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picturebookshelf · 5 months

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2023 Tumblr Top 10

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Created by TumblrTop10

The Top 10 Picture Books I Posted This Year!

Some don’t surprise me at all (Brambly Hedge -- it’s so pretty! how could anyone not want this art on their blog! -- or Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood -- the poetry is so meaningful, it was a book I had to go buy for myself) but there are others that really do shock me (strange scifi Barbie? a basic Dora book? a Baby Einstein rhymes book?)

It really is neat to see what resonates with some people. Honestly it’s one of my favourite parts of running this blog, seeing which of the strange assortment of picture books I find really hit someone in a meaningful way. Some of the tags I get of people reminiscing about reading these books as kids are honestly just the best thing ever. I can’t wait to see which books speak to folks next year.

#tumblrtop10 #brambly hedge #adventure time #baby einstein #barbie #mister rogers #coraline #little big planet #lbp #charlie brown #peanuts #dora the explorer #disney #book talk #kid books #picture books #nostalgia

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azol-otl · 2 years

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If you’re like me and can never think of undercover names for all the bat-people besides the ubiquitous ‘Matches Malone’, ‘Alvin Draper’, and ‘Robbie Malone’ (though I’m not entirely sure that one isn’t just complete fanon but whatever I see it a lot), try using these alternatives for some of the rest:

Kate: Davina Sheridan

Babs: Trixie Miller

Cass: (Theo)Dora He

Jason: Simon de la Cruz

Stephanie: Brittany Geary

Duke: John Reuel

Harper: Ellen Rigby

#if it wasn't clear this is a joke #actually it's several jokes layered into one another but I made this for one big joke #Though I actually do like Dora for Cass so who knows maybe use them #Jason's is in spanish because I am latino and his name holds a reference and a joke #also because I headcanon him to either be latino or raised it.#if you wanted some good Jason identities there's Jamie Knight from kthonicecho on ao3 #and the absolute genius that is Parker Row from chucklesbuckles on ao3 #so you can use those for inspiration #batfamily #Kate Kane #Barbara Gordon #Cassandra Cain #Jason Todd #Stephanie Brown #Duke Thomas #Harper Row #Azol's words

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comas-are-for-sleeping · 4 months

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I WAS SO SURPRISED WHEN I WENT INTO THE TAG AND IT WAS JUST??? PEOPLE SAYING ALICE IS LIKE TIM BUT LIKE GUYS. G U Y S

SHES NOOOOOOT

lowkey sometimes her voice to me sounds like martin so shes him without anxiety i have decided. like OHMGGJGK bc LIKE. bc IM SCREAMING. like bc shes had to!! like stand her ground bc trans people get so much shit so!! like maybe she used to be shy and now like. well i mean she obvs loves the confidence but what if. DJDKSKSBFFID

#bc also Every Single drawing of sam and alice just looks like jon and martin if martin was a woman #which i dont agree w alice OBVIOUSLY has brown hair its v obvious #and its like. her hair is like dora original haircut style #but shes def not a redhead what the heck???#ask #soryasongsaa #pen and ink

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mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 7 months

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Pairing: Bucky x f!reader, White Wolf x f!reader Word Count: 4k Summary: You meet Bucky while you're in Wakanda and you just can't resist his wolfish charms! Warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected vaginal sex, dirty talk, role-play, oral sex, fingering, biting (mild) Author's note: This is a gift for @samodivaa, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!

You had seen him long before you ever spoke with him. He worked the Alkama Fields on the borders of Wakanda, long strands of brown hair strewn across his face, a small sash tied across his muscular chest. The children called him White Wolf, at least that is what you had overheard. Initially, the adults didn’t speak much about him, preferring to hush you with dismissive gestures.

Your multiple doctorates in anthropology and linguistics had made you one of the top choices to visit the advanced society that had been kept so carefully hidden for so long. King T’Challa had allowed you to visit his kingdom where you would spend a year learning about their culture, languages and history. As soon as you had settled into the guest living quarters you’d been offered, you had gone shopping, wanting to fully immerse yourself into the Wakandan lifestyle and fashion.

It hadn’t taken too long before you had been fully accepted into their society, your cheery demeanor and your willingness to be of assistance to anyone you saw granted you access to places where others may have been shunned as an outsider.

The Dora Milaje had immediately fascinated you, the all-female special forces for Wakanda. They had kindly allowed you to observe their training and you had befriended a few members of the elite squad, including Ayo, Yama and Nomble. It was through them that you learned more about Bucky Barnes. It was only after you heard his name that the memories of the Winter Soldier swam to the forefront of your mind.

The only reason you had met him was because Ayo had suggested you learn one of the native languages by attending one of the rural schools. You had entered sheepishly and been introduced to the class, who had responded with smiles and waves. It was only when you were directed to a seat in the back that you noticed the supersoldier hunched over and squeezed into a desk in the corner.

He watched your hips swish slightly as you weaved your way between the little bodies dispersed throughout the room. You were wearing your favorite red dress and soon enough it became Bucky's.

"I don't normally do this, you know," you smiled shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

Bucky held down the button which opened the door to your humble living space, letting you enter before following.

"Do what?" he teased. "Never take strange men home?"

You rolled your eyes and let out a dramatic sigh, nudging him slightly with your elbow as you spoke. "I never let stray dogs into my home. Maybe I ought to put you back outside."

"Out in the cold?" he pouted.

"It doesn't get cold here," you scoffed.

"Well you never know," Bucky shrugged, then flashed you a mischievous grin. "And even if you did, you'd spend all night listening to me scratch and whine at the door. You wouldn't get much sleep."

In Bucky’s mind, the most beautiful sound burst from your lips as you laughed at his words.

"Maybe my puppy dog eyes will work better on you? But be warned, they are pretty powerful," he tilted his head down so his gaze was looking up at yours, lips pouted a little.

"Oh I'm done for now," you feigned a swoon. "Reign it in there buddy, the White Wolf should be using his powers for the greater good."

"I couldn't think of a better cause than being here with you."

You turned around to slip off your shoes while Bucky gazed around at your studio apartment, furnished with some classic Wakandan sofas and woven tapestries adorned the walls. It was beautiful how well the traditional and technological aspects of the culture meshed together.

"That dress looks pretty special on you, Red."

"Red? You think I'm Little Red Riding Hood?" you asked incredulously.

Bucky shrugged.

"And I suppose that makes you the Big Bad Wolf?"

That made Bucky laugh, a deep unrestrained guffaw. It wasn't a sound you'd heard from him and you wanted to hear it again.

"You think I'm bad?" There was a twinkle in his eye when he voiced the question but there was a touch of hesitation in his voice.

You walked right up to him, until your face was inches away from his, your eyes gazed directly at his lips for a moment or two before you looked up at him and batted your eyelids in a coquettish manner. “I think you can be,” you purred seductively. “You can be big,” you pushed your hand lightly over his crotch, “and bad.” You bit your lip waiting for his response. Every fiber of your being told you that the White Wolf had a wild side, but it was one he kept restrained out of fear of his past. You hope he would trust you to explore it with him.

Slowly but surely, a smile spread across his lips. Bucky tilted his head down to look at you through his eyebrows, a mask of menace painted across his face. “And what brings you to my forest, Red?” he growled.

“I’m sorry for intruding. I was on a little field trip and I think I might be a little lost.” You turned a little to glance around the room in a mock survey of your surroundings. “Do you think you can help me, Mister Wolf?”

Bucky took a step to the side, silent and graceful, creeping around you in a circle, like a predator stalking its prey, sizing you up like his next meal - the curve of your ass, the swell of your breast, the way your throat was highlighted by the neckline of that blood red dress you wore. He was vigilant of your vulnerability, your exposure, his own hunger and desire - the urge to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to fuck you, was overwhelming.

“You’ll have to pay the price for trespassing in my neck of the woods.”

“But I have nothing to give you, Mister Wolf,” you puffed out your lips into an exaggerated pout.

“How about that pretty red dress you’re wearing? I think that will do very nicely.” Bucky licked his lips, the salacious intent audible in his tone.

“But this is my favorite dress,” you whined.

“Give me the dress, Red. Or I’ll eat you up.”

Bucky took a step forward, towering over you. Even with one arm missing he had a presence, a presence which made your heart flutter uncontrollably. Your breath hitched as you caught a whiff of his scent, his own earthy musk mingled with a hit of sweat from having worked on the fields all day. You could feel your body responding to his proximity as beads of sweat erupted from your skin and the space between your legs throbbed with a desire to be filled. It was as though you craved his touch. He took another step closing the remaining distance between you.

You were so distracted by his closeness that you almost missed him repeating his question. “The dress, Red. Or would you prefer I eat you?”

“What’s to stop you from eating me even after I’ve given you my dress?”

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

You spun around slowly, allowing Bucky the time to admire your curves. You bit back the moan that tried to escape as his fingers brushed your hips as you turned. He slid them across your waist, trailing them up your back until they landed on the zipper on the back. He pinched the tiny pull between his fingers and tugged it downwards but it barely moved. He tried again with little success. His nose was so pressed so close to your ear that you could hear the quiet growl of frustration in his throat.

“You need help back there, Mister Wolf?”

“No!” he barked, taking the zipper pull between his teeth, while his hand supported the lacy material.

The top of your dress fell from your shoulders in an instant exposing your back and bra. The rest followed with ease, pooling to the floor in a shimmering heap. Bucky smiled, the way your muscles flexed in response to your exposure. He couldn’t help but noticed a dark patch on the front of your panties and how you pushed back into him as he came up behind you.

“You have my dress now, Mister Wolf. Can I go now?” you whimpered.

Bucky wrapped his hand around his waist. “I want more, Red. I want your body.”

It was almost involuntary, how your body responded to his words. You pushed back into him, grinding onto the swell in his pants. Bucky ached, for you to kiss him, for you to let him devour you. He held you closer.

You hummed, “what big arms you have.”

“The better to hold you with.” He covered your breast with his giant palm, kneading your flesh with a longing that had you clenching involuntarily.

He nibbled your ear and you couldn’t hold your moans in any longer. “Ohh Mister Wolf, what big teeth you have!”

“The better to eat you with.”

You squealed loudly as Bucky’s arm enveloped your waist and lifted you clean off the ground. He practically threw you onto the large round beanbag armchair, your landing softened by the multitude of cushions which cradled your fall.

“No more teasing, Red. You’re going to have to pay with more than that sexy dress.”

He straddled your hips, hovering over you, trapping you. Your body’s instinct was to struggle but it was in vain. His weight had you pinned helplessly to the couch, his throbbing cock pushed against your core. Soaked panties, wet lips, grinding hips. His fist was in your hair as he held you up to his chest. He kissed you, hard - long and deep. It felt like he was sucking the air right out of your lungs.

“Please, Mister Wolf.” You had no idea what you were begging for at this point, words strewn with lust. “What are you going to do to me?”

The way you looked under him had Bucky seriously testing his control, his cock now painfully hard and straining against the tight material of his pants. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in you, to stretch you out, to hear you scream his name. That animal instinct that he had buried deep inside was clawing its way to the surface, you’d woken the beast and it was hungry after all its years of slumber. You had freed the wolf and now you would feed it.

Bucky grinned at you devilishly. “I’m going to eat you. As stunning as your lips taste, I have my eyes on something sweeter.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he trailed his tongue down your neck, stopping around your breast to suck and nibble at your nipple. Your whole body tingled under his ministrations.

You moaned loudly, no restraint in conveying your pleasure. "More."

"What was that, Red?"

"I want more, Mister Wolf. I've been a bad girl."

He breathed in your perfume, it permeated his nostrils, but he had caught another scent which had attracted his attention, the scent of your arousal. Suddenly he was on his knees on the floor with a grip on your waist, firm but not painful. And the way his fingers curved under your pelvis and pulled you down with ease had you writhing desperately. You lifted your hips expectantly and he ripped off your skimpy panties, exposing you to his salivating mouth. His teeth grazed his lower lip, tongue coating them with the product of his ravenous appetite.

“Please?” you whispered. A hint of uncertainty in your voice as he hovered over you with the stillness of a dangerous predator waiting to pounce.

He smiled, the lecherous glint in his eyes replaced with one of kindness, almost affectionate. He took your left ankle in his hand, lifting your leg, guiding it up and out until he had room to hook his shoulder under your knee. He glanced up at you and nodded his head at your other leg indicating that he wanted you to do the same. You didn’t need to be told twice and matched his actions, linking your feet together on his back.

Immediately his mouth was on your lips with a yearning of a man starved of passion. He licked the full length of them with his broad tongue before pushing his nose between them, nuzzling your pussy with the growing stubble on his chin. He blew against your clit.

“Fuck Bucky, what was that?” you cried, breaking from your character. Impatience and frustration dripped off your words. “Eat me, damn it!”

“What’s the matter, Red? You sound desperate.”

“Please,” you whispered. It was a thinly veiled plea and for once, Bucky was happy to comply.

One last look into your lustblown eyes and he lowered his head, attention focused on you. You tasted of salt and honey with a hint of lemon. He pushed a finger between your folds, tantalizingly rubbing it along the length of your slit before pushing it deep into you. With each thrust he added another digit, testing your stretch.

“Tongue,” you mumbled.

“Mmmm?” Bucky hummed.

“Use your mouth,” you enunciated.

“Your wish is my command,” he grinned.

“Talk less, lick more.”

Bucky pried you apart and planted his lips firmly over your clit, sucking your sweet nectar into his mouth. His tongue lapped you as he slid his fingers in and out.

“Yes, yes, just like that,” you closed your eyes and moaned, tilting your hips to let his fingers push deeper inside you.

He pressed his face closer, wanting a taste of every part of you. Finally withdrawing his fingers when he couldn’t quite fit both. You barely had time to whine about feeling empty as he grabbed your hips and pulled you right into his face, licking and sucking as though his life depended on drinking every drop of your precious elixir.

You moaned - it was so long and sensual that Bucky felt it inside him. He felt the wolf inside him rising to the surface. He had spent years watching; relentless, trying to find his way inside. You had let him in and now he finally felt alive. He growled, a deep guttural sound which filled you as he devored you. His head undulated as he tried to encompass you with his mouth, upper lip covering your clit as his jaw stretched and tongue pushed inside you. He ravaged you until he had no air left in his lungs.

Bucky’s cock throbbed as he felt the way you clenched against him. He slid his fingers back inside you, his other hand pulling apart your lips and exposing your clit to a fresh assault from his tongue. He could feel your clit pulse, your walls close in around him as he curled his fingers upwards to match the beat you had set with your heart. He was playing you like an instrument and the whimpers and groans that left your lips was music to his ears.

You pushed yourself on him and he ate you like a ravenous creature until-

“Oh Buck, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna - Buck, Buck!” Your voice rose in a crescendo. Legs shaking as you tightened and clenched around his thick fingers. “I’m coming, Bucky, I’m coming! Now!”

Bucky watched you as every single one of your muscles contracted and relaxed as waves of pleasure crashed through you, eyes rolled back and mouth open in a silent cry of ecstasy.

As you finally came down from your high, you opened your eyes, locking your gaze on his. You lay on your back, limp and naked and tingling all over. Sighing, as the aftermath of your climax finally ebbed away. You lifted your legs off Bucky’s shoulders and patted the space beside you. There was no hesitation as he crawled up beside you.

"That was kinda intense," you smiled at him.

"I wouldn't mind seconds," he smirked, eyes wandering over your face.

You sat up and for a brief frightening moment, Bucky thought you had had enough. But you stretched your arms and arched your back slightly before turning to face him. “So, you think I can take the Wolf for a ride?”

You placed your hand over his still covered cock, rubbing your hand over the tent in his pants making him gasp at your touch. Reflexively, his hips bucked into your hand. “Maybe I should get my pants off first?”

“Sounds like a good plan,” you answered, not taking your hands off him.

Bucky sat up so that his face was inches from yours. “Just need a moment, Red.”

He was up in an instant, lamenting the loss of contact of your hand on his crotch. He unbuttoned and dropped his pants with ease, before turning to face you. The sharp breath you took as you came face to face with his fully freed cock did a lot to stroke his ego. He reveled in the brightness of anticipation in your eyes.

“You really like your Wolf, huh?”

For the first time a blush crossed your cheeks and you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Bucky took a step closer so that there was nowhere for you to avert your gaze.

"May I?" You looked up at him for permission.

He nodded, heart pounding from the thought of your touch.

You wrapped your hand around his shaft, feeling him jump with excitement. "That feel good, Mister Wolf?" A sudden surge of confidence had you feeling aroused again.

"Need more, Red."

You didn't need to be told twice. His already leaking tip looked too tantalizing and you were eager to taste your Wolf. With the same enthusiasm, you took him into your mouth, starting with a few soft licks, before sucking hard. Bucky thought he was going to come right at that moment.

“Red, w-wait!” he stuttered as the waves of pleasure encompassed him.

There was a faint popping sound as you released him from your mouth, looking up at him with an all knowing smile. He sat down beside you, spending the next few moments in an intimate silence with light touches. As his breathing became less ragged, you placed your palms on his chest, pushing him down onto his back. You climbed over and straddled his lap so that your entrance brushed over the base of his cock.

You leaned down and whispered in his ear. "So is my White Wolf going to let me ride him?"

Bucky's pupils dilated so fast that the image of you blurred slightly. It was only when you came back into focus that he was able to growl out the words. "I want you."

He held himself up as you lined your entrance up to his leaking member, slowly sinking down and basking in the stretch you felt. So much more than what his fingers had given you, you wondered if he would tear you in half. After a few careful thrusts, you picked up the pace, riding him with vigor.

"Fuck, Red, you feel so good!" Bucky looked up at you.

You were a sight to behold, flushed with strands of sweat coated hair strewn across your face. But it was your eyes that had him mesmerized, the way you looked back at him with voracity laced with a tenderness he hadn't seen in years.

"Harder!"

You complied with his request, matching your bounces with a thrust of his hips. Bucky admired the way your breasts followed your movements, unable to resist the urge, he reached up to squeeze your left nipple.

After several minutes of energetic thrusting, Bucky caught you slowing down. He slipped his hand down to your waist in an attempt to stay your movements.

"Can we try something different?” you asked, breathing heavily as you leaned forwards to pull air into your burning lungs and ease the pain in your aching thighs.

“Just gimme a few more. ‘M close.”

“Trust me, Mister Wolf? I wanna give something else a try.”

He removed his grip from your waist, watching as you climbed off his lap and crawled over to the arm rest and planted your hands firmly on it. You looked over your shoulder and wiggled your ass at him.

"Mount me, Mister Wolf."

Bucky didn't need to be told twice. He splayed his fingers across one cheek of your beautifully round ass and kneaded the muscle as you pushed back towards him, waiting with anticipation for him to enter you. But Bucky’s inner wolf had been freed and he let its spirit guide him. He leant forwards and sank his teeth into your other cheek, deep enough for you to yelp with pain but not enough to break your skin. He proceeded to cover the area with his lips in an attempt to kiss it better.

"You want to mark me?"

"You're mine, Red. All mine. Got that?" He rubbed his cock against your leaking lips.

“Yo-”

Before you had the chance to finish giving him an answer, he was inside you. One swift thrust. The cry that left your lips was much more pained and Bucky worried for a moment that his strength had been too much for you.

"It's fine, keep going. Fuck me, please."

Bucky was a little more careful on the second try, but each trust made him more confident, aided and abetted by your lusty moans and encouraging words.

“Bucky-”

“You sound so pretty like that,” he pushed into you repeatedly. “Whining and moaning my name.”

“Bucky!”

“What happened to your Wolf?”

"Please… Bucky… please, I need you,, you know I'm aching for you to take me, to pull me apart, whatever pleases you, just… please just don't deny me!”

It felt so fucking good, having Bucky’s cock inside you. Your brain was nothing but mush, focused solely on just how good he felt inside you. You shuddered, your hips pushing backwards as Bucky presses against your clit. His fingers smooth out around your folds, pressing into them slightly, as if holding them open so he can push into you better. You felt your arms going weak at the stimulation, it was getting harder to support yourself as Bucky pushed deeper and deeper inside you.

“Faster!” you cried, but you could barely hear your own words over the sound of skin slapping together, the wet sounds of Bucky’s cock thrusting in and out of you.

“Fuck, Red, I’m getting close…”

"…Ohhh fuck, please," you gasped out, instinctively. "Buck… I need you. But… I'm yours, all yours…"

Your legs trembled as Bucky’s words had you teetering on the edge of your orgasm, your juices covering his cock, his thrusts were passionate, wild, frenzied.

“That’s right. Mine! I’m going to fill you up. That’s it, Red. Come on my cock. I want to hear you come.”

Raucous moans caught in your throat, your eyes closed as you took in all of Bucky. Your vision clouded and your body felt limp as he pushed you over the edge once again. It felt as though the world had ceased to exist except for the two of you, together, as one being. Bucky held you close as you squeezed his cock triggering his climax. With a howl, ropes of white hot cum shot from him, filling you until it was dripping out of you and down your leg. He fell into you and you both collapsed onto the sofa, heavy breathing was the only sound to be heard in the room for several minutes.

Finally you caught your breath, recovered some semblance of feeling in your limbs. Bucky’s arm was still wrapped around your waist in a powerful embrace and he hadn't made any moves to extract himself from inside you.

"I should probably be getting back," Bucky mumbled regrettably after a long silence.

But neither of you made a move to free yourselves from the other's arms.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #kinktober #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #white wolf

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luveline · 11 months

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991

The air here smells like sulphur.

After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind.

Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down.

Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell.

"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle.

You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable.

At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders.

His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket.

"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things.

You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.

The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde.

Probably.

You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight.

You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.

You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open.

You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.

Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection.

Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream.

The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout.

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin.

You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts.

"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask.

"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend."

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly.

"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–"

You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to.

"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch.

Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down.

"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls."

"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that."

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!"

"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?"

"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath.

You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour".

Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.

The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make.

Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't.

You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it.

Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders.

Or when you're with Eddie.

As you stupidly told him.

What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him.

Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady.

People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here.

You want to see him again.

What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea.

If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog…

You grip the door.

You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you?

It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest.

I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?

The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush.

Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside.

"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."

You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?"

"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet."

"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."

Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit."

Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep."

She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed."

She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat.

"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?"

"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around.

You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts.

"I'll see what I can do," she says.

Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again.

You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up.

"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?"

You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on?

"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?"

"And is he expecting your call?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who's calling?"

"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful.

"Hold please."

You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck–

"Transferring now."

You hold your breath.

The phone clicks twice.

"Hi?"

"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.

"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?"

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N."

"Hey. How's Florida?"

You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.

"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot."

"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"

You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine."

You can still save it.

"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask.

Wrong.

"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!"

"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you.

"Okay, good."

You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.

"How's Houston?"

"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here."

You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.

"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket."

You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.

"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says.

You know exactly what he means.

You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person.

Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit.

"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask."

"Yeah? That's not how I remember it."

"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?"

"I should hang up on you."

"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises.

"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time."

"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”

“Where’s the question?”

“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”

You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power.

“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”

“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark.

“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”

The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up.

“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks.

“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”

Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

“No? What was it?”

“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”

“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat.

“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks.

You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"

“Uh…”

“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”

“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”

“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.

“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”

You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”

You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?

Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought.

Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak.

“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.

“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”

You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”

“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”

“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”

Another patch of silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”

“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true.

“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”

You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.

“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says.

“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”

“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”

You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”

He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”

A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it.

He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”

And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”

Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this.

He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar.

Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter.

He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she?

He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them.

Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it.

He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.

“Hi,” you say.

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.

“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”

“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him.

“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”

“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say.

“Ditto.”

You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”

Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small.

“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”

Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed.

“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”

“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful.

Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”

You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes.

Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips.

“Will you share it with me?”

He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too.

Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough.

“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes.

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”

“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed.

He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare.

It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand.

“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”

He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better.

“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says.

Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart.

“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”

“The fans,” Eddie repeats.

He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play.

And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another.

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says.

“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”

“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before.

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.

“Can I just sit here a while?”

“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder.

Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.

Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate.

“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks.

He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.

“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”

Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes.

“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”

“I see.”

You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”

“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.

Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips.

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest.

He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart.

Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth.

“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”

“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”

“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile.

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”

Your answering hum tickles.

“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest.

“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”

“You're not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.

“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask.

“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”

You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze.

“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair.

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says.

He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier.

“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.”

You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing.

“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.

“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience."

You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips.

Eddie could get used to this.

—

Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991

There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself.

“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath.

There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance.

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”

You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge.

“Are you looking for something new?” you ask.

If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged.

“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”

You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV.

“You’re too busy,” you finish.

“I'm way too busy.”

There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing.

Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else.

You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do.

You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner.

Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry.

You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl.

"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out.

You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you.

"For what?" he asks.

"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock."

"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment."

"No, at the store."

Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you.

"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."

Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it."

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.

"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame."

"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time."

"Nerd."

"Loser."

He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty.

You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit.

"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks.

"They'll have yours."

Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine."

"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.

"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena."

You gawp at him. "You did not."

"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs.

"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it."

Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away.

"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time."

"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say.

"You don't think you would?"

"I'm not really tenured."

"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable."

"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing.

"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together.

You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU.

"What do I play?" you ask.

"Anything."

"That's not helpful."

"Something fun," he says.

Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline.

Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor.

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate.

"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard."

"I'm telling people you said that."

You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus.

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks.

"No."

"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song."

"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously."

You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest."

"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home.

You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face.

You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation.

The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part.

It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.

You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking?

His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that."

"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head.

"No, you worked hard. There's a difference."

His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should.

"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel.

Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval.

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks.

"What do you know?"

"God, I know everything. You should know that."

"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention."

He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss.

You're in awe.

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle.

"S'what I get for trying to show off."

He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that.

"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.

"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself.

You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away.

He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer.

You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks.

The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip.

"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be."

He licks his lips. "You're cool."

You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do.

"I'm worried about people finding out about us."

"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us."

It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely.

"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?"

"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer.

"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it."

He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain.

"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive."

"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded."

"Let's go back to when you didn't like me."

"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?"

"No," you mumble.

"Oh. Good."

"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask.

"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on."

"They've clocked on."

"Cruel!" he says, delighted.

"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?"

"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe."

"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh.

"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up."

The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly.

"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–"

"What am I getting into?"

"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this."

He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this."

Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl.

"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you."

"But I don't get that, we don't get along."

"What do you call this?" he asks.

You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky.

"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you."

"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness.

You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure.

"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want."

You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying.

"Okay," you breathe.

He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice."

"You're not on thin ice."

"I should be."

Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it."

"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod.

A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one.

"What's for dinner?" you ask.

Eddie smiles.

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?"

Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing.

You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love.

He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession.

"I miss you," he'd said.

You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then."

So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something.

"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours.

He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.

Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank.

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer."

You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself.

Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?"

"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?"

"Is there any room?"

"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?"

He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath.

He whistles. Can't help himself.

You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur.

"Sorry. You're just pretty."

"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice."

He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–"

You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could.

He's messing with you. It's his prerogative.

Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried."

About what? he'd asked.

You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.

He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle.

It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie.

He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him.

"Don't push me away," he whines.

"Don't make fun of me."

"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that."

"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue.

"You don't like that word?"

You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do.

"You like Status Quo?" you ask.

He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?"

"Showaddywaddy?"

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes.

"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath.

"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily.

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party."

He hangs his head. "I was in a mood."

"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?"

Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember."

"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek.

"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating.

"Because you didn't know me."

You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?"

"Sweetheart, we met before."

Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more.

"We did," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."

You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.

I'll put you on the list.

"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something.

"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane."

He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–"

"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.

"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…"

"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other."

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah."

Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck.

"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you."

"You took your time," he says.

"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"

He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains.

He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip.

"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge.

"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says.

You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!"

"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?"

Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?"

You're already forgiven. "Three photos."

"Deal."

"Should've asked for five."

"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.."

Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–"

You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off."

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling.

"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them."

Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex.

"I've seen them," he disagrees.

"You have not."

"Have too."

"Have not."

"I'm seeing them right now."

You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape.

"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no."

He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks.

"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say.

Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?"

"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do."

Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated.

"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you."

"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently.

"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?"

You beam at him. "Right."

You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest.

The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears.

"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.

"It's really perfect," you say.

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss.

"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

He hadn't meant to ask like that.

You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.

—

The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features.

The camera clicks.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again

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

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t1oui · 2 months

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barty crouch jr. is eleven the first time evan rosier takes his breath away.

he's a second year in barty's house, with warm brown skin and blonde hair and amber eyes that flash gold in the sunlight. he knows regulus. one of barty's dormmates, somehow, and he smiles at barty like he wants to know him, too.

barty is thirteen when he finally figures out what the butterflies in his stomach mean.

they're sitting down at the lake, barty on the grass, soaking up the sun. pandora sits on a blanket next to him, her half of it in the sun, the other half underneath regulus in the shade of a tree. dora's busied herself with making flower crowns, and evan and dorcas are swinging at each other and laughing, both ankle deep in the water of the black lake. evan reaches up to kick water at her, and the silver of his anklet - a thin chain with a silver daisy charm hanging off of it - catches the light.

dorcas ducks away and shoves evan square in the chest, sending him stumbling back a few steps before he finally lands hard on the grass next to barty. it must've hurt, even in the soft green, but instead of wincing, he just turns to barty and grins.

oh, barty thinks. it's so obvious, he thinks.

barty is a fourth year the first time he kisses evan rosier.

it's the first christmas he doesn't go home for. he spends long hours knocking about the castle, staying out past both the regular curfew and the one made later for the break.

"can't sleep, crouch?" evan had asked him, making him jump, polished prefect badge - no doubt pandora's handiwork - sparkling from his collar. and suddenly there was mistletoe and the chance to finally make his fantasies a reality. there was the taste of evan's lips (vanilla) and the smell of his shampoo (cucumber) and the feeling of his arms around barty's waist (intoxicating).

even on that dreary, cold evening, there was hope.

barty is a sixth year when regulus begins going out with james potter.

they're on the train, barty halfway out the window, evan's arms tight around his middle in the fear of him falling, and barty hoots with laughter when regulus jumps into potter's arms. potter's a seventh year like evan. head boy, a gryffindor, and one of pandora's best friends, for some reason.

"leave them be, barty," evan snorts, pulling him back through the window. barty watches him, opening his mouth to speak, only to be swiftly cut off by his boyfriend adding, "we can be as dramatic as we like, but i'm not risking missing this train just so we can kiss in front of it."

barty groans in protest, but by that point regulus has arrived at the door to their compartment with a sheepish-looking james potter in tow, so he decides to annoy them instead.

barty is seventeen the first time he comes to hogwarts without evan, and it makes him feel empty.

he's still got regulus and dorcas, of course, but there's a gaping hole in the group now that the twins have graduated. regulus is quiet without james to bring him out of his shell. dorcas doesn't cheer as hard during quidditch games - ones without regulus in them, of course - without marlene mckinnon there to cheer on. and barty? barty isn't himself without ev there to easy his anxieties.

night after night, barty and regulus curl up in the same bed for nights of bad rest. it gets easier, over time. letters pile up. floo calls happen weekly. and while regulus and dorcas struggle, barty thinks about the future. the one decided by him, and not anyone else.

two days after his eighteenth birthday, barty steps off the hogwarts express for the last time.

regulus and dorcas don't hesitate to sprint past him towards james and marlene, who wait with evan futher down the platform. barty, though, hesitates. gives himself a moment to take a deep breath, smile at evan, and start running.

evan envelopes him in a hug, his arms a reassuring weight around barty.

"you must be tired," he whispers, the hint of a smile in his voice. "eight newts, barty. you're insane."

barty grins into evan's chest. "i missed you too, rosie," he mumbles. he lets out a content sigh he didn't realize he was holding in, and evan hums.

"welcome home, love," he says. "our home."

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corruptedcaps · 3 months

Text

Bad Blonde

This is a repost of as story I made on Wordpress when I migrated over there briefly. Will repost the next parts over the next few days

Lucy and her girlfriend Dora were enjoying a lovely Saturday searching for some unique finds at a variety of thrift stores. Being poor college students this was more of a necessity than anything else but they did get a thrill from finding long forgotten fashions. This didn't get them many friends on campus however as their tastes were mocked for being outdated and weird but they didn't care because they had each other's like minded company.

It was getting late and Lucy was getting tired but Dora wanted to check out one more store she spotted down an alley off the main street. Lucy didn't like the look of the dark empty alley but didn't want to admit she was scared.

"Don't you have work soon? Do we really have time for another store?" Lucy said to Dora trying to dissuade her.

"I have time as long as I go straight there from here. Come on we might discover a real find!" Dora said excitedly already walking into the alley. Lucy begrudgingly followed her.

The little bell above the shop door clanged as they entered the store finding it to be somehow even darker inside than it was outside. A heavily tattooed woman sat behind the counter not acknowledging their presence. The shelves were filled with odd knick knacks and items and most of the clothes were dark and tight looking. Lucy couldn't see a single thing that fit her style. However something did catch her eye.

In the back amongst a line of black wigs on mannequin heads sat a lone blonde wig. It was incredibly straight and smooth like it was made out of spun gold. The blonde colour was like a beacon to Lucy in the sea of dark shades and she felt drawn over to it. Picking it up it felt somehow even softer than she thought it would be and incredibly real.

As a lifelong brunette she had always been curious what she would look like with a different colour although strangely never wondered what blonde would look like. She always associated blonde with the mean girls who bullied her in high school or the spoilt sorority girls in college. Even the mannequin head that the wig had been sitting on looked bitchy. Lucy being the kind and gentle woman that she was, never entertained what being blonde could look like but as she held the wig in her hands she suddenly had a great desire to find out.

Slipping it on felt like putting on a snug glove. With a little tuck here and there the seams of the wig completed disappeared along with any visible signs of her brown locks. Finding a mirror she was almost taken aback by how different she looked. It may have been because the mirror was dirty and it was dark in the store but Lucy could have sworn her skin looked clearer and her lips looked fuller. Her postured shifted slightly the more she looked at her reflection.

With a hand on her hips and her chest sticking out she was suddenly reminded of all the mean blondes she had ever met and it sent a shiver down her spine. Although not out fear but out of pride. She was liking the way she looked.

"You look so good." Said an unfamiliar voice that sounded almost like it was in her head.

"What?" Lucy replied confused.

"I said you look good as a blonde." Dora said, Lucy having failed to realise she had been beside her the whole time. She put the mysterious voice down to Dora and focused on her reflection again.

"I do don't I?" Lucy said stroking the hair as if it were a part of her.

"Go on give me a go." Dora said reaching up to take the wig from her but Lucy reflexively slapped her hand away. A sudden flood of anger surged up in her.

"As if, you'd only ruin it with your big fat head." Lucy hissed at Dora as she looked her up and down like she was disgusted by her very existence. Tears welled up in Dora's eyes and she ran out of the shop. For a fleeting moment Lucy felt triumphant, even pleasure of what she did but then her conscience got the better of her. Ripping off the wig and stuffing it unconsciously into her bag she ran out of the store after Dora. She finally caught up with her girlfriend who was sitting on a bench gently sobbing.

"Honey I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me. You know I didn't mean it right?" Lucy said sitting down beside her. Dora looked up at her wiping her tears from her eyes.

"Yeah, I guess. Sorry you know I am just a little sensitive about my weight. I probably over reacted, I shouldn't have tried to take the wig from your head." Dora said.

"You don't need to apologise, I was the one being a bitch. Look to make it up to you I'll buy tonights dinner and we can have it when you get back from work." Lucy said putting her arm around her but Dora quickly broke from the embrace and stood.

"Oh shoot I had forgot about work, I better go otherwise they'll dock my pay. I'll see you at home later. Love you." Dora said quickly hurrying away. Lucy blew her a kiss and headed home herself.

Arriving back a little while later Lucy tiredly went into her bedroom. Throwing her backpack on the bed she slumped beside it exhausted. Closing her eyes she knew she could almost fall asleep there and then but knew she should keep to her promise and get food for when Dora would be back. Opening her eyes she was surprised to see the blonde wig from the shop staring right at her. Sitting up she saw the zipper of her bag open and suddenly she remebered.

"Oh damn I must have stuffed it into my bag during all the drama with Dora. The store will be closed by now so I'll have to drop it back tomorrow. Hopefully they don't think I'm some thief." She said taking the wig in her hands and walking over to her mirror.

"It is such a wonderful wig though. Now that it's here it would be a shame if I didn't try it on again." She said to herself as her hands were already guiding it onto her head. Once again she marvelled at how fast it slipped snuggly onto her head and how her own hair seemed to vanish.

"God it does look fantastic on me doesn't it. I look kind of sexy as a blonde. Kind of naughty too." She said letting her hand slip into her panties to touch her increasingly wet pussy. Closing her eyes she started to picture how she would look to be a blonde all the time. Doing so turning herself on more. That's where she heard the voice again.

"You know what would be even hotter? If you opened your eyes, took off those glasses of yours and watched yourself finger yourself." The voice whispered. This time Lucy didn't question where the voice was coming from, instead she did as it suggested. Opening her eyes she removed her glasses and watched as she slid her fingers in and out of her pussy slowly. She didn't have to imagine what it would be like to be blonde, she could just watch herself.

"Oh fuck why is this so much hotter?" Lucy said increasing her pace slightly unable to take her eyes off herself.

“Because it’s so dirty! You love how slutty you look with me on your head.” The wig replied clueing Lucy into where the voice was coming from. Lucy nodded in agreement. She should have been concerned that she was hearing an inanimate object suddenly speak to her but its suggestions were hitting all the right spots too much to care. This was something she would never normally do but with the blonde wig on she felt empowered and mischievous. She felt sexually charged knowing how so unlike her this was.

“Oh fuck you’re right! I look so gorgeous and hawt as a blonde! Almost as good as those sorority bitches.” Lucy said, her voice taking on a bratty whine.

“It’s a good start but let’s make some improvements. When I’m done with you those girls won’t even be in your league.” The wig said.

Immediately Lucy felt her body start to twist, shift & change. All the while she continued to pleasure herself.

First to change was her extra flab around her midsection. She watched in awe as it sunk into her belly. Not only that but she felt little pulses rhythmically hit her stomach. Each new pulse tightened her abdomen making it perfectly toned like that of a gym bunny. This extended out to her legs and arms too giving her a peak physique.

She felt instantly arrogant about her new athletic form as she observed it in the mirror and knew other girls would be jealous of her. She loved the thought of others green with envy about her.

“I feel so strong and flexible. God it’s so intoxicating!” Lucy moaned her hands soaking wet with pleasure.

“We’re only getting started my dear.” The wig said with mischief in its tone. No sooner had it said those words that Lucy felt her body start to lightly vibrate. As it did she felt all hair below her neck start to fall off her body giving her a perfectly smooth form. She felt it most immediately around her pussy. She was so distracted by it that she almost failed to register her skin take on a light tan head to toe.

“Mmmm I’m beach ready looking like this. I can see it now, me sitting looking like a million bucks lounging on a deck chair in designer sunglasses. Guys and girls flocking to my side. Oh god I want it now!” Lucy cried out imagining the tight animal print bikini she would wear while continuing to massage her clit.

“That will be your reality soon just a few more tweaks… oh this one may interrupt you for just a moment.” The wig continued and it certainly did as Lucy felt her nails double in length. She gasped as the fingers inside her suddenly caused extra sensitivity. The gasp quickly turned into a deep cackle. She loved how the new nails felt in and outside of her.

By now her mind was swimming with dirty and bad thoughts. How could it not when she looked every bit the bratty bitch she used to hate. She now knew why hot girls always looked down on her. She felt superior now. She felt herself recoil remembering how she used to look only minutes ago.

There was one thing missing though and somehow Lucy knew the wig wouldn’t give it to her unless she explicitly asked for it.

“I feel like such a hawt little slut now but if I’m to become queen bitch I need one more upgrade and I need it to be big. Make my boobs grow! Give me big perfect tits!” Lucy demanded and the wig obliged.

Lucy moaned as her chest heaved as her two petit breasts grew substantially bigger. The previous slight sag she had completely erased, replaced by gravity defying perfection. She took a moment from touching herself to massage her new tits lovingly.

“Fuck yes! I am perfection! Pathetic Lucy is gone! The mean uber bitch Lucia has been born.” She moaned sticking her fingers back in her pussy, inching towards climax. She looked upon her new body with vain satisfaction. Smirking she thought about how as Lucy she would shrink into the shadows in the presence of such beauty but as Lucia she would never be in dark anymore. Others would shrink from her.

“When you cum you’ll release enough endorphins to allow me to burrow deep into your head. You’ll make the bitch queen Lucia permanent. No one will stand in your way. You’ll become the meanest, hottest bully in town and your first victim can be that pitiful girlfriend of yours.” The wig said with a long cold laugh inside Lucia’s mind. However something didn’t feel right. She wanted this power so much but could she sacrifice her relationship to have it?

“No Dora can be left out of this, she is weak & ugly but meaningless. I won’t bully her.” Lucia said ever slightly slowing her pace as her conscience started to intrude.

“Don’t you see? She’s holding you back from achieving greatness! No one is above your power and you must embrace that! You have to destroy everything Lucy had if you are to become Lucia. Perhaps a little more incentive is needed.” The wig hissed and Lucia felt her tits grow even more, her waist further clenched and her butt grew out. Lucia moaned as the pleasure became unbelievable.

“Mmm maybe you’re right, that loser is standing in my way of achieving what I deserve! I need to drop her like the heavy weight that she is. No! What am I saying? She’s the love of my life and you’re evil! You’ve turned me into a cruel and egotistical narcissistic. I have to stop this now!” Lucia yelled reaching up to remove the wig.

The wig increased the changes, her face became steely cold, her nails even longer, it even mustered enough dark magic to change Lucia’s clothes into something tight and form fitting. Lucia smirked at how gorgeous she was, how powerful she had become but it was all in vain as she used all her willpower to rip the wig off.

Once the wig was off her body reverted back to her normal unremarkable form. Lucy had returned. However she instantly felt like she was in withdrawal. The thoughts of being Lucia lingered in her mind like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She needed to get the wig out of there.

Carefully rolling it up in a garbage bag she stuffed it into their freezer for the time being. As much as she wanted to get rid of it she just couldn’t compel herself to do it. Heading to bed she hoped that by the morning the hunger to wear it would subside…

To be continued…

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #magic #evil bitch #evil wig #corrupted wig #corrupted hair

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liyawritesss · 9 months

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ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴇʀɪᴏᴅꜱ

Characters: e-1610!Miles Morales, e-42!Miles Morales, Hobie Brown, Gwen Stacy, Margo Kess

Type: Headcanons

Synopsis: How the Spider Gang helps you through your period.

Warnings: Light cursing, periods so descriptions of blood, cramping; these can be seen as platonic or romantic! Some nicknames are used that can also be used in a platonic or romantic sense I suppose?

A/N: Currently on my menstrual and this shit was kicking my ass for a good four hours. My partner was here to help me through it, and they sorta gave me this idea lol. Love you babe!

Tags: @6-noir @babyboiboyega @badass-dora-milaje @jacuzziwaters @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @verachii @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @lulu-network @niyahwrites @pantherheart @marsfunzon22 @briology @honeybleed @romiantic @queenofthespiderverse @onlyperc @starsoir @yasminisbroke @kdyance @sussybaka10 @daisydark @ykimobessed @asensitivecookie @famedrs-blog @movie-enhusiast22

ᴇ-1610!ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟᴇꜱ

Something tells me that he has a lot of girl cousins for some reason, and I think that also influences his knowledge about periods outside of Rio educating him about them. He’s not grossed out or anything by it, but is very well of the severity of the different hormone changes and mood swings, and doesn’t wanna get caught in the crossfire at all.

Amidst the stuff in his room he has a little container of period stuff - pads, tampons, painkillers, the basics - for whenever his female friends, family or girlfriend (if and when he acquires one) come over and aren’t prepared when their periods come on randomly.

He lowkey feels bad when the cramps are hitting you hard because he can only do so much on the outside, yknow? Like he can cuddle you and rub your tummy and try to lull you to sleep, but there isn’t much outside of that that he can do.

If you're cuddling, Miles opts to hold you against his chest while music is playing and he’s on his phone. He knows his dad does the same to his mom and thinks that the same method of action should work universally, and thanks to him, most of the time, with the girls and femme-adjacent people he’s around, it does.

ᴇ-42!ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟᴇꜱ

Very similar to e-1610!Miles, e-42!Miles is also one to be knowledgeable about periods and the do’s and dont’s of them. However, I feel like he’s more skittish about the physicality of it all.

Like, he also has a little period kit in his room and it’s much easier to find since there’s not a lot going on and he makes sure to put it in a easy to spot place for whenever female friends, family or partners are around, and he’s comfortable being told that it’s that time of the month for that specific person, but the visual of the blood and the pain makes him squirmish. Which is ironic, given his chosen profession.

I think it's something that, while small and completely unavoidable and integral to the female anatomy, it hits close to home for him to see his mom, friends, family, or partner in pain when it comes to the cramping, the clotting, and the increased times in the bathroom. He feels guilty, like e-1610!Miles, but it’s tenfold now given his own history with being helpless with things outside of his control.

While he’s not good with words, he’ll show his care more physically. Keeps track of the cycle of the important women and people in his life, keeps his kit stocked, and if it pertains to his mom or his partner, wants to go the extra mile and buy chocolates, snacks, and act as a looming presence just in case they need anything (will def say sumn abt them being a ‘cootie monster’ as a joke to lighten the mood, but if you really wanna cuddle him, he won’t put up a fight).

ʜᴏʙɪᴇ ʙʀᴏᴡɴ

Being a friend or a partner of Hobie’s means you’re taken care of, period. Need sanitary items? He’s got a stash of em in his guitar case. Emotional? He’s leaning his shoulder to you already. Cravings? Already walking out the convenience store with his jacket stuffed with your choice of snacks. Just need to sleep? He can get you a quiet, comfy space just like that. He don’t play when it comes to this thing.

At one point you questioned if Hobie knew more about periods than you did, especially your own. The longer you’re around him, the more shocked you become with just how well he can navigate around you during this time of the month.

I definitely see Hobie as the type to want to provide physical comfort and support for your period. Back rubs, foot rubs, cuddles, cradling or rubbing or kneading your tummy to help combat the cramps and the bloating, everything. He even lets you sleep on top of him if it helps with everything. He’d definitely go to sleep with his hands cupping your tummy, thumb running along your skin to soothe your pains.

He’s good at keeping you distracted from the pain by introducing you to some music, putting on your favorite show, or just talking randomly about something that’ll engage your attention.

Hobie acts like your personal nutritionist for your period. Tells you the kind of tea to drink, what fruits to eat, what foods you should make to increase iron intake to make up for the loss of blood. And if you can’t cook, he’ll call one of his mates up to help him whip something up (or, knowing him, he’s got connections, he’ll ask someone to make sumn for you in exchange for something he can do).

ɢᴡᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴀᴄʏ

She hates her own period, so she can’t imagine how her friends and her partner feel. She’s the type to be confined to her room when she’s on her cycle pre-spider bite, however, I’d like to think that post-spider bite, she doesn’t get cramps anymore and the flow is rather light, which makes things great for being a superhero.

Therefore, Gwen takes her own experiences, coupling them with habits and things her dad does, and puts them to use for you.

Next to the dresser in her room is a little four-cube storage unit with bins that hold an assortment of things for you whenever you’re over her place. One bin has all your snacks in it that you generally like to eat, but she makes sure that it’s stocked up when your period comes around. Another has our comfy clothes you like to wear that keep you warm. Another has all the pads, tampons, and pain killers you’ll ever need, and lastly, the heating pad/warm water bottle to battle the cramps with.

Gwen will be kind of a worrywart, especially if she knows that your cramps get really bad sometimes. She’ll hover over you, wanting to help in any way she can, and even if you tell her to back off, she’ll still just kind of like, floats around just in case. It’s all out of love, though. And best believe she won't let you go if you finally invite her to cuddle again.

ᴍᴀʀɢᴏ ᴋᴇꜱꜱ

Homegirl definitely pops in on her folks using her avatar, and I feel like this all the same when those she loves are on her period. She herself suffers from heavy flows and monster cramps sometimes, so she knows a thing or two on how to manage them for herself, and for her friends and partner.

Nutrition plays a big part, so like Hobie, Margo will try to help you out with certain foods and drinks to help alleviate some of the pain and pressure from your period. She even forms a little challenge for the two of you to try out while you’re on your cycles together so that you can try things out and see if they work for you

Ironically, one of her favorite facts is that one can actually sync up with other people who they’ve bonded with over the internet, Since it’s likely majority of her friends are online and that she’d meet her partner through her virtual avatar, she’s not completely surprised when it happened, but more intrigued that it actually is factual

While she also knows that a healthy nutrition helps out big time, don't think for a second Margo won’t open up a tub of ice cream and a bag of chocolates with you and put on a movie to get through the first day of the period blues. Comfort over all is the philosophy that she follows, so if you’re not down for any of that healthy shit, she isn’t either. She’s more than glad to sleep in with you while eating fast food, so long as you’re there for when you two have to struggle to get back on routine lmao

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

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shanastoryteller · 11 months

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! SIAT Percy and Tonks pls, they're my beloveds and my birthday is on the 13th :) thanks

Tonks briefly considers taking Percy’s last name.

She could take her last name as her first, since it’s what almost everyone calls her anyway, but both Percy and her father call her Dora and her mother really had put a lot of thought in picking out Nymphadora. She doesn’t mind her first name that much, but it would be really funny, which is the driving force behind her consideration and so probably a bad reason to go through with it. She could also move Tonks to a middle name. She dislikes hyphenating – it would look too busy.

“I can take your last name if us having the same one is important to you,” Percy says, head in her lap and the fire low enough that his freckles have blended into the rest of his face.

“It’s not,” she says. “I was just thinking out loud, mostly. Besides, you should stay a Weasley. It’s important.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? There’s plenty of us. We’re not exactly in danger of the family name dying out.”

“But you should keep it in particular,” she insists. “People have been looking down on your father and his place in the ministry for decades. Those same people that sneered at Arthur now fear you. They mocked the name Weasley, before. You need to keep your name so no one makes that same mistake again.”

Percy looks up at her, brown eyes wide, and then he’s pushing himself up to kiss her, looping his arms around her neck.

Excellent point. Talking can wait.

#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #tmintmonster #harry potter #siat

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thedvilsinthedetails · 3 months

Text

rosekiller band au microfic pt2

yayyy part 2 is here! (Again if there’s any typos lmk ty)

(also yeah I changed their ages slightly, the skittles r now 23 not 25 what r u gonna do about it?)

anywayssss here’s the ppl that asked to be tagged/said they wanted more so im tagging them anyway (sorry if u didn’t want that): @always-reading @lady-stardust-incarnate @lulublack90 @idk-what-to-put-here-123 @weirdtinkerbellversion @depressedtheatrekiddo @blu3stars @nikholascrow @good-oldfashioned-lover-girl @picklerab23

(As always if u wanna be tagged or not tagged pls lmk I won’t mind at all <3)

Link to Part One

Link to Next Part

***

Evan woke up the next morning to the harsh bleep of his phone that always managed to elicit pure terror in his body. He groaned and rolled out of bed. He’d forgotten to turn off the alarm and of course he was awake at six in the fucking morning on a Saturday.

He threw on a dressing gown over his tank top and plaid pyjama bottoms, slipped into his fluffy slippers and trudged to the kitchen for some coffee.

Once he got to the kitchen he saw Dorcas was already sat at the little island she passed him a warm cup of coffee as soon as he sat down. Dorcas had always been the earliest riser of the band, always eager to get ready quickly and get the hell out of the house, he supposed that’s what growing up as the eldest sister to four brothers did to you.

“Heard your alarm go off, figured you’d forgot to turn it off.”

“Dorcas you lifesaver. And I mean seriously a lifesaver, I might have murdered someone without this coffee.”

Dorcas laughed.

“Who?”

Evan rubbed his eyes.

“Barty probably. He’s fucking annoying.”

“Any excuse to get up close to him then more like.”

Evan’s head snapped up.

“What?”

Dorcas rolled her eyes.

“Please you’re shit at hiding it.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout Cas.”

Evan mumbled, taking a long drink from his mug.

“Please, save the crap. If you don’t have a crush on him, why do you get so worked up by people calling you a couple. It consumes your every waking thought, now why is that? Tell me.”

“Ughhh I don’t want to think about it.”

He groaned and stared into the brown murky depths of the mug he was cradling close to him.

Dorcas softened.

“Look, Marls and Barty are really close, our next tour stop is London which means she’ll obviously drop by rehearsals. I can get her to ask him if he-“

“He doesn’t.”

Evan ran his thumb over a tiny chip in the ceramic. It was a mug Barty had painted around four years ago, Dora had decided for her sixteenth she wanted to go to a pottery painting place like when they were little. Barty was- honestly pretty shit at painting. The background was covered in vast uneven strokes of black. He’d tried to paint a white ferret on it - ‘Ev this one is for you, if you were any animal I’d say you’d be a ferret.’ - thing is it looked more like a snake with legs that was also, well, a zombie. It was Evan’s most prized possession. He’d be taking it to the grave. He turned it to look inside the handle. Barty had been too lazy to paint that part so instead he’d just written crudely with the brush - ‘B + E forever bitches!’. His eyes crinkled fondly as he read it.

“I just need to get over it.”

His expression hardened and he looked up at Dorcas again.

“Get over what?”

They both turned to find Barty in the doorway. His hair was sticking up in all directions. Fuzzy spikes of green and black. He stretched his arms all the way up as he yawned, flexing his wrist so his ‘SKITTLES’ tattoo was on full display. He had one of Evan’s jumpers on over his pyjama top. Evan really wanted to reach out and hold. Why’d he have to go and look so soft? Wasn’t fucking fair.

“Nothing Jr.”

Barty nodded in response as he padded over and sat himself in the chair next to Evan.

“Why’re you even awake?”

Dorcas asked.

Barty dropped his head down onto the island counter dramatically.

“Forgot to turn off my alarm.”

Dorcas laughed out loud, fully threw her head back and everything.

“Two birds of a fucking stupid feather you two are.”

She got up and put her mug in the sink before heading out of the kitchen. Barty turned his head up to look at Evan as soon as she was gone.

“You don’t have to tell me anything Evan, but if you want to you can. You know that right?”

Barty lifted his head and propped it up on his hand as Evan nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah I know Barty.”

“Good.”

Barty shuffled his chair closer before dropping his head onto Evan’s shoulder and falling quiet. It was instinctual, the way Evan brought his arms up around him. After a few moments he looked down though, Barty was suspiciously silent.

“Bee?”

He whispered.

“M’awake. You’re just comfy Ev. You’re really good at hugs.”

Might be ‘cause I was built to hold you.

Damn that’s a fucking stupid thing to say. Fuck I’ve turned into Reg whenever he’s around James.

Yeah Evan needed to get over this like fucking yesterday.

•••

Barty breathed in deeply, face buried in the crux of Evan’s neck. He couldn’t help it really. Evan smelled like home. Probably a creepy thing to say, oh well wasn’t like he said it out loud. Evan was home though, plain and simple.

He didn’t want to move, probably ever. Still eventually as the rest of the group came pattering into the kitchen and things got livelier he had to shift away.

•••

They got on the train at noon, ready to head to London. Evan took the window seat watching as the city turned to rolling hills turned to city again. Barty kept sneaking glances over at him, wasn’t really sure what he was looking for honestly but-

“What?”

Evan asked finally, tone irritated.

“Nothing, just bored.”

“Oh um-“

Evan glanced around, he and Barty were in a two seater while the rest of the band sat around the table in front of them, chatting animatedly.

“S’fine Ev, not anything you can do about it, I’m gonna be bored till we get off this bloody train. Fucking buzzing.”

“Excited for tomorrow then yeah?”

Barty turned to him with shining eyes.

“D’you remember when we were eighteen? First time at the O2 for a concert? Fuck d’you remember seeing it like that, covered in all the lights ‘n shit. Eventim Apollo doesn’t even compare.”

Evan chuckled. They’d gone to the O2 for the first time June 2019 to see a concert when Evan was still in his backstreet boys phase, something no one was allowed to talk about now under any circumstances.

“D’you remember what you said to me?”

•••

“Look at that stage Ev. Imagine playing there. For all these people.”

Evan turned to Barty and ruffled his hair.

“One day Bee, we’ll be playing here. I promise you yeah? We’ll be playing here and it’ll all the fucking sold out.”

“You think?”

•••

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

***

AHHH I HOPE U LIKED ITTTT (idk when part 3 will be coming but hopefully soon <333333)