two guards at the door who lead you to the conference room. When arrived theroom opened the door saw a tall man with a dog face named Tsuragamae Kenji.

The other four heroes present are Dynamight, Deku, Uravity and Hawks. Kenji asked the three latecomers to sit down first. He left to get documents and then came back to start the meeting.

"Kero, do you know something?" Froppy was confused.

"I don't know...Kenji said we can't start talking until everyone is here." Deku said.

"Now we can only wait for Kenji to say." Uravity said.

You sat next to Dynamight waiting for Kenji to come back for the meeting. Dynamight said nothing and just kept looking at you. You felt uncomfortable and asked him in a low voice.

"What?" You asked coldly.

"You didn't answer my call. I thought you would get rid of me if I gave you those valuable things." He said helplessly.

"Sorry I fell asleep. I promise to pick up next time." You raised your right hand and swore.

"Did something happen? You shaking." He grabbed your right hand and asked.

"It's okay!" You pulled your hand back in a panic, squeezing your own hands.

Kenji walked in and handed the file to the heroes present. You took the file and flipped through the contents. They were the citizen (name Gen) who went on a rampage last time and the Villain (name Koe) whose dagger was poisonous and Quirks the voice.

"Now that everyone is here, I'll start what I want to say." Kenji said.

Kenji turned on the screen and played the news report at that time first. It's a video of Gen and Koe being interrogated. You hear what they say and you wonder why it's the way it is.

What is mentioned in the video is that both of them were detained without remembering what happened that day. Gen is an ordinary citizen so he is still undergoing treatment, while Koe is temporarily detained because of her criminal record.

"Hey, dog face. What is this?" Dynamight pinched the document.

"Don't remember what happened that day?" Shoto asked confused.

"Are the denying ?" Deku asked seriously.

"It's useless to deny it. We arrested them on the spot." Uravity said.

"Kero...their reaction doesn't look like faking it," Froppy said.

"I don't know whether it's true or not, but still trying to defend themselves..." Hawks said calmly.

"The current situation between the two of them is one of denial and ignorance." You said.

"Yes, I am also very confused. Neither of them can explain what happened that day. But please look at the documents in your hands. It contains reports on their interrogation, confessions and physical examinations. According to the analysis, they have the same drug component in their bodies." Kenji opened the file and flipped through it.

"Drugs?" Uravity asked.

"Kero...could it be that they happen to be taking the same medicine? Like fever medicine." Froppy raised his hand and asked.

"The ingredients contain stimulants." Suddenly there was a deep voice.

"You….." You looked at a man wearing a black mask standing in the corner with confusion.

"Overhaul!?" Deku was surprised.

Chisaki Kai,also known as Overhaul, the former Yakuza leader of the Shie Hassaikai.

"Yes, he is an analyst. In exchange, he will help us when we need him." Kenji answered.

"Can trust him?" Uravity stared at him.

"I'm just telling the truth. My ability allows me to break it down and put it back together again. So I know." Overhaul said.

"What do you want to say?" Shoto asked.

"These two people may have suffered memory impairment and Quirks loss due to overdose of some kind of drug."

"Is there a chance of coincidence like Froppy said?" Hawks asked.

"If the fever medicine had stimulants, the patient would have died a long time ago. First of all, they have no memory of the incident. Secondly, according to the police investigation, Gen has awakened Quirks since he was a child. Thirdly, the poisonous component of Koe's dagger was synthesized through chemical experiments. ” Overhaul analyzed the content calmly.

"After synthesis..." You whispered.

"First meeting, Wind Breaker. Let me tell you the fact first. You were listed as a special case when you entered the hospital. The doctor is not treating you with ordinary detoxification, but "cleaning". The ingredients contain chemical synthesis ingredients, so the surgery class requires “cleaning up” is called treatment." Overhaul explains the unknown to you.

"Kero...it means someone borrowing a knife to kill someone." Froppy was worried.

"The hell!" Dynamight said.

"Someone secretly making this kind of thing." Deku whispered.

"Know the origin of the ingredients?" Shoto asked.

"These are ingredients that come from the realm of illicit research. Things that our society generally doesn't see and doesn't use." Overhaul explained.

"Now we can only start investigating from the drug." Uravity said.

"I'd like to add that this is a conversation I had with them. They didn't remember what medications they took that day. It's possible that they took the medication themselves, or it was possible that someone inadvertently injected it." Overhaul clicked on the video to play .

"There are these possibilities." You sigh.

"So I summoned you all in the hope that we can keep this matter confidential for the time being and conduct a private investigation. If we directly launch a comprehensive operation, maybe the mastermind behind will escape." Kenji said seriously.

"Dogface, one is in prison and the other is at home, right?" Dynamight asked.

"Correct." Kenji replied.

"Dig out whatever the fuck can from them!" Dynamight shouted.

"No. 1 is right. We may not be able to ask questions through normal interrogation. But maybe we can do it in another way." Hawks agreed.

"Then I'll interrogate Koe. I'll talk to her face-to-face and maybe I can find out something." You vote by a show of hands.

"Kero...then let Dynamight...better Deku interrogate Gen." Froppy said.

"Damn it! I'll blow you up!" Dynamight shouted.

"Then I will make arrangements now, please wait." Kenji left the conference room to make arrangements.

You look through the files to see if you missed any clues. It's so strange, except that they don't have the memory. If someone really caused trouble, wouldn't it be declaring war on heroes...

According to police investigation, Gen has awakened Quirks since he was a child. But when you were on the rescue mission that day, he had no idea about his Quirks.

He will attack you when he is confused and frightened with his hands. Wait, those hands? The force he used to strangle your neck was very strong. Could it be the power of the drug to invigorate the body?

You clutched your neck and thought calmly. According to Overhaul, the drug contains a mix of stimulants. Gen's physical power and the poison of Koe dagger…..

"You're pretty good-looking." Overhaul said suddenly, standing next to you.

"Huh?" You were surprised because he walked over quietly.

"Have you figured it out?" Overhaul asked you.

"Yes, there are indeed unusual signs." You replied calmly.

"Kero...Wind chan, what do you mean?" Froppy asked.

"Say it!" Dynamight shouted.

"What Overhaul said is understandable. I have met them both and found something strange." You explain.

"What's strange?" Deku asked.

"Dynamight, do you remember when Gen strangled me, I tell you that Gen's power was extraordinary?" You looked at Dynamight.

"Yeah, I remember." Dynamight replied.

"His Quirks are transfer not power-type. But the moment he strangled me, I felt as if I was suffocated and about to die, as if my neck was a branch about to be broken by him." You explain.

"Really?" Uravity wondered.

"What she said is true. I checked her neck and there was indeed a deep red mark. His strength is no joke." Dynamight said.

"The poison from Koe's dagger. The poison spread quickly. I felt that my vision, breathing and strength were almost gone. But I still have self-awareness and can continue to think." You said.

"You were still able to think during the time when you used the storm to blow up the upstairs. This means that the poison was used to take away your vision, breathing and strength in order to suspend your body's movements." Shoto said.

"The head can think, but the whole body cannot function." Hawks said.

"That's right, smart woman." Overhaul praised you.

"Kero... things are more complicated than imagined." Froppy said.

"Overhaul, let me ask another question." You looked at him.

"Yes." Overhaul said.

"Are there any traces of injection on their bodies?" you asked.

"What a quick mind. Yes, Gen showed signs of being injected, but Koe did not. This shows that Gen and Koe became experimental subjects for the drug." Overhaul said.

"Is it possible?" Uravity raised his hand and asked.

"Fuck! Anything is possible!" Dynamight slapped the table.

"Kacchan?" Deku was startled.

"Idiot! Think about it in another way! Don't always think of them as victims or perpetrators! The investigation report pointed out their identity and background! Gen's guy has been working hard in a company for 10 years but never been promoted or received a salary increase. That woman Koe has a history of robbery and was sentenced to 3 years without a job after being released from prison, but she has a stable income!" Dynamight pointed to the report and explained.

"Kero….what does this prove?" Froppy asked.

"Part-time job?" You said suddenly and unintentionally.

"Drug testers. There are two opinions. In the light society are legal and have medical insurance, so they can sell legal drugs in society. In the dark society are classified according to the risk of the drug and value judgments." Overhaul explained.

"They are volunteers. After all, a person with a stable job but no high income and a person without a job but with a stable income does need a lot of money." Hawks said.

"Wind Breaker, you've noticed, right? That girl Koe's dagger is made of super high-quality material. That guy Gen’s shirt and watch he's wearing are famous brands." Dynamight said.

"Yes. I remembered." You said.

"Are your two heads one?" Overhaul suddenly asked.

"Shut your fucking mouth! Black mask!" Dynamight shouted.

"Everyone. I have arranged the schedule for you to discuss later." Kenji opened the conference room and walked in.

"That's none of my business. I'll go back to work first." Overhaul prepared to leave.

"Overhaul, one last question. Are the poisonous components in my body mixed with the same things as theirs?" You asked.

"Why do you feel that way?" Overhaul approached you.

"I don't understand. But for a moment I felt my strength a bit different." You answered.

"Yes. It's slight, but if your body can bear it, it means a special constitution." Overhaul said.

"The fuck!" Dynamight was surprised.

"Thank you for your answer. I will come back to you if necessary." You smiled.

"You're always welcome, Wind Breaker." Overhaul suddenly approached you.

"Hey, what are you doing?" As soon as he approaches you, you immediately step back.

"Tempest, this is not the first time we have met." Overhaul whispered into your ear.

You have an impression of this nickname. Someone once called you that. But when did it happen? Why does he know this word? Why would he say that word to you?

After Overhaul finished speaking, he left the room and left you alone. What he just said about "Tempest" and "It's not the first time we met" gave you some impression. Because the first time you saw him you almost said "Kai".

But you have no idea where you saw it. Have you really seen it? Your memory was still a little hazy but still conscious. Just losing a little memory isn't a problem.

Losing your past memories has caused you to have a habit of self-doubt now. Memories, confusions and questions are always on your mind. But now you just have to accept not to continue to think wildly.

"Hey!" Dynamight grabbed your shoulders from behind.

"What!" You slap him away and step back.

"Kero...what's wrong?" Froppy asked confused.

"Oh! Nothing! I was thinking about something and didn't notice him behind me." You explained with a smile.

You followed the others out of the conference room, leaving Dynamight alone. The first time you refused his physical contact. He had doubts about what Overhaul said quietly to you just now and felt something was wrong.

"The hell..." Dynamight held the file tightly.

Kenji arranged for you to interview Koe, while Deku arranged for an interview with Gen. You sat in the interrogation room waiting for Koe. You and Koe will be talking through a layer of glass.

There will be monitoring and recording during the interview. Therefore, both parties must communicate carefully. You really hoped that Koe would be willing to cooperate because Kenji had mentioned that Koe insisted that she didn't know anything.

"Damn it, a psychological warfare." You sat on the chair and thought.

There is also a layer of glass behind you. Behind the glass are Dynamight, Hawks and Kenji listening to your conversation. If they are suspicious they will send you a signal.

This is when Koe walks in and sits across from you. Her expression was very calm, unlike before. Her wrists were cuffed, but there were signs of struggle, indicating that she had been emotionally agitated. Ask calmly and carefully.

"Won't you introduce yourself?" Koe suddenly asked.

"I would have forgotten if you didn't tell me. Hello, my name is Wind Breaker. I have a few questions want to consult with you, and I hope you can give me a chance." You put your hands on the table.

"I told the police everything I needed to say. I don't remember what happened that day." Koe said.

"I know, I've read the report." You said calmly.

"Then why are you here?" Koe asked.

On the other side of the interrogation room—

"Wind Breaker very calm..." Kenji was watching your interrogation process from the other side.

"What the hell was she thinking?" Hawks asked.

"She wanted to try psychological warfare. That's why she was so calm." Dynamight said.

You and Koe side—

Ordinary conversation cannot yield any information. Koe's expression management is simply invisible. She didn't make any small movements with her hands. It's really a tricky thing, and now we can only rely on that method to find a breakthrough.

"How much do you earn per month?" You ask.

"Huh? This has nothing to do with the case." Koe replied.

"Yes, I'm just curious , no other meaning. Can you answer me?" you asked.

"I may refuse, I will not answer questions that are not related to the case." Koe said.

"I wasn't asking about the case from the beginning." You said.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Koe's fingers began to move.

"The first thing I said was consultation. I never said I wanted to discuss the case with you." You said.

"What do you want? Don't be too quick-thinking. Just say what you have to say." Koe asked.

"This is what you said, I hope you can bear it." You said.

On the other side of the interrogation room—

"That girl started nervous ." Dynamight said.

"I don't understand." Kenji and Hawks said.

"Stupid! Watch it yourself!" Dynamight yelled.

You and Koe side—

You stayed silent and focused on everything Koe was doing. The interrogation room was air-conditioned, but she was already sweating, her fingers were shaking slightly, and her brows were wrinkled. Stick to this point now.

"You know me." You said.

"I don't know you." Koe's eyes weren't focused on you.

"The basic courtesy when speaking is to look people in the eyes. A little education, okay?" you said.

"Damn bastard...it's not your turn to teach me." Koe glared at you.

"I'm not teaching you. I'm warning you," you said.

"I'll kill you now!" Koe stood up and shouted.

"You’re welcome to kill me. But you will be dead in an hour anyway." You said.

"Huh? What are you talking about? You want to murder me?Wind Breaker." Koe asked.

"I don't have to, you will die naturally." You said.

"What the hell are you talking about! Tell me clearly!" Koe shouted.

"Didn't the police tell you? He’s dead..." you said.

"What does his death have to do with me?" Koe asked nervously.

"I'm hungry. I'm going to have lunch first." You stood up and said.

"Hey! How did he die! Tell me!" Koe shouted.

"What for? His death has nothing to do with you." You said.

"I..." Koe became nervous.

"Right, then I won't hide it from you. He had the same drug in his body as you. That drug contained a stimulant and a lethal ingredient. To put it simply, the stimulant ignited the lethal ingredient, causing him to have seizures and eventually die violently. "You say.

"No... doesn't mean it's harmless?" Koe started to get scared.

"What?" you ask.

"He said it was harmless, just would lose the memory after the medication! He didn't say would die!" Koe cried.

"The higher the reward, the higher the risk. Are you ignorant?" you said.

"Fuck..." Koe said.

"Can you tell me? At least I can avenge you." You said.

"Actually... the man named Gen and I took over the job of testing drugs because we were short of money. The man picked us up that day was masked and wearing a white coat, so we couldn't see his face, so we didn't know who he was.They asked me to get into the car with mask on, so I didn’t know where I was going. The whole process was done in the car without being able to see the person or place." Koe said frankly.

"How did you get the job?" you ask.

"There's mail coming to my house." Koe said.

"What did the masked man say?" you asked.

"Just tell us the reward, that the drug is not fatal and there will be no memory after taking the drug." Koe said.

"Did you see the car?" you ask.

"Before I got in the car, I saw it was a small black car," Koe said.

"I see...I feel so sorry for you, life is so small." You said.

"You must catch them for me! I will never forgive him! He fucking lied on me!" Koe banged the table hard.

"I promise you, I won't let him do whatever he wants." You said.

On the other side of the interrogation room—

"Wow, she knows..." Hawks said.

"Yes, I admire it." Kenji said.

"If you “don't bite the bullet” with this kind of person, your questions asking for a long time won't get any answers." Dynamight said.

Dynamight admires you in his heart, you didn't waver during the interrogation. You will also pick up the fatal points let her reveal the information herself. But he knows very well that this is not the only thing that is scary about you.

"The interrogation is over, you can stop, Wind Breaker." Kenji reported.

You and Koe side—

"Thank you very much for your cooperation. I hope you won't be so confused again in the future." You stood up and prepared to leave.

"Future, I will die soon..." Koe cried.

"I lied to you, you will be tried but don't know what the conclusion will be." You said.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Koe looks at you.

"Everything I just said was a lie to you, otherwise you wouldn't have given me the information obediently. I believe the reward also includes hush money." You said.

"How dare you lie to me, you damn bitch!" Koe scolded you.

"There is something called psychological warfare. Although it includes deception, this is also the scope of my work. It is aimed at dishonest people like you." You said.

"I will definitely kill you when I get out of prison!" Koe shouted.

"Try it. Believe it or not, I'm going to punish you a little bit more." You said.

"Damn! Insidious woman!" Koe said.

"I think you're complimenting me." You said.

"Wind Breaker, you are more difficult than you thought." Koe said.

"Well.Thanks for your cooperation." You leave.

You leave the interrogation room Dynamight standing next to the door. Hawks and Kenji went to the office to handle the interrogation. You stood next to Dynamight and stayed with him.

"Why you so close?" Dynamight asked.

"I just want to stick with you." You whispered.

"Haha, that mouth so damn sweet. But good job, I'm impressed by you." Dynamight said.

"Thank you." You smile.

"What do you have to tell me?" Dynamight asked.

"You're thinking too much." You were afraid that he would alienate you if he found out about the video, you chose to hide it.

You left him and went to the office alone to find Kenji to help you read the interrogation report just now. You were really afraid that if you recalled the memory and that video, he would completely withdraw from your life.

If he knew, you might not be able to stay with him anymore. You think about the past memories, may not be able to accept it. You must have been scarred at that time.

"Hey!" Dynamight shouted loudly from behind.

"The hell?" You turned around to look.

"Listen to me! If you are afraid of something, you must tell me! Don't hide it from me! Do you know? Idiot! I will protect you!" Dynamight suddenly declared to you.

"In what capacity do you protect me?" You approached and stood in front of him.

"You know." Dynamight holding your hand..

"I want to rest." You leaned against his chest and closed your eyes.

"You are special to me. You can come to me anytime you want. You know it." Dynamight stroked your hair.

"Will you be my exclusive hero?" You whispered.

"Hahaha, do you hope?" Dynamight put his arm around your waist.

Why is he so gentle? Really love this moment. He is completely yours at this moment. You are very happy that no matter what, he will always be your support.

"I hope so." You smiled.

With him by your side, you tell yourself must retrieve your past memories. Even if you can't bear to look back, no matter how scared you are. Trust him no matter what, he will definitely protect you.

Part 12 end.

*If you have any ideas, you can leave them in the comment section, and I will try to add in the story.*

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bestsanitaryware · 9 months

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blackberrywars · 8 months

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Growing Pains

Rating: M Words: 2,771 Relationships: P'li & Ming-Hua, P'li/Ming-Hua Additional Tags: Unresolved Tension, Growing Up, Growing Pains, Sleeplessness, Waterbending Healing, Nudity

Summary: P’li can’t sleep through her growing pains, so she steps outside for some fresh air and a cool drink, only to find Ming Hua waterbending stark naked under the moon. She has some thoughts about that.

All character appearances and ages are based on this lovely art by @polapaz321 with the addition of Ming-Hua's leg tattoos, which I designed myself over here.

AO3 LINK

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The walls of her room, like every other wall in every other home in the Earth Kingdom, are cracked and gray-brown and delightfully cool to the touch. All these things have been a staple truth of the past two months, but never more so than in the night, when the dry air freezes and the moonlight washes every color out through the cracks of a door frame. Consistency is something P’li can appreciate. With every passing day she wakes up outside of the warlord’s house, she grows both more and less certain that she must be dreaming —dreaming up this new life, where she sleeps in a room and wears clean clothes. The more half comes when she tries to stretch her legs out again and remembers why she’s awake looking at earthen walls. The ache runs all the way into her bones, stretching around her thighs to the backs of her knees. Growing pains have been a companion of hers ever since she can remember, one that she should have, frankly, outgrown. She rolls her eyes at herself.

She wants to sleep. She should be able to sleep. She rolls over and resolves to sleep, except that her eyes are open again as soon as she closes them. The pain is dull, but it throbs like a fever, pounding in time with her heartbeat even as she tries to slow it. Stares at the cracked, gray-brown, cold wall, until she flips over again, pressing the backs of her legs against it. The cool earth soothes the pain, and she smiles into her pillow. It’s soft and it’s clean. She closes her eyes and opens them again. Her whole body aches. She wants to sleep. Before, she had slept, only dreaming of the comforts she has now, but even that is a lie. No matter how new her life is, she keeps her old pains. Her old remedies.

Pointing her toes makes her gasp, breath hitching.

Pulling her knees to her chest and crossing her ankles is another agony.

Throwing her legs up above her head just sends the ache into her hips.

Sighing, she heaves herself up from the cot and starts pacing. Cot to wall, wall to wall, wall to wall, wall to cot. Walking doesn’t make the pain go away, but it dulls it somewhat, and if she tires herself out, she might just be able to sleep. Ten circuits, and she lies down to fucking sleep. The sheets are cooler than when she’d left them, her pillow less squashed, but even lying as still as she can hurts. It’s a bone-deep kind of pain, one that she should be more than used to by now, and it never gets worse, but it never gets better either. Sweat drips down her hairline, pooling in between her shoulder blades as she tries to press them together. Zaheer’s shirt —and heat fills her face, inexplicably, at the memory of him stripping it off his back to hand it to her— will be ruined again before she can give it back to him.

She heaves herself up again.

Cot to wall. Wall to wall. Wall to wall. Wall to cot. She trips on the fifth circuit when a cramp catches her behind the knee and barely manages to catch herself on the doorframe. P’li opens the door before she can think twice about it and steps into the hall, and then into the night. Humid air hits her like a blow, slams into her lungs like a wet rag hits the edge of a basin. One of the many things she’s learned about, getting to wash her own clothes and help clean up after meals. This air is nothing like the dry must of her old barrack room, and the moon makes the sky nothing like its darkness. She walks, but her legs ache, and her throat is dry, and she wants to sleep.

A yawn croaks past her cracked lips, raspier than normal. The first and third problems might be out of reach, but at least she can fix the second. Her feet, the only parts below her hips that don’t hurt, carry her halfway to the stream they’ve been drawing from before she remembers she forgot her cup. They carry her further still by the time she stops caring. She swallows around nothing when she finally sees the light reflecting off the cold, bubbling water.

“You’re up late.”

P’li doesn’t scream, but only because she’s been far too well trained to do so. Insead, she huffs smoke from her nose, whipping her head up to glare at the armless waterbender. Ming-Hua stares back, submerged to her chin in the stream, nothing but wide, dark eyes and darker hair flowing around her. She’s a remorseless ink spill, face impassive but for the slight narrowing of her eyes and a smirk. P’li wishes she could ever read any other emotion from her, but she’s never trained in subtleties.

“What…… was that for??” she hisses instead, stretching her calf back out and blowing away another puff of smoke to cover it.

“Not my fault you didn’t see me, trained assassin,” those dark eyes go rolling skyward, long eyelashes flashing, “You should take better stock of your surroundings.”

“We’re not in a battle.”

“That can change very quickly —Zaheer wasn’t kidding when he told you we’re on the run most of the time. Nice tunic, by the way.”

She huffs and pulls said tunic down a few inches, which Ming-Hua seems to take as a concession. She grins. It’s a shark’s smile, wide and toothy. Likewise, she seems more than content to stay underwater, barely making a ripple as she keeps herself afloat, bobbing up once, where P’li can see her bare shoulders in what she knows is freezing water. She’s been bathing with a heated bucket, and only grudgingly. The idea of swimming in nothing but those strange water tribe wrappings in the dead of night makes the ache in her legs flare again. As gently as she can, P’li shifts her weight, letting pain transfer without making her collapse.

“Well, why are you awake then? It’s late.”

“Look up.”

P’li spares a glance at the sky, where the moon fills the space in between the canopies on either side of the stream, obscuring the stars with its light. It’s as pure as silver, shining on Ming-Hua like a stage light when she looks back down at her. A waterbender under a full moon. Spirits help her. Ming-Hua smiles wider.

“Tell me. What did your master tell you about fighting waterbenders?”

P’li huffs a hard breath from her nose and narrows her gaze in a way she knows brought fear to even her master’s eyes.

“That they burn the same as everyone else.”

“That’s if you could catch me. At this distance, you’d be dead before you had a chance to scrunch your face.”

“I’ll take a few steps back, then.”

Ming-Hua laughs then, albeit rather quietly, darker than her usual cackle. Carelessly, she throws her head back, showing off her long, delicate neck, as if she had no doubt that she could protect herself from any attack. On a full moon, she just might. P’li waits for her to settle, flexing her thigh as it cramps in pain, trying no to feel relief. Zaheer might still be caring for her, but she knows better than to think she’s a priority in his team. And in this state, taking a few steps back is no easy feat. Slowly, Ming Hua steps closer to the bank, where the water sits at her delicate collarbones and the edges of her shoulders where they drop off into nothingness. P’li inhales deeply, and lets it go.

“Should I be wary of you on a full moon?”

“That’s up to you to decide,” she raises a dark eyebrow, and the water ripples slightly around her as if she’s shrugging, pulling the tops of her breasts to the surface. No signs of a wrapping. P’li fixes her gaze near her forehead as Ming-Hua continues, “You trust Zaheer, and Zaheer trusts me.”

“I don’t trust him. And that doesn’t answer my question.”

Ming-Hua sighs, arching her eyebrow even higher.

“Even if you wanted to betray us and run back to the man who beat you like a dog, you’d be pawing at a grave. Zaheer put him down while I spent three days putting you back together. If not me, trust that I'd rather not ruin my good work under Yue’s light.”

P’li glares and suppresses a shudder. She’s looked herself over more than once since she woke up after the escape. Instead of the scars that should have littered her arms, legs, and back, she has smooth skin, softer than she can remember it being before the fact. Even her neck is clear after that bastard tried to twist it like a rag. P’li had never been beaten so severely before, and she can’t stop herself from twitching. It sends a spasm through her legs, and she can feel her eyes widening as her right leg buckles towards the river bank.

She never hits the ground.

Cold tendrils of water stay wrapped around her wrists, hips, and ankles, feeling oddly secure even as the liquid slips over and around her skin. They freeze her in place, pulling her directly upright and slightly off the ground. Holding her still. It should be terrifying, it is terrifying, except she’s looking directly at Ming-Hua.

Ming-Hua, who stands suspended above the river. Who is stark naked. A small woman if P’li is being generous, but with her feet grazing the water and the tentacles splaying from her shoulder sockets, she’s more than imposing. Black tattoos that P’li had only glimpsed before wrap around lean legs up to the knee, linear and delicate compared to the angry splotch of red on P’li’s face, and she can’t stop herself from continuing upward. Strong thighs, a thatch of dark hair, gently rounded hips, a navel like iron with a charming little dip. Black hair that drips like ink over her body, trailing over her sloping collarbones and in between her pretty breasts. It strikes P’li as the heat rises in her face that she’s never seen another person completely naked before, or at least not since she’d still taken baths with her parents and sisters. She thanks the spirits that it’s dark, and that’s when the tendrils start glowing blue.

“Well that explains it,” Ming-Hua says, eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed, “Your legs are completely inflamed. And here I thought you’d just tripped like an idiot.”

“Let me go!”

P’li glares, trying to pull her arms back into her body as Ming-Hua, thankfully, lowers herself back into the river.

“Nope. Get in the water. How did you manage to fuck yourself up like this without Zaheer noticing and fawning all over you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You were about to eat shit over ‘fine.’ Now get in.”

“No!”

“I could just drag you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Moonlight flashes in those dark eyes, and that’s all the warning P’li gets before she’s waist-deep in the freezing water. She bites her lip in an effort not to scream, especially as the tentacles dissolve, but her feet slip in the mud, and Ming-Hua is right there, scowling. Blood pools across her tongue.

“Don’t be so dramatic. And stop hurting yourself —you’re making my job more difficult than it has to be.”

The accompanying eye roll is so enraging that P’li can’t even open her mouth to defend herself, especially not when the water between their bodies starts glowing that bright, ethereal blue. She nearly jolts when a tendril returns to wrap around her knee, viscous and even colder than the river. Her head throbs with anger, almost as sharp as the pain extending down the backs of her calves. The tendrils freeze even colder, and if she weren’t so angry, she would sigh at the numbness it brings. Ming-Hua just frowns harder.

“What is this? I can’t see any actual damage, but you’re clearly injured.”

“Get off of me! It’s just growing pains!” P’li snarls, shoving her away by her bare shoulders, “There’s nothing to be done about it.”

“Growing pains?”

Her tone is incredulous, and P’li remembers that in moments when she isn’t being held hostage in a freezing river, she towers over the little waterbender.

“When you grow too quickly and it hurts. I’m too tall, so my legs keep having pains at night.”

“Huh. So it’s kind of like growing tits.”

“I assume so.”

While Ming-Hua huffs and smirks, P’li spares a glance at her own chest, whose near-total flatness is even more obvious than usual through Zaheer’s soaked tunic. She barely has any fat anywhere, all hard angles even though she’s very nearly of age. Even now, she can count her ribs. As petite as she is, Ming-Hua certainly has more than her hawk-gnat bites. Underwater again, thankfully.

“Don’t go getting insecure on me now. Small tits are the least of your problems.”

“How kind.”

“Oh, cry me a river. I’ve never heard of pain from growing, of all things.”

“I’m not surprised.”

That narrows Ming-Hua’s eyes substantially, and the water glows even brighter. P’li huffs at the pain returning, throbbing from her hips to the delicate bones of her feet.

“We aren’t a tall people in the North. Especially outside of Agna Quel’a.”

“So you lack experience and knowledge.”

Ming-Hua huffs a laugh, and P’li carefully does not look at the way it makes her chest move just below the water. She looks away so carefully, in fact, that she barely notices a tendril curl around her knee until it glows again, so cold it burns. It sinks into her skin and she gasps, tries to twist out of the hold, except then Ming-Hua is looking at her, pupils as wide as the full moon above them and twice as bright. Another tendril wraps around her other leg, and P’li goes limp, held afloat only by the tentacles. The creek feels practically warm compared to Ming-Hua’s icy grip, feels like what frostbite must be like. Snow hardly ever fell near her village, but she’d heard enough from the mountain travelers to imagine the kind of cold that turns noses into nubs. Arms into stumps, even.

A cold that kills. A cold that leaches your spirit.

It’s gone as soon as it leaves, and P’li nearly goes under with a gasp, except Ming-Hua is there again. The creek turns properly warm around her, keeping her head above the water and gently pushing her to the banks. She pulls herself up to sit onto the shore and Ming-Hua lays in front and beside her, belly down on the wet sand, the water lapping over the rounded curve of her hips. She looks to the moon and heaves, sucking in more air. The water stays warm around her calves and she stretches them further just to savor it. It soothes her.

“Feels better now, doesn’t it? No more growing pains?”

P’li snaps her eyes to Ming-Hua, who’s rolled up to sit beside her, a smile on her full lips. Submerged to the hips, bare as the day she was born, she looks like a spirit. The full moon, pure and bright, turns her into a silhouette, and even to her senses, the air feels alive as it moves around her, like Ming-Hua has every drop of water under her control —P’li wouldn’t be surprised if she did. A shark’s smile plays across her lips, and P’li violently suppresses the heat coming to her cheeks. She stands without wincing. Steps away from the shore, watches how the silver water around Ming-Hua barely moves, and turns away, back towards her little room.

“Thank you.”

She says it, quietly enough with her disused voice. The water flows again behind her as Ming-Hua chuckles.

“Don’t mention it. Wake me up if it happens again.”

It takes more effort than she’d care to admit to make it back to her bed, even without the cramping pain rocking through her with every step. Farther from the creek, away from Ming-Hua’s control, the dry night air steals the water from her skin and clothes, leaving Zaheer’s robe strangely tacked to her body. She pulls it tighter around herself when she crawls beneath her thin sheets. Instead of the throbbing of her pulse, she can hear the soft snores and sleepy rustles of Zaheer and Ghazan, deaf to the world. If she tries, she can still hear the creek’s gentle rushing, lulling her to a dreamless sleep.

———————————————————————————

Thank you so much reading! This whole idea is my kind-of sequel to His Clothes, with me projecting some of my Tall Woes onto P'li and then exaggerating them tenfold. Growing pains are the absolute fuckin' pits if you've never had them, and they sporadically haunted my thighs and knees for like 6 years of my life, and I have not forgotten about them almost a decade later. I also wanted to explore how P'li gets socialized into the group, experiencing some fun new feelings when she's finally safe enough to feel/express them, but still keeping to her rather stoic character. Ming-Hua, being far less laid-back then Ghazan and less gentle than Zaheer, is someone who P'li probably understands more. She understands being guarded. She understands having an unusual appearance in both how it affects navigating the world and how one can leverage that physicality. So there's some of that kindred soul going on, but also some good-old-fashioned antagonistic sniping and then also also "hot older girl is hot oh noooooo." Y'know. For balance.

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Taglist: @hellinglasses, @yellowsalt3, @wishingforatypewriter, @orangepanic, @nyamadermont (If anyone wants to be added/removed, PM me and I'll sort you out no problem)

#berry's fics #legend of korra #avatar the last airbender #lok #atla #red lotus #p'li #ming hua

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kirakiraaa42 · 4 months

Text

Chapter X - Adorable valentine, part II

FEBRUARY 14, 2023

1:00 pm

The Brit and the idol now arrived at the former's residence. This house was a box house made out of concrete and wood, which made the perfect, simple yet unusual house structure that sets it apart from the rest of the houses seen in Korea. The exterior was fascinatingly designed, and the materials that were made to create this masterpiece brought a combination of modern and natural aesthetic to it.

The house served as a symbol of Axelle's distinctive taste, being a man of simplicity and sleekness. The excitement was written all over Momo's face. She is still clinging onto her boyfriend's back.

"Wow. That's a really good looking house you got here!" Momo looked at the house with marvel in her eyes. "It's so sexy."

"It literally just looks like a box, though." The Brit chuckled, approaching the wooden door.

"I'm not kidding! The house is indeed sexy. Especially the one that is living in it." Momo giggled flirtatiously.

The Brit immediately got the message. "No, I'm not sexy. You are."

"No, you. Ehehe." The idol giggled again.

Axelle then opens the sliding wooden door, revealing the interior of the house. Again, it was made out of wood and concrete again, and it definitely created a sense of welcoming atmosphere, especially the living room.

(IGNORE THE BLURRY BABY)

He then puts his girlfriend down the sofa to relax herself after a long time of shopping him gifts, and excused himself for a moment. While he was gone for a while, Momo looked around the interior and was taking in the environment around her, amazed by how it was constructed. But moreover, she couldn't believe that her boyfriend, who is still a graduating student in college, resides in such a glorious and remarkable house.

Axelle then went back with a wash basin filled with water and soap.

"What are you going to do with that, darling?" Momo curiously asked.

He places the basin on the floor and then removes his girlfriend's shoes, and then puts her feet in, soaking them in the water. "A family tradition. This is how we welcome visitors in our home."

"Really?" Momo tilted her head.

He then kneeled on the floor and looked up at Momo. "No, I was kidding, I just made that up." He then chuckled.

She lightly tapped his head. "야, 바보! (Ya, pabo!) I was starting to think you were actually doing some family tradition!" She then shared a chuckle with the Brit, who then started to wash her feet.

(야 yah = hey)

"But for real. A little soak does feel so good. I should visit your house everyday so that you could wash my feet like this." The idol looked at him soaping her feet, feeling his fingers work their magic.

"As long it's not as stinky as the fish markets back in London." He snickered.

"Hey! You again and your silly little barbs!" Momo laughed. "I don't know if I should be insulted, haha!"

"I'm English. My mouth is a bit sharp sometimes." He commented. "It runs in my blood. But I use this 'weapon' depending on the person."

"That makes sense." She replied.

The Brit finishes washing her feet and leaves the living room, pouring out the water in the bathroom and setting aside the soap. He then returns not a few milliseconds later, and then does the surprising act of grabbing her chin and kissing her briefly.

He pulled away but kept his face close to Momo.

"You're so adorbs, little Axelle. I am really glad you are mine to keep."

"So I guess I'll have to stick with you calling me 'little' all the time?" Axelle asked.

"That is my little rule when we're together. You may be a tall boy, but you have a fragile heart like that of a child." Momo whispered, her aura becoming a bit possessive. "As long as you stay with me, I will make sure that you will be called 'little' for the rest of your life."

He shrugged. "Maybe I'll get used to being babied."

The idol wagged her index finger, playfully scolding him like a little boy. "Tsk tsk tsk. Nuh-uh. What did I tell you about the maybes, darling?"

He definitely did notice the motherly yet subtle dominating tone of Momo, yet he brushes it off anyway. "Sorry. No maybes. Only the yes's."

"Good boy∼" She whispered in a soft, husky voice. "You're sooo easy to talk to. I love that in you, my precious baby boy." She then chuckled seductively, pulling his head in between her clothed breasts.

As his head nestled in that spot, he begins to think for himself, with questions running in his head.

"Why is this... This is so uncertain of me. But why is Momo so tantalizing when she's... dominant and motherly? Is this because I lacked the love that was supposed to be given by my own Mum? Why do I feel so vulnerable? I shouldn't be like this... being babied is a bit cringe... yet why do I feel this way for my darling?"

The idol's lips let out another alluring mirth, caressing her boyfriend's hair. "Oh, Axie. You're sooo cute∼" She then kisses his forehead repeatedly, giving him affection. "I sooo want to take care of you now. My baby boy."

The young man thinks for himself once again.

"Am I being submissive at this point? Now that I think about it, I clearly remembered she gripped my neck last time back at that roof terrace... She wasn't even choking me, but she was so powerful, so dominant, that it makes me want to kneel down to her. But how does she do all of this? How?"

Momo drew his head away from her breasts and brought it closer to her face. "Hey, cutie. What do you wanna do now? We're all alone in your house now... We can do anything here. Tell me, boy."

He looked at the gift bag that was beside Momo and grabbed it, putting the thing beside him. He reaches inside the bag and pulls out the first gift that he grabbed.

"Oh! Strawberries!" Axelle smiled like a child. "And it's four packs! Incredible!"

Momo chuckled. "Yes. I knew you'd like strawberries, so I bought four packs just to be sure." She caresses his hair again. "Now go ahead and reach for the other gifts, darling."

He reaches for the bag again and pulls out the two strawberry Kitkat packs, and the strawberry plushie.

"Wait, no way!" He looked at the three items in his hands. "Nah, wait, hold up. Now I feel bad..."

"Feel bad for what?" Momo chuckled, her hands on her man's back.

"You walked for a long time just to get me these gifts, though. You shouldn't have done that for me. I mean, I should be doing that. I'm a man, right?"

Momo shook her head. "It's a thing here in Korea and the rest of East Asia for a woman to give something to her man on Valentine's, if you don't know that."

"Wait, really?" Axelle raised his eyebrow, culture-shocked by this discovery. "I literally lived here in Korea for 5 years and I had just known that?"

"Hehe. Culture shock much, huh?" Momo leaned onto his shoulder. "But let me tell you something, boy."

Axelle nods, ready to listen to his girlfriend.

"It's not about the gender roles, or who should do what, anyway. In the end, it's about showing my love and affection for you, little one. I take care of you, and you take care of me. Reciprocating. Simple as that." She kisses his cheek. "You got me a soak when we arrived here anyway... and I'm contented with your acts of service. Are we clear?"

Reaching for her hand, he interlocks it with his and kisses it. "Yes, darling. Crystal clear."

"Good." She places a peck on his shoulder.

To Momo's surprise, yet again, the man hugged her in gratitude. "Thank you so much, darling. I couldn't give you enough gratitude. I mean it from the bottom of my heart."

The idol hugged him back, feeling his warmth in their little embrace. "You are absolutely welcome, my little Axelle."

Afterwards, the Brit turned back on the packs of strawberry and cracked one open, picking one and putting it in his mouth. As he tasted it, he nodded and smiled.

"Yes. I like this." He locked eyes with his woman. "Momo, try one."

"But those are yours, darling." Momo smiled. "I'll pass."

Remembering the thought of being babied by his girlfriend, he uses this to his advantage, and Axelle picked up another strawberry with his two pairs of fingers, putting it close to his face and looked at Momo with puppy eyes.

"Pwease. Twy one stwawbewwy. Pwease, pwease, pwease!" He spoke like he was freaking Tweety Bird.

Momo hung and shook her head, chuckling. "You're so cringe! I hate it but I also love it."

"Just get the fricking berry before I die of embarrassment here!" He half-grimaces and half-smiles, blushing as if he was about to die of cringeness.

"Fine. I'll eat one, I guess." She picked up the fruit from Axelle and takes a bite out of it. She hummed, "Mhm! It's not bad at all! I like it!"

The Brit picked up another strawberry from the pack, and then something clicked. He wondered, "I might feed it to her."

Momo looked at Axelle in confusion and jealousy. "Who's 'her'? Is she a woman, Axelle? Is she trying to hit on you?"

The Brit shook his head and chuckled. "Momo. Don't worry. 'She' isn't a human."

He then puts two fingers on his mouth, and then whistles. In a matter of seconds, the couple can hear thumping noises slowly getting a bit louder up from the second floor's hallway.

A black creature quickly emerged from the room from the second floor, its ears and nose twitching as it heard its master's whistle. She went down the stairs and into the living room. This cute creature is one of the biggest species of its kind, and it had black fur and long ears.

Momo gasped. "A rabbit! It's soooo cuteeee!"

The giant rabbit then hopped on to Axelle's lap.

"Hey, girl! Are you hungry? Who's the cutest rabbit? Yes, it is you!" He cooed whilst rubbing her fur, with the rabbit brushing her head into her master's stomach.

"She's so big! What breed of rabbit is this, darling?" Momo asked.

"Momo, meet Blazar. She's a Flemish Giant." Axelle says elatedly, caressing the fur of his beloved pet. "She weighs 18 pounds. She's so heavy, haha! But I love her so much!"

"Blazar? That's an epic name for a rabbit like her." Momo complimented, noticing the rabbit licking its own front feet.

He discusses the reasoning behind the name. "Yeah. I named her after that thing in space called an 'active galactic nucleus' or something like that, and blazars apparently belong to that kind. I barely have any knowledge about those types of stuff, just thought it would be cool to name her after it."

He then feeds a strawberry to Blazar as a treat. The doe nibbled on the fruit, leaving no speck or remnant behind, and even eating the leaves.

(doe = a female rabbit)

"Can I pet her?" Momo looked at the rabbit, then at Axelle.

The Brit nodded, allowing Momo to pet the big creature. Luckily, Flemish Giants enjoy interacting with people, so Momo was able to pet Blazar's soft head and fur.

"She's so fluffy. You take care of her really well." Momo gently let go of the rabbit, before the latter hopped off of Axelle's lap to sit in her little bed near the sofa.

"I really love that girl. She was my companion when I was in third year." Axelle explains. "Anyway, I should give a proper tour of my house."

"I would love that, darling. Please do show me what you have in store."

Axelle extended his hand out to his girlfriend and the latter eagerly accepted the gesture. The couple began to stroll around the house, with the Brit showcasing every space, nook and cranny that they can see around the property.

Firstly, he led Momo to the back of the house where the pool could be seen. It was incredible, especially that it is encased in an open space to see views of Seoul, but also protected with a ceiling in case it rains. There's even a couch a few meters beside the pool, if one just wants to look at the glistening water.

Axelle then led Momo to the kitchen on the second floor, which also functions as the dining area. Featuring wide windows and a big stove that has mechanical functions, activated with the push of a button, Axelle's kitchen provides a space where eventually, he could have a good time cooking with Momo or even just enjoying each other's company.

As they went through the other spaces and rooms, Momo took in the knowledge and insights she had gained from discovering her boyfriend's own little oasis. She was still fascinated with the structure and the features of everything that was displayed in front of her, but that fascination only amped up because she had Axelle beside her. His class and simplicity was something that she admired so much, and she wanted to make more memories with him in this place.

2:00 pm

At this hour, Momo and Axelle couldn't play the waiting game any longer, so they made out in the bedroom. Momo and Axelle's erotic noises filled the room, with their hands travelling around each other's bodies.

The Brit gently grazed his woman's lower lip, and the idol reciprocated it back, doing the same thing to him, and then eventually moving on to the actual kiss.

"Momo..."

"Axelle..."

The two of them continued kissing, then increasing the intensity of pleasure by cupping each other's cheeks while swirling their tongues. One of the things that made the pair continue with this act was their bodies becoming feverish. Though not scientifically proven to be an aphrodisiac, the aroma of lavender released by the diffuser lingering around the room, had combined with the other intoxicating air, which helped their love and lust grow even stronger.

Being the more dominant one yet again, Momo then pushes Axelle into the bed, making out with him on top for a few seconds more, until the idol removes her own top clothes, again, braless, like the last time. She reclined downward in order for the Brit to have closer access to her titties.

Once he does, he begins to suckle on one of them, whilst kneading the other, playing with the nipple. He did this alternatively.

"I love how you take care of my titties, darling." She moaned. "Please... play with them all you want..."

The Brit kept up with this act for a couple seconds, having been addicted to breasts, as it is his favorite body part from his darling. He then proceeds to flip himself over, orienting himself on top of her...

"Gotcha. My turn."

...and then leaning into her neck to kiss and lick it, whilst grabbing the back of her head.

"あら... You sneaky boy." Momo moaned yet again. "But I'm the one who is queen in your bed."

(あら ara = oh)

Following that, she flips herself on top of him, seemingly like a wrestling bear. Momo did not want to lose to a boy like Axelle, so to stop him from taking over this little session, the idol began to brush her tongue from his chest, making little stops by giving a peck, then doing the same process until she reached his nipple.

Axelle gasped, remembering how Momo played with his nipples that day on the roof terrace. "Shit, not again...!"

Momo was true to her thoughts, and she reached her fingers on the left nipple to rub it while playing with the other with her mouth.

"Dammit..." He blushed, hissing in pleasure. "Why are you always one step ahead of me. You're so bad, Momo..."

Momo continued to perform nipple play on Axelle. She didn't hesitate to reach for his erection as well, rubbing her delicate fingers over his boxers, her mouth still intact and playing with his right nipple.

A few seconds passed again and she pulled away from his nipple, turning his attention to his hard erection. The idol removed his shorts and underwear, throwing it on the floor. She bit her lip upon the sight of his cock, and then held the shaft before moaning out:

"Ffffuck... oh fuck, Axelle. I want your cock. I want it. Mine. ALL MINE. "

She stuck her tongue out for a moment, producing a gob of dripping saliva to lubricate her man's cock. With the aforementioned body part now being wet with her spit, she began to stroke from the base then up the shaft, then repeat.

Momo kept eye contact with him as she shifted into the next step, licking the pre-cum off the tip as she continued to stroke the shaft. Axelle's tip was so sensitive that he could not help but cover his blushing face with his whole hand, which was deemed impossible to do.

"Momo! It's... Aghhh!!" He groaned. "Fuck, it's too sensitive! Momo, please!"

"Mhm. Keep on begging, boy. I'm going to suck you dry until I am satisfied."

Staying true to her thoughts once again, Momo tucked her hair behind her ear for a second before shoving her mouth into his cock, with the tongue settling on the underside of his shaft. She then began to move her head up and down, making slurping and moaning noises.

She would even cock her head sideways as she kept on bobbing her mouth up and down his cock, and not only were there slurping and moaning noises, but she also gagged in order for the saliva to ooze out. She then repeats the same process, unashamedly swallowing the whole of his length, still locking eyes with her darling.

"Momo... please." Axelle moaned.

She pulled away to relax her throat for a bit, and kept on stroking his cock hastily. "Have you been taking cigarettes again, Axelle? Be honest with me."

"No... I haven't. Since the first day you sucked me off."

Momo giggled. "ベリベリグッド! You're such a good boy∼ Now I can get to taste your sweet, sweet cum. Let it out for me, now."

(ベリベリグッド! = Very very good! In katakana)

"Woman, it's not that easy to bust a nut..." He closed his eyes and scrunched his face as he still felt Momo's hand stroking his cock.

"Then I'll keep on blowing you until you fucking cum for me."

She pulled her mouth out of him as she thought for herself, whilst her hand stayed intact and stroked the skin of his penis.

"So he isn't cumming for me, huh? This boy has great endurance indeed. Maybe if I take it a bit farther... he might. Hehehe. I should make him fuck me. I want to feel him inside of me. I will show my darling that I can make him mine."

The idol turned back to Axelle, letting go of his cock. "Hey. Do you have condoms?" She asked suggestively.

"Wait a minute. Don't tell me we're going to—"

She put a finger on his lips. "Yes. We are going. To do. IT. If you cannot cum through my blowjob, then I'll order you to fuck me."

She leaned forward again for a sloppy kiss that lasted a couple of seconds, with Axelle even savoring the taste of his own cock from Momo's mouth. She then pulled away from the kiss slowly, leaving a string of saliva hanging on to both of their tongues.

"Now, boy. Get yourself a condom. It's time."

"Okay..."

Following his girlfriend's command, with a thumping heart, Axelle then crawls on the bed reaching for the drawer beside it, pulling out a condom. Momo chuckled once more, because of the flavor.

"You really do have an obsession for strawberries. You're so cute, darling." Momo bit her fingernail, admiring her boyfriend with alluring eyes. "Let me help you with that."

The idol grabbed the condom away from him and tore the wrapper open with her teeth. She places the tip of the thing onto the head of Axelle's penis, and then unrolls it down the shaft all the way to the base. Now, the Brit's organ is all wrapped in this crimson-coloured, flavored rubber, which made Momo so excited, considering that she was eager to fuck her boyfriend in his very own bed, in his very own house.

After removing every piece of fabric in her upper body, yet again, she took the lead, pushing her boyfriend down the bed, as she began to go on top of his waist while holding his cock, rubbing the tip against her clit. Both Momo and Axelle let out hot, erotic breaths as the former did her act.

"Fair warning... this is my first time, Momo. but shouldn't I go on top of you instead?" Axelle asked, tilting his head sideways.

"No. For now, I will go on top of you. I will make you fuck me so hard, my little Axelle." She declared, a woman true to her word. "Again, I will make you mine. ALL MINE."

Using the swollen head of his wrapped-in-rubber cock, Momo finds the opening of her pussy, which was already dripping wet. Once she did, she moved her own body downwards his waist, feeling her walls being stretched by her darling's length.

"Aaahhh! Ohhhh! Unhhhhh! Ahhhhahhh!" Momo began to groan, her body trembling in intense ecstasy. "Fuck! It's so fucking big, Axelle! Yessss... I want this..."

"Guhhhhn... Ahhhhh! Nnnnhhh!" Axelle groaned out as well.

Momo has successfully inserted herself on Axelle. Hissing, huffing and puffing, she smilingly bit her lip, looking at her man's drunk, twitching eyes. "You're feeling it now aren't you...?" Momo chuckled. "I'm glad to be your first time, Axie∼ Thank you for the golden opportunity, darling. I can finally, FINALLY get you to fuck me REAL hard..."

The main event begins, as Momo bounces up and down on his cock, feeling the whole of its length inside her. Her juicy boobs were jiggling, the face was already red, and almost about to drip with sweat. She also closed her eyes, opening it but with the little disadvantage of them twitching because of the intense pleasure she felt. However, all of this mattered in the end. She wanted to fuck Axelle and make that mark on him. To make him stay. To make him hers.

If there was one thing that each of them took away from each other, it was their own modesty and chastity. Momo already had prior experience, because she had been touching herself way before she met Axelle, but then again, she is still getting used to an actual penis.

Axelle was also feeling his girlfriend's dominance over him as she continued to bounce up and down, hearing her mewl. With having lesser work to do in this position, he just stayed intact, lying down on the bed, all while scrunching his face, letting out huffs from his dry lips.

After a while, he noticed Momo getting a bit tired from all the bouncing considering that she put all of her weight on her bent knees. "Momo, hold still. Let me..."

As if his instinct was telling him a message, he slowly thrusted on her up and down, moving his waist while Momo was still assuming the squat position. He vocalized grunts and breaths, putting all of his weight on his hips in order for him to give Momo the proper sexual treatment that she deserves.

"Axelle." She muttered in a much cuter voice. "Yes. Yes. Yes. Axelle, please."

The couple assumed this position for a couple of minutes more, alternately doing the work in order for them to enjoy their sex, and slowly building it up, especially in the case of Axelle where he does the thrusting much faster.

They haven't even orgasmed yet. Of course, they want to enjoy the sex much longer. The Brit felt that he wanted Momo to rest, so he flipped her over on the bed to make her lie on her back, with him now assuming the top position. Her legs are placed beside Axelle's shins.

"Now would you let me do the work?" He asked with a raised eyebrow, smirking.

She sighed, grinning. "Fine. I'll allow it. Take care of me well, my darling."

The Brit guided his condom-wrapped cock into the idol's clit, rubbing the head against it teasingly. Momo moaned and breathed heavily in response to this act, but it only got louder... as he inserted his organ into her hole.

But to be certain that Axelle is actually engaged in this activity, before he begins thrusting her, Momo asked him, "Wait, Axelle. Before anything else... Are you enjoying this?"

He reclined forward, remaining in his current position. "I don't mean to be poetic, but you tempted me into this first. I can't back down on this anymore, nor do I wish to do so." Axelle declared. "If this means making me yours, then so be it. I gladly and officially welcome everything, your desires and fears, your wants and your needs. And I also wish to become yours. For keeps."

His declaration of love made Momo's heart swell with affection. She couldn't move at the moment because his penis is still inside her and not thrusting yet. However, his words made her cherish this serenely intimate moment with him, realizing and hoping that their bond will grow much stronger, not by the sex alone, but by the way he uses his words and gives her that assurance.

"Thank you so much, Axelle. It means so much to me, you know that?" Momo chuckled. "Now you can go ahead and... fuck me all you want."

He proceeded with the other part of the main event, pulling his cock out and then pushing it again inside her, pleasuring his girlfriend intensely. Momo let out moans, occasionally biting her lip because the arousal was overwhelming her whole body and mind. Axelle closed one eye, and then leaned into her neck to press his lips and tongue against her skin, heightening the pleasure.

From their regular position, Momo wraps her leg around Axelle's back, allowing the latter to deepen the penetration. Their skins are now much closer, an electric feeling surging through each of them as the Brit continues to buck his penis inside his idol girlfriend.

He then gives a sloppy kiss, twirling his tongue against hers, all while making whining sounds, which lasted for a few seconds before pulling away. Axelle's dry lips have become wet with the combined mixture of his and Momo's spit, which he eventually licked off.

To keep the sex more enjoyable, Momo switches back to being the top, straddling on top of her man, resting her knees on the bed, facing Axelle, who is lying on his back again with his knees bent a little. The idol leaned forward a bit, allowing them to have more skinship:

Their bodies resting against each other, Momo wrapping her arms around his neck, and Axelle grabbing her firm, kneadable ass.

With that, Momo begins to grind her hips on top of Axelle's pelvis. His hands were massaging her bouncing ass as well.

He would then later buck his condom-covered cock up her pussy, while Momo remained in her top position, just like last time.

"Fuck, Axelle, you're so good at this already!" Momo huffed, her hot and erratic breath being felt by the Brit's face.

"It seems..." The Brit hissed. "I'm close. So close, darling...! I-I'm about to cum, Momo!"

"Hold it in for me, baby!" She nibbled on his lower lip before saying, "I'm about to cum too! Let's cum together, my darling!"

The Brit and the idol kept on fucking, whilst kissing sloppily, which muffled their noises of arousal. Axelle did not stop pounding Momo, using the strength of his hips, and he isn't planning to...

...until a few moments later, finally, the couple reached cloud nine. Momo let out a satisfying, erotic groan as she clung on to Axelle, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as she felt the intense high jolting throughout every corner of her skin.

A grunt came out of the Brit's mouth as he exploded, feeling the same electric feeling as his girlfriend. Every drop of semen filled up the tip of his condom, which made the man clench his eyes, and his blush reddening deeper.

Following the orgasm, Axelle affectionately interlocked Momo's hand with his and kissed her softly, in contrast to the previous sloppy kisses. Love and care permeated every aspect of it.

It was something more fervent.

More passionate.

Something deeper than even mere lust cannot suffice.

An hour has passed. The afternoon sun rays passed through the windows of Axelle's bedroom. The couple took a bath after exerting all that movement, and afterward, bringing out the Valentine's gifts that Momo gave to her darling two hours earlier.

The woman, who was wearing a bathrobe, sat on her man's lap on the edge of the bed. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding the strawberry plushie in one hand, while on the other, a Nutella-dipped strawberry that he offered with sensuality. As an accompaniment to the fruits, there is also a side of Nutella and a dollop of fluffy whipped cream.

"Try this one. It has Nutella on." Axelle says. Momo then opens her mouth, chewing on the chocolate spread-infused strawberry.

"Mmm! It is good, eh?" After swallowing, Momo gives a little peck on Axelle's lips, to which the latter responded with a soft smile.

"You're cute when you eat strawberries." He feeds himself a strawberry dipped in whipped cream.

"Shut up, boy. It's you who's cuter." Momo retorted.

"No, you!"

"Nah-ah! You!"

Axelle playfully stuck his tongue out at Momo, a cringey but also somewhat cute response to her insistence. In return, the idol raised her clenched fist in a threateningly cute manner.

In the end, their little argument/banter on who is cuter would cease for a while, continuing their own little moment of feeding each other some strawberries and the Kitkats on the edge of the bed.

"Hey, Momo."

"Mhm?"

"Thank you." Axelle smiled.

"For what, Axelle?" Momo caressed his cheek.

"For being here, darling. Aside from the gifts of course." He nestled his head on her shoulder, giving pecks on her cheek. "I actually thought you wouldn't be coming today for Valentine's."

"I was almost about to give up on these gifts because I didn't know where your house was." Momo answered honestly. "I'm glad you spotted me back at the bank. I guess fate really brings us together in such circumstances where we don't expect it."

"You still should've told me you were coming, though!"

"Axelle, it was a surprise! I mean, that's the point, right? Not telling you at all?" Momo softly rebuts. "But then again, I didn't even know where you live. That was my mistake..."

He took hold of her chin, making her face him and then planted another peck. "You know what? How about let's not argue about that? What's important is that you're here and we are spending our Valentine's together."

"You know what, too?" She lightly taps his cheek. "I definitely agree with that. I have no schedule for later until tomorrow, so I could be able to do this..."

The idol stood up and then pushed Axelle into the bed, mischievously smiling. She then leaned down into his neck to suck and nibble on its skin. A gasp escaped from the Brit's lips, not expecting this gesture. He indeed felt a faint pain, which is not even as painful as a bee sting, but wasn't planning to stop Momo. Weirdly enough, he liked how the idol was grazing and sucking on the skin fervently, given that Momo was indirectly marking her territory.

After a few seconds, Momo drew her teeth and lips away, , leaving a love bite on his neck. He gently touched it with his fingers, locking eyes with his girlfriend.

"You're mine."

Axelle chuckled. "You don't have to say it all the time, Momo."

She looked at him with her signature big, beautiful eyes with a hint of darkness, declaring, "I'll say it even a hundred times if it means I get to have you for myself."

The young man didn't even have to speak further to even say anything about her declaration of love. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Momo's waist, closing his eyes to feel the admiration and boldness that she possesses. Not once, he had met someone like her. Someone that isn't afraid to be her true self around her darling. This was a wholesome moment for the both of them, and Axelle hoped that, some day, some month, some year...

He will get to feel more of Momo's love.

"Happy Valentine, Momo."

"Happy Valentine, Axelle."

5:00 pm

Incheon Int'l Airport

"여행객 여러분, 인천국제공항을 선택해 주셔서 감사합니다. 안전여행 하시고 한국에서 즐거운 시간 보내시기 바랍니다. 앞으로도 다시 서비스를 제공할 수 있기를 기대합니다."

("Dear travelers, thank you for choosing Incheon International Airport. We wish you safe travels and enjoy your time in South Korea. We look forward to serving you again in the future.")

Incheon International Airport. Since Seoul, the capital city, does not have an established airport, planes take off and land here. Reports from around the globe have stated that it is one the best airports in the world, considering their quality services, welcoming air crew and advanced accommodations and facilities.

It is currently packed with travelers and visitors to and fro Korea, and beyond the world. Everyone wanted to see the country, its culture, the sights and the great food that it had to offer.

A certain man had just claimed his baggage and is about to leave the airport, having taken an 11-hour flight from the United Kingdom. He was actually born and raised here, and was happy to be back in his home country. But besides that... he is here for an important mission.

"Ahhh..." He breathed in and out, feeling the fresh Korean air. "I'm back, 한국. Sadly, I'm on a very important mission for today. Vacations can wait."

(한국 Hangug/Hanguk = Korea)

From his coat, he takes out what seems to be a very important file, a crucial item for this task. He then begins to speak for himself, as he walks out the door of the airport.

"The flights from Heathrow had to be cancelled, so I was delayed for 28 days, goddammit. Now that I'm here... I can do the task that that Filipino 아줌마 entrusted me to do. By the way... She's super hot. And super dangerous."

(아줌마 ajumma = middle-aged woman)

He then unfolds the file that had a picture attached on the upper left corner.

"Now, she trusts me to take care of her 22-year-old son... Lucky she isn't here to reprimand me again. Why do I have to take care of an adult? What is he, a child?"

He sighed, now focusing on that picture.

"Though, I'm intrigued to see this lad. He interests me. This guy..."

"Axelle Hutchison."

TO BE CONTINUED

#misamo #twice #twice fanfic #hirai momo #twice momo #fanfic #twice smut #smut #original character

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