hey its me from the "wheres the adopt a jock update, im dying" thing. im so sorry for it. i had know idea there even was a storm and it is 100% not ur job to keep us updated bc ur doing us favour by uploading content, im sorry i took that for granted.
im also sorry this apology came late, i felt to chicken to write one innitially, i dont know if i did end up sending u one, but ur reaction to my ask came up in my feed again and i really wanted to apologise once more.
I'm so sorry for those you lost in this horrid storm and I'm so proud of u for pushing through, everyone is and I hope u know that.
I know this apology doesn't make up for anything but I just wanted u to know that I took in what u responded, u were well in ur right to be pissed off, and I now know for future to type my messages in a kinder way so they don't get taken as a ride remark, I hope u know I didn't type what I said to be rude, not that it matters in anyway.
we're all looking out for u and wish u all the best, have a great day
It's all good fam--I honestly had a few of these messages between here and A03, some a lot ruder that yours, and yours just happened to be the first one I saw when I managed to get a few hours with proper access to Tumblr (Ie not on the craptastic app on my phone, which refuses to let me answer asks and crashes when I try lol.)
Thank you for apologizing, it does mean a lot, and it takes a lot of courage to do it.
It's a weird lesson to learn sometimes, that people who don't know you as well won't always know you're joking/your sense of humor, or may not mentally be in a space to fully comprehend it as a light prod instead of a "hey dude where's my content."
I think it's also a good reminder that fandom is a community first. I know there's a lot of discussion centered around how we're sliding into a more content mill like vibe vs that community, and that a lot of us are getting impacted by it a bit--I'll be the first to say I was more touchy even before the trees because I've had a lot more weird, demanding comments lately than I ever used to get. Not just in ST either--I'm seeing it on my older fics, in fandoms that are significantly smaller and typically very drama-less. While my policy normally is to delete and ignore, sometimes it builds (and then two trees almost kill you by collapsing your house and you start biting heads off after being stuck in a hotel with your family for two weeks.)
Anyway, thank you sincerely, for apologizing. It did not go unnoticed <3
The Space Shuttle Columbia disaster was a fatal accident in the United States space program that occurred on February 1, 2003. During the STS-107 mission, Space Shuttle Columbia disintegrated as it reentered the atmosphere over Texas, killing all seven astronauts on board. The mission was the second that ended in disaster in the Space Shuttle program after the loss of Challenger and all seven crew members during ascent in 1986.
During the STS-107 launch, a piece of the insulative foam broke off from the Space Shuttle external tank and struck the thermal protection system tiles on the orbiter's left wing. Similar foam shedding had occurred during previous Space Shuttle launches, causing damage that ranged from minor to near-catastrophic, but some engineers suspected that the damage to Columbia was more serious. Before reentry, NASA managers had limited the investigation, reasoning that the crew could not have fixed the problem if it had been confirmed. When Columbia reentered the atmosphere of Earth, the damage allowed hot atmospheric gases to penetrate the heat shield and destroy the internal wing structure, which caused the orbiter to become unstable and break apart.
After the disaster, Space Shuttle flight operations were suspended for more than two years, as they had been after the Challenger disaster. Construction of the International Space Station (ISS) was paused until flights resumed in July 2005 with STS-114. NASA made several technical and organizational changes to subsequent missions, including adding an on-orbit inspection to determine how well the orbiter's thermal protection system (TPS) had endured the ascent, and keeping a designated rescue mission ready in case irreparable damage was found. Except for one mission to repair the Hubble Space Telescope, subsequent Space Shuttle missions were flown only to the ISS to allow the crew to use it as a haven if damage to the orbiter prevented safe reentry; the remaining orbiters were retired after the ISS was finished.
Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.
Warnings: None. Gwyn and Y/n bond over books. Azriel and Y/n get even closer — this had me kicking my feet and screaming internally and externally
The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist
Masterlist of Masterlists
Rhysand’s training sessions always started with him sliding over ten objects: a book, a piece of jewelry, an article of clothing — anything he could find with meaning for you to discern.
“This one is Mor’s.” You held the red satin box in your hands. Two months ago you would have only been able to tell him who it belonged to. Maybe nothing at all. The meaning held by the object was weak. The jewelry too new. Unworn. But now you could harness your power with more precision, like you’d finally been handed an image of the puzzle you were trying to complete so you knew what to look for. “You bought it two months ago at Cizero’s as a Winter Solstice gift.”
“And what is it exactly?”
The box was still closed.
You pushed your power forward, imagining light slipping in through the seam of the box. An image flashed in your mind. It was blurry, but held onto its form long enough for you to make it out.
“Drop earrings. Rubies,” you said with a straight back before dropping the box into Rhysand’s open palm.
He smirked and clicked it open. Gold banded rubies hung from the backing like bloody tears, each drop separated by a diamond that flashed brighter than the stars in the ever darkening sky.
You dared to smile, staring at the jewelry with a level of satisfaction you hadn’t felt since being handed top marks as an apprentice.
“Very nicely done.”
The box disappeared back into his desk beside a glimmering gemstone the size of your fist wrapped in tissue paper.
It’s probably for Amren. You thought to yourself. Azriel told you she loved shiny things and hoarded her treasures like a crow. Hence why she’d yet to return from Summer with Varian.
You moved on to the next portion of your exercises. With a feather light touch, Rhysand laid his hands on your palms, your wrists, your forearm, your shoulders. He moved up and down your body, waiting a minute for you to control yourself before touching the next flash of exposed skin. It was still difficult to completely contain your power, but you were getting better at moving it around your body. When he reached for your hands, you slid the magic up to your chest. When he reached for your knees, it moved down to your ankles. It was a delicate dance, like the curling of ocean water away from the shore or the splitting of a river around a stone.
You did what you could to experience the touches with a clinical detachment and Rhysand did as well. He was careful. He stopped the moment you let out a gasp of surprise at the feeling of warm skin pressed against your own and there wasn’t an ounce of judgement written in his beautiful features when you trembled beneath his touch.
“Take your time,” he said encouragingly.
For him, touch was a necessary part of life. He always had an arm slung over Cassian’s shoulders or wrapped around Feyre’s waist. He fell asleep with his mate pressed against him and he walked around the River House with Nyx on his shoulders and Velaria curled up in his arms. But there were also mornings when he’d wake up in a cold sweat, the feeling of Amarantha’s red-tipped nails dragging down his chest like she wanted to take more from him than just his body. Those were the days Feyre knew to give him his space.
“Take all the time that you need.”
Rhys stepped away. You steadied your breath and took time to record your progress in the journal you kept close by. Although there was no true way to quantify your learning, your Day Court training never left you and you wrote down what little could be put into words — for posterity’s sake. Then maybe the next Clairvoyant the Mother willed into existence would have an easier time navigating this than you.
Gwyn found you squirreled away in your usual reading room, back bowed over a flurry of books and note pages like a reed in the wind. You reached for the mug on the desk only to find it disappointingly empty. Unlike the River House, the Library did not fuel your caffeine addiction with reckless abandon.
She floated over, abandoning the cart of books she’d been tasked with returning that night. Her legs were throbbing from the split squats Cassian had coached her through that evening, and she was desperate for a break.
“Some light reading, I see?” she teased, sinking into the seat across from you.
You looked up, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. It took a few moments for Gwyn’s shape to come into focus.
“What?” The word slurred coming out of your mouth.
She tapped the ever growing pile of papers beside you. Your manuscript: 120 hand-written pages and counting. When the book became too frustrating to handle, you abandoned it in exchange for another productive task. Even if the 120 pages you’d reproduced were utter garbage.
You groaned, forehead slamming against the wood with a clatter. Thoughts of white blood cells, lymphatic vessels, and innate and acquired immunity knotted in your brain like the world’s worst game of cat’s cradle.
Gwyn would have found it amusing if she didn’t know just how much time you spent within the mountain. You’d effectively been adopted by the priestesses. Lurking here and there like a cat coming in from the cold. And you were just as disapproving as a stray. Gwyn would often catch you among the stacks, mumbling about the disorganization and how you couldn’t work in such paltry conditions.
“Cauldron boil me, I’m sorry for asking.” Gwyn raised her hands in surrender.
You let out a great, heaving sigh. “It’s not you.”
“Oh I know it’s not me. You look like you’ve been dragged through a gutter.”
You blinked wearily at the lovely priestess.
“A very clean, well-managed gutter.” She grinned. Her skin shone, reflecting the pale, fuzzy moonlight that filtered through the window above and doused the library in a silver sheen.
“Thank you, Gwyn.”
“Anytime.” She drummed her nails against the table, the beat of it almost sending you to sleep. “How long have you been here today?” she asked with concern.
“I don’t know. What time is it?”
“After midnight.”
“Oh.”
“How long?” Gwyn repeated and you dragged a hand down your face.
“Seven hours? Give or take?” Your stomach growled.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Gwyn grabbed you by the end of your robes, tugging you up several floors and down an unfamiliar hallway until you stopped in front of a teal-blue tapestry. Selkies, sirens, and water nymphs dove in and out of rippling waters highlighted by iridescent beads. She flung it to the side and pressed her hand against the bare stone. The slab sank into the wall and then slid open to reveal a cream-colored room adorned with bundles of babies' breath.
“Sit,” she commanded, pointing to the neatly made bed. You swayed dangerously on your feet.
“I’m really fine. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Sit. Down.” She cut you with a lethal gaze Nesta would be proud of.
You snapped your mouth shut, shuffled across the carpeted floor, and sank into the queen-sized bed. You played with the ties of your robe wrapping them around your finger, then unwrapping them, then wrapping them again.
King Tiberion, third of the Nachmanian line, born Aschieron Cambria Nostrus Tiberion Dalgna to Effel Taul and foreign-born…
Found dead at a young three-hundred-and-ninety-two years of age at the hands of her brother. Spell cleaver or not, Ingrid…
Something like a lock and a key. Magic that’s perfectly complementary might be afforded the unique ability to seal… and break… gods I’m tired…
There have only been seven recorded Shadowsingers in history: Lovania Vallant born 895 in the age of Alders (see ref. 18992HBG Carstairs), Gherald Dashiv born 1459 in the age of —
Gwyn snapped her fingers in front of you, pulling your mind out of the hurricane of thoughts. You were a strange creature. You spoke little, moved about the Library as quiet as a mouse, and you had an interesting habit of running your fingers along every book on the shelf. Back and forth, back and forth you’d run along before jerking to a stop like one of the books had caught you at the end of a fishing lure.
“Are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” you repeated.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Some would say that’s a good thing. It would make me incredibly trustworthy, at least when it comes to responding to things. I’d be terrible at keeping secrets, unless I was very careful about how I went about things. You know how it is. With the things.”
Gwyn huffed with silent laughter and opened one of the cabinets in her small, makeshift kitchen. “Eat.” She commanded again and you were too slow to catch the sleeve of biscuits she tossed in your direction. It bounced off your forehead and landed in your lap. “I’ll be right back with something more substantial.”
The door shut with a puff of air and you were left to chew on the chocolate and orange biscuits in silence.
Gwyn’s room faced the city and you saw the lamplights burning through the windows that had been cut into the mountain rock, mimicking the stars that twinkled overhead like salt poured onto black glass.
Cream satin sheets caught the moonlight until it glowed and you had the sudden urge to tip back and fall into oblivion. You could work for a long while, so long as you didn’t sit still long enough for the exhaustion to catch up to you — which you were doing now.
You shoved another biscuit in your mouth, now almost halfway through the sleeve. It helped settle the hollowness in your stomach so you could pick yourself up and move over to the bookshelf.
Bodice ripper, bodice ripper, murder mystery, bodice ripper, romantic comedy, found family adventure, spy thriller, bod—
Your face went red. Damn.
The priestess chose that moment to return to her room carrying a tray laden with bread, orange slices, and a thick mushroom stew leftover from dinner. She froze, pale cheeks turning a dusty rose as you silently pushed the book back onto the shelf.
“Dragon-born? Really?” You shoved a burning spoonful of stew in your mouth and drowned the stale crust of bread, waiting for it to get sufficiently soggy enough you could chew it.
Gwyn groaned and buried her face in her pillows. “It was a phase.”
“Must have been a very long phase. You have the whole series and I know it took her thirty years to write them all.”
Her head shot up. “How do you know?”
“I read the first book.”
You sat up straighter, back pressed up against the closet that housed her daily robes, ceremonial garb, training gear, and Valkyrie armour.
“So how can you judge me?!”
“It makes no anatomical sense, Gwyn!” You threw your hands up in the air. “She’s four feet shorter than him. He’d sooner tear her in half before giving her any pleasure, and I’m not talking about his claws.”
The priestess scoffed. “Have some imagination, Y/n.”
You huffed and pulled out a notebook from your ample pockets. You both spent the next thirty minutes going through hastily drawn sketches that would have disappointed Feyre to no end testing out your imaginative capabilities. Gwyn couldn’t stop smiling at you as you moved your hands through the air with animated fervor. Half of what you said didn’t make sense, but she would blame it on your sleep deprivation.
You had Gwyn in stitches. The female hung off the bed, red-brown hair brushing the ground as she gasped for breath. You looked like you were sitting on the ceiling, black robes pooled around your knees like shadows.
That sobered Gwyn up a bit. It was a real shame she liked you as much as she did. It made it harder for her to stay mad at Azriel.
And as if you read her mind, you asked, “Why don’t you come around to the River House?”
“What?” She wasn’t laughing anymore.
“Why don’t you come to the River House?” You asked again. “You’re close friends with Nesta. You’re part of the Inner Circle. You have a guest room there, but I haven’t seen you at the house.”
“Do you even spend enough time at the River House to know?”
“Yes.”
Gwyn sighed and straightened up, folding her legs neatly beneath her on the bed. “Some… Some things happened a couple years ago. I won’t bore you with the details and I don’t know if I even have the right to tell you everything, but it’s colored the way the Inner Circle works now.”
“The details are the most important part,” you murmured, “I wish I had more details. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel like such a stranger in that house.”
“You’re not a stranger,” Gwyn reassured you. “Is that why you spend so much time here?” she asked with genuine curiosity.
“Yes and no. It feels closer to home here. Even if your lack of organization has made my job ten times more difficult. I don’t see why you haven’t adopted any kind of classification system. It’s a small library. It would be very easy to implement.” You sighed and rubbed your eyes. Gods, you were tired. The feeling came and went in waves. “I shouldn’t complain though, everyone has been incredibly kind and welcoming. Especially Azriel.”
You wrapped your arms around yourself, fingers fluttering against your shoulders. You tucked your chin into your elbows and tried not to think about that glorious night of sleep with only Azriel and his shadows. Waking up with his chest rising and falling on the floor beside you.
You were falling for him and you knew it. Gods did you know it. Or maybe you could convince yourself you weren’t falling yet, but it was a steady march to the cliff’s edge and you weren’t stopping anytime soon.
Gwyn felt her heart stutter. “Oh? He’s usually so… quiet and… reserved.”
You thought about it for a long while.
“I don’t think he’s nearly as quiet as everyone believes him to be,” you said thoughtfully, “I think he just speaks in his own way.”
You were right about Godswood and The Gallows.
The letter arrived on your desk early in the morning.
The Bookkeeper, Taunum Hyst, was found trying to burn books in the western greenwoods along with some texts from Argot’s. He fought back against the guards sent to retrieve him, but he didn’t know what he was doing. Even now he’s confused and adamant that the last three weeks have been a blur. There’s a daemati at work here. Someone other than Henna. Rhysand knows, if he hasn’t already told you.
I’ve sent a translated folktale in old Bauldish and Common, and another in Demnyon along with the others you asked for. They might be worth looking into to help with the book. I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Night Court. Happy hunting and stay safe.
~ Helion
You were right.
You dropped the letter, hands coming up to your mouth as you took in a deep, shaky breath. You knew Taunum Hyst. You could picture his salt-grey braids and coal-black skin. He’d helped perform the funeral rites for your mother. Hell he’d managed to make you laugh that terrible day.
Your stomach turned. If there truly was another daemati left in the Day Court that could help explain the killings. Either the Librarians could have died trying to keep the knowledge in their minds safe, or the daemati had made them kill themselves before moving onto their next victim. You didn’t know which was more tragic.
The clock rang eleven bells and you hastily folded up the paper, dropping it into the box along with the rest of your father’s letters.
“I think this might be the first time you’ve ever been late,” Rhysand said with an amused smirk. He leaned against the doorway to his office, ankles crossed over one another. Did that male ever stand normally?
“It is the first time.”
“Of course you would know that.”
You smirked, pushing open the door to find—
“Azriel?”
The Shadowsinger stood with his hands neatly folded behind his back. “Y/n?”
“Cassian!” The Lord of Bloodshed leapt in front of his brother, arms spread wide. “I’m also here. Nesta couldn’t make it with Valkyrie training.”
Feyre rolled her eyes with affection. She reached for Rhysand’s hand without thinking and he accepted with barely a glance. They were two magnets, always pulled towards one another in space.
“What’s going on?” You glanced back and forth between them all. It had always been just you and Rhysand during these lessons.
“I thought it would be good to start practicing with other people when it comes to physical touch,” Rhysand explained. Azriel’s nostrils flared. “You’re getting comfortable with me, which I’m happy about. But I want you to get comfortable with everyone else too.”
You told me you wanted another debrief about the Mortal Lands. Azriel was loath to admit that just the thought of touching your hand was making his heart race like a schoolboy.
And I do. Rhysand said rather smugly, as if he already knew Azriel was freaking out inside. But I also know you wouldn’t have agreed to this if I asked you ahead of time. It’s amusing to see you like this, brother. Have you forgotten how to touch a female? His violet eyes glittered with mischief.
Azriel swallowed, eyes trained on you as you mulled over Rhysand’s comment and nodded. You wanted to be comfortable too. Comfortable in your body. Comfortable with other people touching you.
You thought of what it might feel like to have Azriel’s hand tucked beneath your chin, not just his shadows, and shivered.
Azriel nearly choked when you started undoing the ties of your robes. The gold embroidered fabric slipped off your shoulders in a soft hush that had Azriel going rigid. You wore traditional Night Court fashion beneath your Librarian robes — a tight black shirt revealed the gentle curves of your arms, the cut of your collarbones against your chest, the thin band of flesh around your stomach; a breezy skirt with slits cut into the sides that revealed flashes of your thighs with every movement you made.
Feyre, Rhysand, and Cassian all shared looks, nearly bursting out laughing at the way Azriel’s shadows were in flight around him. A swarm of bees buzzing and murmuring about how beautiful you looked.
Azriel had seen many fae in his time in various states of undress. He’d seen males and females in the Court of Nightmares parade about in scraps of silk and lace. He’d taken countless lovers to bed. Bodies were something he knew well. Something he knew intimately. But he had never felt so flustered as he did looking at you like this. He thought his heart might just burst in his chest.
Cassian elbowed Azriel in the ribs when you weren’t looking and one of Azriel’s shadows looped around his ponytail and pulled.
“Ow.” Cassian rubbed the back of his head with a grin. “Rude.”
You felt rather ridiculous standing in the center of the room with your arms and legs stretched out to the side.
“Right arm,” Rhysand called out.
Cassian bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, fists held loose by his sides with the lightness of a male a quarter of his size.
You squinted. Is he… is he about to punch me?
Cassian read the alarm on your face and grinned, hitting you with a tap gentler than rainfall.
You snorted, but felt nothing. Perfect.
You had to be grateful for Cassian’s light-heartedness. He had the worry melting off your shoulders. With every limb that Rhys called out, Cassian would do a little dance before punching you or kicking you. At one point he even faked a blow to your face, spinning up to you before leaping into the air and shooting out his right leg. You didn’t flinch as his boot swung an inch away from your face. You could smell the rubber soles of his boots.
“You missed,” you teased.
Cassian pouted, turning around to walk back to the wall now that he was finished with his piece. Azriel looked ready to tear his head off his body.
You’re lucky you missed. Azriel’s eyes screamed across the room. You’d be a dead man if you hurt her.
Cassian winked and blew him a kiss.
Feyre was next. You practiced brushing against her like you would do in a crowded street complete with the obligatory fumbling of apologies.
“Oh good heavens.” Feyre fanned her face like the old, upper-class women in her village used to do and laid on that sickly sweet accent they all had. “I’m so dreadfully sorry.” — They never were.
She shook your hand and touched your shoulders and looped her arm around your waist. That was the part that had you worried. You slid your power away from every inch of your skin, wrapped it up like a secret, and held it deepin your chest.
“Good.” Rhysand smiled and Cassian punched the air.
You breathed deeply and gave a small bow like you’d just finished a performance. But there was still one person you were meant to touch today, and they made you the most nervous of all.
Azriel stepped forward, a picture of calm. Inside, he was raging like a storm. He kept his hands firmly grasped behind his back, wings pressed so tightly he felt his shoulders start to ache.
You took a step forward as well, tilting your head back to look at him. You felt the grip on your power falter when he held out his hand palm up like he was asking you for a dance. Months ago at the Summer Solstice ball you’d been approached by a number of males hoping for a song with their hands at your waist and at your shoulder. The prospect of that kind of touch had terrified you then, and it still terrified you now but for different reasons. Because this time, you wanted it.
You wanted him.
You gently slid your hand into his, feeling the scars roll beneath your soft skin like the mountains that surrounded Velaris. Your breath caught in your throat, but before Azriel could rip his hand away you held on and squeezed reassuringly.
You’d read hundreds, if not thousands, of romance novels in your time. You’d consumed them with a ravenous hunger, surviving on them when real touch felt like a hopeless dream and the loneliness became too much to bear. And in nearly every single one of them, the first touch between lovers was described as an explosion of color. A dangerous shaking of the world down to its foundations. A cataclysmic event.
But you were surprised to find that they were wrong. They were all wrong. Azriel wasn’t destroying anything. He was mending.
It felt like a re-centering. The shifting of a leaning tower so it stood upright again.
A blissful silence.
Azriel cradled your hand in his, thumbs smoothing over your knuckles. He couldn’t help what he did next, couldn’t have stopped himself even if Helion stood at his back with murder in his eyes.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your hand with such reverence, such tenderness, that you swore your heart was glowing in your chest.
“Why don’t you try a hug, Y/n?” Rhysand suggested when Azriel had straightened. “If you want.”
You looked down at your feet where shadows swarmed, and then up at Azriel.
“What do you say, Y/n?” Azriel murmured softly. His words were for you and you only. “Where would you have me touch you?” His hazel eyes caught the light before scattering into a thousand brilliant colors.
Wordlessly you ran your fingers down his arms, tracing the shape of the muscle beneath the leather. You held his hands and gently led them up to your waist, gasping when he made contact. His warm fingers brushed the exposed skin of your waist before sliding around to your back.
You balanced on the tips of your toes, looping your arms around his neck before resting your face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. He smelled like leather and the mountains. Wind and rain and nightfall coalescing into something so uniquely him you could pick him out in a room of thousands with your eyes closed.
It started out as a loose, misshapen thing, your hands and his arms searching for the right grip to hold your bodies together. But once you found it, you were lost.
Azriel wrapped his arms around your back and waist, hands splayed out like he was absorbing you into him. And you were no better. You buried your face in his neck, lips pressed up against the curve of his throat so you could feel the rhythmic rush of blood through his veins.
He refused to be the first to let go. The roof could cave in. The floor could drop out from beneath your feet. He would not let you go.
Your tears started out slow, coupled by ragged, shallow breaths.
How long had it been since you’d been held like this? A hundred years? Two hundred? You thought you’d learned to live without it, but now that it was yours you didn’t think you’d ever, ever be able to give it up. You were at the cliff’s edge now and without an ounce of hesitation you flung yourself over and into the abyss.
With Azriel, controlling your powers didn’t seem like such a difficult thing. Later that evening when you lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, you realized you hadn’t been thinking of control at all.
<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->
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Author's Note:
Y'all... THEY FINALLY TOUCHED EACH OTHER! And not only that, BUT HE KISSED HER HAND!!! And! They fucking HUGGED!!!!
dedicated for @starrbright for bringing up and thirsting with me dilf tsukishima.
cw: dilf tsukishima, fingering, teasing, edging.
meeting dilf tsukishima is the least thing you expected but anticipated since you were partnered with his son. deciding that it was better to finish the project at the comfort of his house since he lives in there and the university's not that far from where he lives, saving time for work. there's no underlying conditions for it with the exception that he lives with his dad.
dilf tsukishima who's closer to his fifties. no signs of a receding hairline and keeping his blond hair a little longer. definitely taller than anyone you've meet and his lanky figure being the same as he was in high school. definitely mature as you can in his features and those golden-brown of his behind his glasses. a frown visible in his face while he stares at you two. standing in his doorway. faking a cough to hide the not-so subtle of checking and comparing him to his son, who is your partner. quickly muttering a greeting as a form of politeness.
dilf tsukishima who isn't so amused in his son bringing a girl, his so-called partner but he's fine with it. educational purposes it is. he thinks but his eyes linger than you for a little longer wondering why his son's lucky for being partnered with you.
dilf tsukishima who's been so single for so long. having finalized that divorce with his bland ex-wife who had been nothing but scorn him for his doings. he also find dating to be boring. women with no interest but to themselves and blabber about their life. deciding he was better off at being single and focusing at his job. when you, his son's partner showed up at his door — looking so bright and beautiful with your flabby arms squished together holding the materials in front of you. hiding your round stomach from his gaze and maybe, the first time in his life other than volleyball he finds you — interesting.
dilf tsukishima who thinks about you often. that's a lie. he thinks about you all the time. his cock twitching in his pants at the mere thought of you. sees your pretty face and your delectable body swimming in his thoughts and he can't help but to jerk. just seeing your flustered expression and he wonders if he can make that same expression when you're under him. moaning and begging desperately for him to let you cum. it's a shame but it's been long since he fucked, not frustratingly jerking thinking about the thought of you.
dilf tsukishima who you get closer after a few numerous visits. he's way interesting than his son or is he? there's a little resemblance to him and he surely takes after his mother but who cares? you have him in front of you, talking to him in stuff that his son never takes interest in. his sarcasm and a few quips of these and this and how see things in a different perspective, it's attractive.
dilf tsukishima silently reading articles for the upcoming event in the museum while you and his son are typing and discussing over the project in the kitchen. reasoning the room was getting stuffy and new space would be good and that's how you two ended up in his dad's kitchen not until he receives a phone call and saying he needs to take it outside which you've just nod. focusing back on the project you're working on. biting your pen and stealing glances to his dad who is quietly reading in front of you. in which didn't go unnoticed by him who was also doing the same.
dilf tsukishima who can't stop staring at you behind those papers he was reading. your cherubic cheeks puffing up whenever you're confused with something and your plumps drawing into a smile whenever you finished your part. your chubby fingers holding your pen and how it would look wrapped around his cock. he breaks in his imagination when he catches you staring back at him before going back to your work with a flustered expression visible in your face and kei's lips twitches into one of his condescending smirk. judging from your squirming he knows you're rubbing your thighs together.
“naughty girl. openly eye-fucking your partner's father. is this what they thought you?” he asks. towering over you while you're still seated. leaning down to meet your gaze and the way your throat moves as you swallowed.
“n-no. i w-wasn't.” you stammer as your try to evade the question not missing how his eyes glints with amusement behind those glasses of his and the smirk evident in his face.
“oh really?” he taunts. his smirk blooming into a bigger one. cupping one of your round cheek. his thumb brushing to your lip and you were left breathless. not being able to speak nor defend yourself cause it's true. you've been dreaming about it and now it's turning into a reality.
his sight landing to your plump lips watching as his thumb sinks and tugs at your lower lip. “what is it you desire?” he asks. his face close to yours and his breath tickles. fanning over the expanse of your skin. the pad of his thumb swiping and grazing your lips before slowly slipping it inside your mouth. in which you only replied by slowly suck his thumb while looking at him doe-eyed.
“tsk.” giving you a glare before responding in a way that leaves your panties soaking wet. “good girl.” he praises you. briefly looking at the side to his son's shadow nearing.
with a pop, your lips parted. “yes. i'm your g-” you didn't finish what you're about to say as he casually pulls his fingers before going back to his seat. his son walking back like nothing happened. clueless about the glare you have given him and his dad looking at him indifferently.
dilf tsukishima who still treats you the same when visiting but doesn't mean he can't bury his fingers in you knuckle-deep while his stupid son is in the next room — wondering where you've gone to.
“k-kei!” you moaned out loudly. moving your hips to meet with his fingers pumping inside and out of your hole. his slender fingers glistening with your juices. “what happened to mister, sweetheart?” he smirks. purposely slowing down and that leaves whining and eager for more before pumping his fingers harshly that your thighs started shaking.
dilf tsukishima who relishes in the sweet moans and the filthy words leaving in your mouth. your fingers gripping oh so tightly to his wrist while he slid his fingers inside you. adding an another finger and coos at you. praising how good you are for taking him.
“that's it, sweetheart.” he chuckles. loving the way your body bounces from his fingers. he got this plush, sweet, young girl and the partner of his son is spreading for him lewdly. “boys your age can't please you properly, hm? that's why you're here.” he says that without waning like it doesn't affect him but it does. just a mere thought of a another man touching you can't satiate the desire just to fuck you dumb. he needs you longing and wanting for him. tell him that no one can satisfy you but him.
“y-yes! can't please me right, please fuck me!” you say through the tears clumping at your eyelashes and the pretty pout you have but dilf tsukishima doesn't budge. oh, do he loves it when you get this needy with him. that's why he loves you high and soaking wet with no release.
“not happening and oops, time's up, sweetheart. don't want my son wondering where you'd gone.” he says, pulling out his fingers before you can cum and that the most cruel way he can get. that's why you're whiny and pouty.
dilf tsukishima who licks off the slick coated in his fingers. burning the memory of the taste of your juices in his and maybe the next meet he could eat you out and finally fuck you stupid with his cock and you would want him more.
“asshole.” you muttered, rolling your eyes at him and he doesn't miss it. he got a brat to discipline. it's fine. he likes it and dilf tsukishima could finally be with the woman he likes not minding the gap between the two of you.
later that night, you've fingered yourself but that leaves you frustrated. your fingers aren't that long compared to his dad. can't reach your sweet spots to bring you release and you lay that night in your bed with nothing but the thoughts of his dad. grabbing your phone to send him a quick text.
“need you. i can't cum.”
dilf tsukishima who reads the text in amusement, a brief chuckle escaping him. he got you bad. that's why the next day when the moment his son leaves, you were desperately grinding him. such a pervert. he muses to himself but don't worry he won't leave you high this time. just make sure you can take him just like he expected from you.
a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)
cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness
18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader
one (9.9k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes
in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. if you didn't check out the prequel publications (hot off the press on our series masterlist), make sure you do, since they provide important backstory for the IWW universe! read them carefully; there are secrets. 😉
Your mind is a buzzing whirl, just like that of the streets of New York City below, visible through the thick glass of your apartment window. Below, where you can hear the blare of honking horns, can see people loitering on the side of the road, hands waving high in an attempt to hail one of the taxis rushing past. You watch as people dart across busy intersections, dodging oncoming cars, scattering like ants across criss-crossed streets that teem with activity even in the dead of night.
It’s a constant, a comfort, something you can cling to as anticipation bubbles and wells in your gut.
Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent; glowing bright skies begin to deepen into a powdery orange, hinting at a day starting to close. Your fingers press against the window, a mental note already forming to clean it once you step away, eyes peering out into the bustling city streets. You work your way down the mental list once more: dishes washed, already set aside in the drying rack; laundry ironed and folded, pressed neatly into your drawers in categorical order; counters wiped down, shades dusted, furniture polished; dishwasher emptied, cups, plates, bowls and utensils placed in proper cabinets; AOL inbox checked, your confirmation for the time you would be meeting your new boss responded to, while the rest of the emails were placed into proper folders or deleted completely.
You’ve already changed your outfit three times. Laid multiple options out on your bed and ironed them all. You had held them to your body in the reflection of your bedroom mirror and tossed them into a heap at the foot of your bed. This wasn’t just any day, after all. The importance isn’t lost on you. This isn’t like any of your temp jobs that came before it. This is the first you’ll be working alongside someone with undeniable notoriety in the music space.
A celebrity, really.
“I can see your mind working, you know?” Angela, your roommate, glances up from where she sits at your kitchen island. There’s a magazine in front of her with some likely-falsified article about the newest Hollywood “IT” couple on display, dressed to the nines with glowing, airbrushed features. Her nails tap along the countertop, stark red against pale cream, as she arches a brow in your direction.
You’re already walking into the kitchen to join her, skirt sliding against your tight-clad thighs as you reach down beneath the sink to grab a bottle of windex, sights set on the fingerprints on your floor-to-ceiling windows. She twists in the chair while you rustle about, ignoring her as you grasp paper towels from the rack.
“This is a good thing,” she says, sighing with an exasperated shake of the head. Your reflection obscures for a brief moment, replaced by blue spray, before you wipe your lingering prints away. “You’ve wanted to travel for so long. You know, see the world and all of that. This is your opportunity to do it. And shit, it beats working for that asshat you used to deal with. What was his name again?”
You slip back into the kitchen to throw the towel away, heels clacking against tile. “Carver,” you reply, just as the lid to the garbage falls closed. You lean back against the countertop, smoothing your sweaty palms along the sides of your skirt. “Pretty sure anyone would be better than him. I still can’t believe that Mr. Harrington came to the office looking to mitigate all that tension between Mr. Munson and Jason by trying to partner up Carver Distilleries and Corroded Coffin for a commercial, and Jason went and ruined it by running his mouth. I wish you could have seen it, Ange. Mr. Harrington was so disgusted with how he behaved, he extinguished the deal completely right there in his office.”
“Exactly, because even he knows that man is vile,” she sighs with a pout, her form slipping down from off of one of your shoddy barstools, curly blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she walks. You snort when her hands curl around your forearms, shaking you lightly. “What did your new boss say? Something about you being more than equipped to handle this position? Didn’t he, oh I don’t know, request you specifically for his client? You’re going to be fine; in fact, you’re going to be wonderful. If there’s anyone in this world who can handle the notorious Eddie Munson, I think it’s you.”
With a newly restored confidence, you set to the bustling streets of Manhattan, sights poised on the recording studio address you were given. You thought your first day might start with something akin to an office introduction. Something, at the very least, a little less imposing than this. But you double checked your email from Mr. Harrington before you left and printed the directions that now sat clutched tight within your hands.
The building that stands before you at the end of your trek looms arresting and proud in the midst of the bodies swarming around you. Your eyes lift hesitantly to the glass door, your mirrored reflection leaping back at you. Angela’s words ring true in your ears; you are more than adequately equipped. You wouldn’t be invited here if it were not fate itself beckoning at your door. With a resigned exhale, your fingers twine around the cool, metal handle and step inside.
Schmackin’ Records is a world unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. From the moment your feet hit the mat at the front door, company logo etched into it, you know you’re no longer sitting at the front desk of Carver Distilleries. Your head tilts upward to the records dangling from the ceiling, then lower to the endless sprawling walls littered with posters boasting of accolades achieved by the success of the artists that have roamed these halls. You’re struck with the realization that you’re standing in the shadows of legends that have also trailed this path before you.
This— this place and this moment, are your current reality.
“You wouldn’t happen to be the new assistant, would you?” The woman at the front desk catches your attention. Your head whirls, fingers slipping from where they rest along a glass case affixed to the wall, proclaiming a recently obtained platinum record. Her face softens at your visible nervousness. “Sorry to scare you, dear.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine! I’m… ah, I’m actually here to meet with Mr. Steve Harrington. He gave me this address….” You hold aloft the directions in your hand, heart dancing in your chest as your heeled shoes propel you over to where she sits behind a glass panel. The woman before you glimpses down at your directions printed from MapQuest with a pitying grin, her head bobbing before her fingers clack away on her keyboard.
“That’s right! Hold on one moment, sweetie.” You open your mouth to speak as she lifts a phone from its receiver and dials a number quickly. You can faintly hear a voice on the other end. “Mr. Harrington? Yes, this is Joyce speaking. Mr. Munson’s new assistant is here looking for you… okay— yes, that’s fine. Thank you, yes— I’ll let her know. Goodbye.”
Your legs plant beneath you firmly, shoulders ramrod straight, head tilted up in anticipation of your new role. Joyce only resumes in her typing, head tilted down toward her computer screen, leaving you to simmer alone in the tense silence.
“Mr. Harrington will meet you on floor five. Just take that elevator down this hall on your left,” she says, head lifting abruptly from her work.
“Thank you!”
Somehow, the directions only bring you more nervousness. The knowledge that all that stands before you and your new role is five floors. A short elevator ride. Merely a few moments in time remain stretched between you and the catapult into a lifestyle you’ve only seen on television prior to this opportunity.
Your shoes clack against the laminate flooring, a foreboding tap tap tap as you shuffle your way down the short hallway and press the call button for your elevator. The doors open with a soft ping, heart ricocheting against your ribcage as you step inside and the silver metal closes behind you. Hesitant fingers raise to press the number five, the circle bursting to life and illuminating your selection. You step into the center of the room, hands clasped at your side, eyes ahead of you on your distorted reflection upon the surface.
You settled on a simple outfit for the day. Something pristine and professional. A thin black long-sleeved shirt, pale gray tweed skirt, black tights, and dark heels. Simple and understated, though still maintaining your own preferences for stylistic choices. Those same clothes cling to you now. Your tights suddenly seem too tight, heels increasingly pinchy around the back of your heel, skirt prickly and coarse against your thighs, the neck of your sweater digging into your throat. You’re parched, though you doubt any amount of water would assist you now.
The door opens to reveal sprawling wooden walls, as well as the figure of Steve Harrington standing before you in a pair of slacks and a simple button up. He looks exceedingly kind just as he did the first time you met him. Dark, depthless eyes with a wide grin spread across finely hewn features. His fingers card through his hair as you step out to greet him, hand coming to extend before you at the ready.
“You’re here! Oh, thank god.” He shakes your hand briefly and nudges you toward the opening of a hallway, those endless panels of wooden walls surrounding you on either side. The voice that spills from him in a rush is a frantic murmur of, “I’m sorry to have contacted you on such notice. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble—”
“Oh, not at all, Mr. Harrington,” you interrupt, swallowing thickly as he pauses in stride. “Sorry.”
“No, no. Please, call me Steve. Mr. Harrington is what people call my father,” he says, smiling softly. There’s a comfort in his gaze, a warmth that oozes from him. The tightness in your chest loosens, a deep breath pouring out. “We’ve… well, his last assistant quit abruptly, you see, and therefore we were obviously left with no notice. So when you said you could start as soon as possible, it was almost a godsend.”
Your hands grip tighter to the band of your pocketbook draped over your shoulder, leather still cool from the afternoon air. “I’m here for whatever you need, Mr. Ha— Steve.”
The hallway leads to a door, dark and imposing, with a wide silver handle. His fingers curl around it and hesitate, head turning over his shoulder to gauge your expression. The worrying of your lip pauses, teeth releasing from their tense position against your skin. Your mouth quirks upward into a hopeful smile, willing those nerves bubbling to subside.
“What exactly have you heard about Eddie Munson?” he asks you.
You know he’s not expecting a true answer. Not really. You’ve done minimal research. A quick Yahoo search brings up more articles than you know what to do with in reference to the infamous Eddie Munson. Most of which had brought you to pages detailing his altercation at the Grammy Awards in 1994 and the numerous escapades he’s gotten himself into in the course of his still newly established stardom, as well as his whirlwind romance with his wife.
“Not much,” you admit, and while it is the truth, Steve seems to deflate a bit.
His shoulders drop, hand coming to run through that full head of dark hair on him once more. That easy demeanor shifts, mouth turning southward. “Eddie is… he means well. He’s just— well, he’s gone through a few assistants in the past few months, as you know. In the few years I’ve known him, I can tell you with certainty he is dedicated to his craft, but he tends to veer into the wilder aspects of life. What he needs right now is someone who can handle him, and I truly believe that person is you.”
You feel your stomach drop. Initially, when Steve had offered you the position, he boasted of a fast-paced role that required adaptability. Your previous job had been nothing but back to back phone calls, fielding all the incoming clients and their questions, managing the schedules of your manager, and ensuring all issues were handled accordingly.
Babysitting a rockstar hadn’t exactly been on your agenda; yet even despite all of that, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity and had accepted the job offer.
“And the others?” you question, hand coming to rub along your bicep.
“I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “You handled Carver. Eddie should be a breeze.”
Carver Distilleries was not your ideal job, but it was the job you acquired shortly after a brief stint as an administrative assistant for a local community college. The company touted a prolific background of over thirty years in business and you jumped at the prospect. It had been straightforward enough most days. The phones rang around the clock and you handled the calls as expected, passed them off to their proper channels, and made sure the son of the CEO was happy at all times.
Jason Carver was, to put it lightly, the devil’s incarnate. Most days you wondered if he’d been placed in this life for the sole purpose of bringing suffering to all those around him, with a pitchfork in one hand and tail swishing behind him as he stomped through the halls of the building.
You couldn’t recall off the top of your head a day wherein he had ever been happy. Shockingly so for someone born from wealth and thrusted into the limelight, silver spoon in mouth at birth. Jason was proof that money hardly ever solved all problems.
He reigned as the crowned Prince of the company, his father’s shining star, who never raised his finger to do anything. For years, he rode on the back of his father’s coattails and treated those around them like they were beneath him, nose always upturned, sneer firmly planted on his face.
That evening you were already overwhelmed. There was an issue down in the marketing department regarding a mixup in schedules, leaving the Carver’s seated next to a family they didn’t particularly have positive dealings with at an upcoming gala. To add to the rising tension, Jason sent you on an errand to retrieve his requested cappuccino. Light foam, two sugars, extra hot. When you’d returned, he was still in a meeting with some of his fathers business executives, hidden behind a glass door. You left the cup for him there, as requested of you, and rushed back to the front desk just as Mr. Steve Harrington walked into the building.
He’d come in looking like any other businessman you’d seen grace the building in the past. Perfectly tailored suit and tie, briefcase in hand, hair coiffed neatly atop his head. Steve Harrington, though young, harnessed a professionalism about him that Jason Carver lacked. There were no sneers aimed your way as he approached the desk and greeted you pleasantly, nor did he scoff at the hand you’d extended in greeting, welcoming him with a soft thanks.
“Mr. Carver is just finishing up another meeting and will be out to retrieve you,” you advise him, walking out from behind your desk. “Would you like coffee, water… tea?”
“I’m okay, thank you,” he says, holding his briefcase tighter within his palm as he made his way over to the small couch positioned across from you, nestled beside a potted plant. You retreated back to your desk as he pulled a phone from his pocket, voice rising just enough to ask, “Do you happen to have—”
“What is this?!” Jason’s voice boomed from down the hall.
A loud thump echoed from his office, likely from something he’d tossed off his desk in frustration, and you knew well enough to duck behind the covering of your work space. You frantically thumbed the spacebar on your computer to bring it back to life, assuring everyone in your vicinity that you appeared occupied as a shock of blonde hair filled your peripheral. He’d bursted into the room with the dejected coffee in hand, hair strewn about messily atop, eyes narrowed in heedless anger.
Your eyes flickered to the cup, then settled back on the opened email on your desktop computer. The subject line held a request for a flower arrangement you were set to purchase for Jason’s wife, Chrissy, because he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself.
You let out a soft sigh and explained, “It’s the coffee you asked for.”
His nostrils flared like a bull, the embers burning behind his eyes glowing brighter. “I know it’s the coffee I asked for. I don't pay you to answer me with that sarcastic bullshit—”
“Mr. Carver—” The rise of your voice caught you both off guard, only further angering him.
His eyes narrowed, brows knitted tight across the middle of his forehead, vein pulsing against taut skin growing redder by the second. “I asked for a cappuccino with light foam, two sugars, and asked that you make sure it’s extra hot. This isn’t extra hot. This isn’t even warm. It’s cold.”
“Yes, Mr. Carver. It was hot when I left it on your desk two hours ago. Would you like me to go and get you another one?” You try your best to retain a neutral tone. You’re aware of Steve’s eyes trailing along both your forms, interrupted from his own work by your increasingly heated argument.
He barked out an incredulous laugh, head shaking. “No, I don't want you to get me another coffee. You should have known my meeting would run long and planned accordingly. I don’t know where you get the nerve to talk to me like you are when you seem to have forgotten you are no more than a rece—”
“Mr. Carver.” You both paused at the finality of your tone, throat filled with the bitter taste of the degradation he attempted to throw your way. “Your two thirty meeting for the Tennessee Maple Whiskey commercial is here.”
He clicked his tongue, shooting a glower your way. You already anticipated a meeting in his office later wherein he reminded you of all the reasons why your behavior was unacceptable and why you were lucky to still have a position at Carver Distilleries.
“Fine. Mr. Harrington, give me one moment and I will call you back into my office. I just need to finish running something by my father. As for you—” His eyes darted back to your form. “—I will deal with you later.”
You exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as the blonde haired man sauntered back down the hall, leaving you to the comfort of your generally quiet front desk. Steve still lingered there, one hand curled around his phone, the other lifting the briefcase he held off his lap to set it in the seat beside him. You watched as he rose to his feet and dropped his phone within his pocket, gliding over to your desk with a small white card in hand.
You didn’t need to read the words there to know what he’d slid across your desk. It was an instantaneous understanding, the knowledge of a new opportunity, of a way out from beneath the weight of the man who wanted nothing more than to rule with an iron fist and remind others that they were all beneath him.
He glanced briefly down the hall to ensure no one was listening and leveled his gaze with yours, voice a quieted whisper as he said, “You work well under pressure. Carver is… well, Carver’s an ass. I can offer you more money, if you happen to be looking for another job. You could travel the world working for me instead of sitting behind this desk. Let me know.”
Standing before Steve, you feel the questions swirling of the validity of the hope he’d placed inside of you. Had it been premature? He’d only seen one encounter between your prior manager and yourself. That was hardly enough to base a whole career off of, and yet his fingers tighten around the door handle all the same, ready to pull it forward and open you up to a world of newness beckoning you.
Your sweaty palms slide down the sides of your tweed skirt, fabric rustling about your thighs as you step nearer to the door, hardening your resolve.
It’s now or never, you suppose.
“Remember,” Steve warns, just as you move to step inside the recording studio. “He means well. I should also warn that he can tend to be a little… flirtatious. But I would try and pay it no mind. You’re going to be great.”
The room inside is grandiose. Roof to floor wooden paneling shrouds everything in a honey warmth. There are a couple of couches near the far wall, one of which seemingly occupied, and a coffee table that sits in front of it. You catch the slow glug of a water dispenser in the distance, nearest to a coffee station in preparation of the long night that lies ahead of you all. To your right is an open closet, then further still a bathroom. The room itself is dim, lights adjusted for a cozier feel. Intimate and fitting for the tracks that are to be laid today.
The same room, previously full of echoing laughter and vibrant conversation, fizzles into deafening silence as Steve leads you into the room, calling out, “Guys, there’s someone I'd like you to meet!” The announcement has every eye in the room darting your way, faces drawn tight to get a sight of the newest visitor. Only you’re not a visitor, because one of these men is about to be your new client. Steve turns to you then, hand lightly brushing your shoulder to nudge you forward as he says, “This right here is the new assistant, Y/N.”
A round of introductory greetings reach your ears, your voice full of certainty as you return them. “It’s great to finally meet you all.” However, you’ve yet to capture the elusive image of your client, as two of the band members stand closely together, obscuring him from your direct field of view.
Steve continues, “This is Gareth Parsons, drummer of Corroded Coffin.”
The first of the group steps forward. His shaggy head of brown hair flops as he moves, reaching forward with an extended hand in greeting. The warmth of his palm fills the space within your own, squeezing lightly. You feel a little bit of that boiling tension dissipate, the weight on your chest at the notion of a room full of new people unintentionally judging you lightening.
His voice is kind, edged with humor as he says teasingly, “Nice to finally meet Eddie’s new babysitter.”
The next band member makes himself known. He has dark skin, dark hair and lovely brown eyes, full of a kindness that has your mind easing further. Those same comforting eyes flash quickly to his bandmate, a stern flicker of his warm gaze resting on Gareth’s, the latter of the two huffing from his nose.
“Behave,” Jeff warns, voice a low murmur that has Gareth resigning to his defeat. That warm hand releases from your own and he steps back enough into the fold of the remaining members to allow Jeff to step forward. “The name’s Jeff. I’m on rhythm guitar and synth. It’s so nice to meet you.” He flashes you a white smile, and you can’t help the grin that blooms across your features at his easy acceptance of your presence.
“Thank you,” you say, truly grateful that the first two introductions have thus far proceeded smoothly. “Both of you.”
Seemingly pleased with how things are processing, Steve clears his throat. “So that’s Jeff, who you’ve now met. And then you’ve got Harry, who would be the bassist of Corroded Coffin.”
Harry steps forward, his hulking frame shadowing your own, to shake your hand. You lock your hand within his and he opens his mouth to work over the words he’s going to say when a voice cuts through the silence.
“The name is Harry Cox. And if you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll show it to you.”
“Eddie, fuckin’ really?” Jeff asks brusquely, whirling around in the Eddie Munson’s direction.
You’re not sure what to expect as the men shift and separate, bodies moving one by one to reveal the figure that’s so far remained hidden from your view. In theory, you’ve seen pictures of him. One would have to be living under a rock to not have come across a photograph of Eddie Munson somewhere. The infamous photo of the men standing around you, dated back to when they were teenagers, boyish frames huddled together in the halls of their high school before they had skyrocketed to fame at a trajectory no one ever anticipated; the clippings from not so flattering headlines showing his swift rise and downfall, leaving him on thin ice; the photos documenting his hasty nuptials to his actress wife. However, none of those compare to the intimidating figure that commands the presence of everyone around him as your hesitant eyes clash with his beneath the dark shroud of his sunglasses.
Your eyes settle on the dark swath of ripped jeans over coltish limbs. Black material stretches tight over sinewy muscle, thighs splayed out in front of him, scuffed Doc Martens thrown carelessly against the cherry wood of the coffee table. Your eyes start the slow crawl upward, tracking along black shirt stretched over his broad chest, with an equally dark leather jacket hugging his biceps. His arms rest over the top of the couch, a confident sprawl of elongated limbs against plush cushions. His face is almost feline, predatory and intimidating, most of the upper portion of his face obscured by those aviator sunglasses. The parts you can see are striking: lengthy, wavy hair that falls to his shoulders, soft and feathery against the leather jacket; those long fingers adorned with silver rings pushed flush against knuckles, broad hands covered in intricate tattoos; the pale skin over high cheekbones, an indent on his cheek that hints at a dimple if he weren't looking your way in disdain; full lips, soft nose, and the slightest hint of shadow along his jaw.
The Eddie Munson portrayed in the tabloids Angela had showed you over the years pales in comparison to the man that sits before you. This man oozes presence— owns this sort of magnetism that pulls the attention onto him in the center of the room with the mere sound of his voice.
“And that would be Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist for Corroded Coffin,” Steve explains, the arresting presence of the man sitting on the couch in front of you rooting you in place.
Gareth coughs out a quiet, “Resident douche.”
Jeff shoots him another scathing look. It’s enough of a distraction to draw your attention away from your new client, uneasy laughter welling up from you. Your stare drifts momentarily to Steve, his warm smile easing your tension, hand unfurling in front of him. The gesture has you faltering, understanding his intent is for you to make a proper introduction.
You shuffle your way toward the man, disregarding the way he barely even acknowledges your presence within the room. He’s not once moved, back pressing further into the curve of couch cushions, eyes peering up over at you through the top of his sunglasses. Dark and depthless, an endless swirl of ink, devoid of any emotion that might give you insight into how he thinks this initial meeting is going. You hear it then in the vestiges of your mind. A soft howl, nearly imperceptible—the whisper of wind in the distance, echoing in your ears. A warning, an insinuation of something to come. Still, your hand stretches into the spaces between you, left to linger in the open air.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Munson.” Your voice remains firm— unwavering, despite the fact that he dismisses your hand.
Jeff scoffs from beside you, head shaking slightly as his foot comes to shove Eddie’s off of where they rest against the wooden surface. They hit the ground with a dull thud, though Eddie’s posture remains lax, facade unwavering. “She’s talking to you.”
Eddie remains silent for a time, those dark eyes sliding up over the top of his sunglasses, voice hollow as he mutters, “You can call me ‘Sir.’” It’s innocent enough until the corners of his lips tug into a salacious smirk, fingers moving to push his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose, head tipping upward a bit so he’s now level with your unrelenting stare. You worked with Jason long enough to understand this game, the ploy to see if you’ll break at the first sight of tension, and you’re not falling into that trap now.
You take a step closer, hand hovering in air untouched, voice unyielding. “I’ll call you Mr. Munson, or Eddie. Take your pick.”
Gareth chuckles at your left, but your eyes remain focused on Eddie in your battle of stares. Him, veiled through darkened lenses, and you in your refusal to grant him the satisfaction of looking away for even one moment and admitting defeat. You hear that soft howling again, a quiet whir in your ears, just as Steve claps his hands and a new man enters from the recording room, voice slicing the strained silence. “This right here is Argyle. He’s the producer and sound engineer working on this project. Today, the guys will be laying down the tracks for their latest album, so you’ll be here to take care of anything Eddie might need in the interim.”
Your head turns, breath catching at the unexpected arms that loop around your shoulder, fingers reaching up to press against the hawaiian print on his shirt, those long strands of his dark hair smooth beneath your fingertips. He steps back to take you in, head bobbing animatedly as he says, “Nice to meet you, my dude—dudette. I’m the king of this music castle here. Can’t say I’ll be of much assistance, but if you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.” His greeting concluded, Argyle meanders back over to his seat again, contentedly rocking the swivel chair back and forth with his feet.
There’s a sudden creak of leather that draws your attention; Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the waves as his gaze darts from you to Eddie, who’s now rising from the couch. Eddie cracks his neck to the side, finally pulling off the aviators and dropping them haphazardly to the coffee table, where they skitter before meeting the magazine stack beside you. You push the top one back into place with the tip of your finger.
“Call me if you need me,” your boss says, one broad hand landing on Argyle’s shoulder, crinkling the Hawaiian print. “Good luck,” he mutters, patting him twice before moving toward the studio door.
You aren’t sure who Steve had been wishing luck to, but since his parting words don’t seem to phase the producer, you figure they must have been meant for you.
The heavy door thumps closed after him, echoing through the silent room. You can feel almost everyone's eyes on you— the outlier, the new variable in this equation, the only one here who doesn't have a pre-existing role in the narrative. As your gaze darts from one man to another in the span of that brief silence, you see a variety of expressions: curiosity, pleasantness, neutrality. But only one expression truly matters, and of course, unfortunately, it’s the expression of the only man whose gaze is averted as if reluctant to acknowledge you.
You take a moment to study your client now that you can clearly see his face, and what you see does not fill you with confidence. Eddie Munson's eyes are large and brown and framed by long, soft lashes, but there is only hardness in his dark stare. The crinkled lines at their corners would be charming, but they're wrinkled in a critical squint, not with a smile. Instead, though his lips are plush and pink, they're twisted in a faint sneer as he gazes at the plexiglass of the recording room, decidedly away from you.
He means well, Steve had said. But you can't help but think that this man doesn't look like he means anything but ill will towards you, his new assistant. Despite the welcome from others around you, it's making those new-job jitters deepen.
In the middle of your examination, those dark eyes—very suddenly and unexpectedly— flick to yours.
It's an impact you couldn't have braced for. Instantly, a rush of prickling heat crawls up your spine as if Eddie is looking through you, past skin and bone and muscle, straight to your very center. It’s a look that pins you down, flays you open, leaving you entirely exposed in its disapproval.
Blessedly, because of the time you'd worked with Jason Carver, you have perfected your customer service poker face. There is no outward appearance of your inward reaction, aside from the dampening of your palms; smoothly, you run them down textured tweed in the guise of fixing wrinkles before clearing your throat lightly.
It does the trick. The room, which had been suspended in silence following Steve's departure, suddenly stirs as Argyle spins in the chair to face you all fully, folding his hands over his belly. “Well, all right, brochachos,” he says, nodding slowly, his long curtain of black hair swaying as he does. “You ready to record some shit?”
"Fuck yeah, dude," Gareth answers immediately, pushing up from his knees, an enthusiastic smirk splitting his face as he leads the way to the recording room. Harry follows next, his hulking form shuffling from behind the coffee table. He pauses before reaching you as if he's afraid to enter your space; you shift quickly, moving closer to the coffee table to make more room as he fits himself around you.
"'Scuse me," he mumbles, and the gentle baritone of his voice coupled with the tiny tinge of pink on his cheeks makes you smile.
"No, I'm sorry," you're quick to assure him, "I was in the way."
He smiles shyly back as he passes by you, pausing by the recording room door to let Jeff enter first.
Distracted as you were by the exchange, you’re hit with a tiny spike of panic when you realize Eddie has begun to follow them, seemingly with no intention to address you again. It would leave you adrift with no direction— no inkling at all of what you can do to assist him, especially as Argyle already said he won't be much help— and that makes you act hastily. Impulsively.
Your body tilts forward, jerking after him, and your hand flutters out of its own accord, stopping just shy from making contact with his jacketed elbow. Eddie stops abruptly as his eyes dart to you; he squints as his gaze flicks down to your outstretched fingers. Your cheeks heat as you feel almost chastised, but you don’t let your embarrassment show. Instead, you let your hand drop, looking evenly into his dark brown eyes as you ask, “How can I best assist you right now, Mr. Munson? Is there anything in particular you'd like me to do?”
His stare sharpens, plush lips curving in the whisper of a smirk. “You a fan, sweetheart?” He asks, voice gritty with smoke and a quiet smugness as if he already knows the answer.
You keep Steve’s words in your mind, his warning about Eddie’s potential flirtatiousness. The shift— from thinly-veiled disdain to this— is jarring, but you figure it's probably meant to throw you off. “Of you or of Corroded Coffin?” you ask, expression carefully schooled to neutrality. Eddie's smirk tightens at the corners, grows a little more defined, but you continue before he can respond. “If I’m honest,” you tell him, “I’m not really well-acquainted with your music.”
His brows jerk, and when his eyes scan down your body before returning to yours, they’re narrowed again. “Let me guess. You’re a TLC girl? A little Backstreet Boys groupie?”
There’s a heavy shade of judgment in his voice that tells you he isn’t really interested in learning the answer, only in confirming for himself that your musical taste leaves much to be desired. You can't deny that the implication rankles you. You bristle at the thought that he presumes to know you when you've only just met, that he considers you lacking before you've given any reason for him to. The injustice of it makes you rush hot again, but not with nerves— with irritation.
Still, you maintain that mask of professionalism. You don’t let it show. “No,” you reply evenly, meeting his gaze dead-on, unhesitant and unashamed to share your preferences. “More like Smashing Pumpkins. Hole, too.” You ignore how his expression suddenly glints with salaciousness. “Though I do also appreciate harder stuff. Like Alice in Chains, for example,” you add, following it up with a small, polite smile. And it's true— you do appreciate some metal, despite it not being your go-to. It's not as though you don't like Corroded Coffin's music on principle.
But this answer doesn’t seem to excite him. Instead, Eddie’s sharp gaze dulls slightly as you refuse to play into his game. “Right,” he says, expression easing for the first time. “Well then, I do have something you can do for me, sweetheart.���
Pet name aside, it's the most pleasant he's sounded so far, and you brighten, having expected him to put up more resistance. Maybe all you needed to do was show that you were truly here to help him.
"Okay," you say, face expectant as you await his instruction.
Eddie’s lips twitch up into a tiny, crooked smile. “You see that door over there?” He flicks his finger lazily toward one of two narrow doors on the far wall, set into the wood paneling. You nod obediently, and he leans in, eyes wide and brows tugged up, pitching his voice low and soft like he’s coaching you through something secretive. “Well, inside, there’s a box. A box of all our recordings. Yeah?”
He waits until you nod again, a little more hesitantly this time. “What you can do for me is go in that box and listen to everything inside. Every album, every EP, every demo. Even the shitty garage recordings. Even the b-sides.” He pauses, tipping his chin down. And though he doesn't raise his voice, its softness sharpens to granite. “Because I’ll be goddamned if my personal assistant doesn’t even know my music.”
Your face was too eager for him not to notice the way it falls, and Eddie straightens, putting distance between you as he stuffs his hands in his back pockets, elbows jutting in satisfaction. That ghost of a smirk returns as he pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, raising his chin and leveling you with one last look through his long, feathered lashes before he turns away.
His clear dismissal sinks into your chest, and you huff lightly through your nose, rushing with disappointment. Almost as if he can sense the crack in you, he whips back around abruptly; it startles you, and your spine straightens as you jerk to attention. “When we’re done recording, there’ll be a quiz,” he says, and the sharp smile on his face becomes a threat.
You can't help it— a bit of nervousness leaks through your expression then. That seems to finally please him, and Eddie releases you from his dark gaze as he, at last, joins his bandmates in the recording room. The sound of instruments tuning surges before the glass door thumps closed behind him, muffling to silence again.
Now left alone with your task assigned, you turn toward Argyle a little helplessly. He’s gazing at you with an absent smile on his face, still in the same position with his hands folded on his belly, seeming entirely unphased by the contentiousness of your new client. You exhale a quick breath, using it as a reset before asking him, “Can I get a pair of headphones and a Walkman or something?"
"Certainly, my little dudette." He points toward the same door Eddie had indicated. “There’s bound to be some somewhere in that closet.”
Lovely. You nod slowly, flashing a quick smile through pursed lips. “Thank you,” you say before turning and making your way over to help yourself.
The interior of the closet is lit by a single dangling lightbulb, and despite the polished fixings and thorough decor of the recording studio itself, this room is bare-bones in its furnishings. Metal shelving crowds the narrow walls, and the floor is plain poured concrete, barren compared to the plush rug in the lounge area. Your heels clack hollowly as you edge tentatively into the space, avoiding loose cords until you’re standing in the center of the tiny room, directly under the lightbulb. Your hands plant on your hips as you survey your surroundings: shelves and shelves of identical cardboard boxes, all unlabeled aside from an occasional errant number or acronym that means nothing to you, some stacked three high.
Of course.
It takes a good half an hour to finally uncover the correct box. Thankfully, though the labels on the outside are useless, the contents within are masking-taped with far more descriptive labels, written in a messy but still legible scrawl. When you open the box, seeing ‘CC’ on the top CD case feels promising, and a little shuffling reveals some hand-drawn album artwork complete with a coffin and bats that can't be for anyone other than Corroded Coffin. With the correct box secured, you pick your way back to the closet door, setting it down to begin your search for a Walkman, some headphones, and a tape player, since you’d seen a couple of loose cassettes in there, too.
You’re nothing if not thorough. No one can ever accuse you of not doing your job.
When you re-emerge from the closet, the recording room behind the plexiglass is not peaceful like you’d left it. It looks like a television set put on mute as you see Gareth’s hair whipping, Jeff’s shoulders swaying, Harry’s nose scrunched in a concentrated grimace, and Eddie’s lips hugging the mic, pink crawling up the base of his neck, its cords stretched tight with effort. You avert your eyes to Argyle, whose long straight curtain of ink-black hair sways with each bob of his head, his ears enveloped by an oversized pair of fancy headphones. Everyone seems to be moving in time with one another, rocking to a rhythm you can’t hear, and the utter silence in the room combined with those frenetic movements strikes you as comical as you carry your box and its contents over to the smaller couch, placing it on the cushion beside you.
As instructed, you dig out each CD and cassette, organizing them methodically in chronological order and choosing to begin with the oldest one. The faded marker on the front tells you it’s from 1986, and the marker’s haphazard scrawl matches the scrawl of sound that blares from the tape deck when you slip the headphones over your ears and depress the play button. The sound is tinny, echo-y as if it’d been recorded in someone’s garage. And you suppose it probably was. Judging by the year, you figure they were probably still in high school or not far from it when they recorded this.
The Corroded Coffin of 1986 is not particularly remarkable. The kick drum holding the beat isn’t quite precise enough, and the bass is somewhat sloppy. Not every transition is tight; sometimes a beat that should be synchronized is just a split second too soon or late, whether guitar-strum or cymbal-strike. But there’s an unmistakable energy to the sound— a fervor, an insistence that demands you pay attention. You can feel that pouring-out of teenage aggression through the growls and licks and chugging of the guitars, through the lyrics sung in that voice that, though it sounds higher and less smoky than the voice you’d heard from your client today, is still unmistakable Eddie. Corroded Coffin has something to say, and you can’t help but listen.
Your gaze drifts up to the plexiglass of the recording room. Your eyes see them as men, but your ears hear them as boys. And you can almost picture them in that garage, surrounded by brightly-striped lawn chairs and deflated pool floaties, youthful bodies jerking and swaying with no less enthusiasm than what you see before you now. When you think about it, it’s kind of touching to imagine them as young boys with nothing but a dream. Clearly, it took years of effort to become what they are now. You watch Eddie’s long-lashed eyes scrunch closed and his dark curls cling to the sides of his jaw with sweat, and a sense of wistfulness wells up inside you as you think of your client as that boy in the garage, a boy who didn’t know what he’d eventually make of himself.
You’ve only heard three songs before the play button pops up, signaling the end of the tape. Quickly, you move to the next two— more garage recordings, all short and sounding similar— before you’ve exhausted the cassettes and are ready to begin on the CDs. The first is marked as a demo from 1988, so you know it’ll likely be longer than what you’ve listened to thus far. You slip it into the player, settling back against the cushions as you begin, eyes wandering over the wood-paneled walls as you imagine Corroded Coffin recording it right here seven years ago.
It begins with the ticking of cymbals, the clatter of the snare, and the whine of a guitar. Much more polished than the garage recordings but so unmistakably eighties in its sound that you can’t help but feel your lips curl up in a little deprecating grin. Still, your foot bobs along, and you end up listening to half of it before your curiosity for more overwhelms you. You switch to their debut studio album, which is what that demo eventually became, and that same song— now track begins the same way— the ticking of cymbals mixed with a snare’s clatter, but you recognize the difference immediately.
This— this— is Corroded Coffin.
Eddie’s voice is grittier and deeper, and the band is tighter, and the addition of those grinding metallic sounds and the electronic synth parts, which have clearly evolved past that stereotypical pop-eighties style, create something truly special. You’d been truthful before when you told Eddie that you hadn’t listened to much of his music, but now that you are, you find it genuinely enjoyable.
Time passes. Argyle’s head bobs, the guys grow sweatier, and your foot steadily bobs until Pretty Hate Machine concludes. And you should move on to the next EP, but you instead find yourself skipping back, back, back until the disc whirls in a blur of muted blue and pink and the first track starts again. You close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in it until a muffled commotion of voices and thumps rouses you. It’s the guys exiting the recording room, chests heaving, shirts tacky against their chests, looking tired but pleased as they converge on Argyle in a tight circle. You watch their faces light up with smiles and eager chatter, smiling yourself as they seem all of a sudden more boyish for it. Even Eddie, whose visage was once marred with disdain for you, is grinning toothily; as the joy turns his dark eyes amber, you feel a tiny pang low in your stomach at the sight.
Nuh-uh. None of that.
It fades quickly under your quick dismissal, smothered by a reminder of the pride you take in your professionalism. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But he’s still your client, and nothing would change that.
Before long, the group around Argyle disperses. Gareth and Jeff wander towards the couches while Harry stops at the water cooler, gulping down two fills of the plastic cup dwarfed by his meaty hands. You quickly move the cardboard box beside you to the floor and pull the headphones from your ears as you watch Eddie divert from the path, heading back into the recording room without his bandmates.
“What’s he doing?” you ask Gareth as he flops down, sagging against the arm of the large couch across from you. He shakes his damp bangs out of his eyes, flicking sweat that narrowly misses you before he replies.
“He’s laying down the rest of the synth parts for the most recent track. We have to record it separately.” His lips tilt in a grin as he adds playfully, “Ed might be talented, but even he can’t sing and strum and play keys at the same time.”
You find your interest piqued as Eddie folds himself onto the bench behind the keyboard. “He doesn’t need a break?” You watch as he stretches his back with a grimace before shaking out his hands, ruddy fingers turning to a blur.
Jeff just huffs out of his nose, drawing your gaze. His dark skin is shiny with the evidence of his exertion. “Oh, he needs a break,” he says, exasperated though his eyes are fond. “He just won’t take one.”
“Yep,” Gareth adds, “He’s a stubborn bastard. Won’t stop ‘til it’s done.” Gareth and Jeff each accept a tiny plastic cup from Harry gratefully, and you shuffle closer to the couche’s arm to make room for him next to you. You tilt toward him as he sinks down carefully beside you, but it doesn’t draw your eyes. They’re stuck on Eddie, on the look on his face as he nods at Argyle: focused, as if his fatigue is nothing to him but an insect to be flicked away. Argyle nods back, tapping a button on the complex board of switches and sliders in front of him. As Eddie’s head begins to bob, you realize what they just recorded must be playing in that plexiglass box, silenced from your ears.
Before you can overthink it, you rise from the couch, the muffled thumps of your heels shifting from thick, plush rug to clack against wood. As you come up next to Argyle, he remains gazing evenly ahead, eyes never wavering as his head bobs in time with Eddie’s. You’re considering whether or not to interrupt him when, without looking at you, he asks mildly, “What can I do for you, brochacha?”
“Are you able to play it out loud?”
Argyle glances at you then. “Alright,” he drawls, stretching out the word as if impressed. “You wanna hear the bitchin’ beats? Certainly.”
And with the push of a button, the once-silent studio fills with sound.
It’s a perfect marriage of grit and polish, evoking both the garage recordings and their first album in the best way. The distortion on the vocals makes Eddie’s voice sound even more imposing than it was in person when you first met him, and you watch his shoulders rock, brow scrunched tight. “This world rejects me. This world threw me away. This world never gave me a chance; this world’s gonna have to pay.” Eddie’s voice projects over the speakers, though his plush lips are motionless now. With such ease you almost don’t notice them, his fingers begin to dance over the keys, adding a subtle electronic melody beneath the drums and grating synth.
You can feel the tension of the song— the building of something carnal, something furious brewing beneath the surface, threatening to whip your hair back from your cheeks. Its energy builds and builds as Eddie’s voice goes almost breathy underneath the effects, singing, “Something inside of me. It screams the loudest sound. Sometimes I think I could…”
You sense it’s coming, and yet you’re not prepared for it when Eddie’s voice becomes practically a howl: “I’m gonna burn this whole world down!”
The guitars, the drums, the bass and synth— they all explode out in a whirlwind of thrashing sound and driving noise as Eddie’s body rocks, fingertips turning white as he forces sound from the keys. His teeth are grit, his face is pouring sweat, and the sight of it speaks to one thing: determination.
You can’t help but admire that.
You don’t even notice that your head’s been bobbing along to the beat until it ceases, and as you grow still, it whips to the guys at the couch. This song is better than almost all their others. If the rest of the album is like this… Your eyes sparkle with the force of your excitement as you beam at them, and in their pleased smiles and behind their eyes, you can see it: pride and confidence, knowledge that this album they’re creating is going to become something big.
That feeling is effusive, bubbling in your blood as the door to the recording room opens and Eddie emerges. His curly bangs are plastered to his forehead, his eyes are ringed by dark circles and his lips sag in fatigue. Yet despite it, from within, he’s positively glowing.
Caught up in the moment, all you can do is blurt, “Holy shit.” You blink dazedly at Eddie for a moment as his face goes slack, and then he tosses his head back and laughs.
Eddie’s laugh is husky and wild, unrestrained in his amusement. Utterly unfiltered. He laughs as if you’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and it’s then you realize this is your first day on the job, and you’ve just cursed in front of your client.
Your face fills with heat, cheeks burning as you stutter, “Mr. Munson, I’m so sorry, that was entirely inappropriate—”
Eddie snorts, waving you off, looking not only unbothered but positively tickled that you’d cursed in front of him. To give yourself a moment to recover, you spin, clacking toward the water cooler to fill up one of those little plastic cups like you’d seen Harry doing earlier. You stammer past your indiscretion, and as you focus on expressing yourself, you feel the burn in your cheeks begin to recede. “I shouldn’t have forgotten myself like that. But that song was just… I mean, seriously. It was like… like a return to your roots or something, but not just that.” You pass him the cup carefully, falling back onto your hip as you cross your arms and your eyes dart to the ceiling. You’re trying to put it into words, and you feel frustrated that you’re struggling to. “Okay. It sounded like those early garage recordings where everything was just raw. It’s gritty and angry and cathartic. But it also feels so… new. Like compared to your last album, but also compared to what other bands are doing right now. You know?”
It doesn’t seem entirely adequate, but that’s all you’ve got— all you can do to express that almost intangible quality that you felt but can’t describe. You finally let your chin drop to meet Eddie’s eyes and are surprised to see them no longer dark and shuttered or squinty with mirth. Eddie’s eyes are wide and bright, amber like sun shining through whiskey as they stare unwaveringly into yours.
"Yeah, you picked up on that?” For once, there isn’t a sharp edge to his voice; in fact, he sounds almost pleased. “With this album we're experimenting with something a little different, really trying to focus on the textures and moods. Trying to find ways to create sound that’s not music. Not in a traditional sense, at least.”
You nod eagerly, caught up by the enthusiasm in his voice. “Yeah! That’s it. I don’t listen to metal much, but it just doesn’t sound like what you typically hear nowadays.”
Eddie crosses his arms, holding his elbows as his tongue plays against the inside of his cheek. “You’re right,” he concedes, so easily that it comes as a surprise. “In a way, we are going back to our roots; all the way back to being the freaks who don’t want to be packaged up in some neat box. Especially seeing where this industry is going. Like, I’m watching bands that got me through the hellscape of high school crumbling and folding to the pressure. I mean, fuck.” A whip of sweat-damp curls as he shakes his head, his gaze heating with molten passion, pinning you so intently that you couldn’t look away if you tried. “Do you realize the irony of a genre that prides itself on being anti-establishment becoming part of the establishment?”
“Fuckin’ bullshit, man,” Gareth pipes up from the couch, and Eddie’s arm flies out, an eager finger shaking in his direction as his eyes go wide and almost wild.
“Fuck-ing bullshit,” Eddie enunciates, and as his voice roughens, he almost seems to puff up with the strength of his ranting. “Look, I do get it. They’re not the first to end up caught in the wheel; happens before you even realize it. But you know what you’re left with at the end of the day? Jack fucking squat. And we’re just as angry and powerless as we were as kids.” He jams two ruddy fingertips against his open palm, brows raised in emphasis as if willing you to understand. “This— this music was our escape back then. And it’s going to be our escape now. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about it.”
He’s nearly craning over you now, breath hot as it puffs against your face, face drawn tight with his fervor. But you aren’t afraid. Because though he’s nearly yelling, Eddie’s ire isn’t directed at you. Your expression doesn’t harden up or crumble under the weight of his passion; instead, you accept it, letting it whip against you without faltering.
Your steadfastness seems to temper him as the tension in his face eases slightly, though he doesn’t back away. More quietly, he says, “All they want is the next sound-bite, the next commercial success. Sorry, Arg,” he throws a glance toward his producer, “but I honestly don’t give a shit whether there’s even one song on this album that would be a successful single. It’s not meant to be consumed that way— picked apart like fuckin’ buzzards on a corpse.”
Eddie’s amber eyes hold you as he breathes, “This album is raw. It’s ugly, and it’s personal—”
His words choke in his throat, and for a moment, there’s something tentative connecting you, drawn thin between your gazes. Something fragile but nearly tangible, like the foam of the sea that bubbles against sand but melts to nothing if you reach for it.
But then Eddie blinks, and the connection is severed as he seems to realize he’s talking to you: his personal assistant.
His glorified babysitter.
All at once, the passion is gone. He flattens, taking a step back. And there is no preamble to the sudden switch in his demeanor as he demands, “Where’s our dinner?”
the next chapter will be released on @abibliophobiaa's blog!
This is an excellent article by astrophysicist Dr. Adam Frank and theoretical physicist Dr. Marcelo Gleiser about how information from the James Webb Space Telescope is changing physicists' perceptions about the standard model of cosmology. 😱
Since how we understand the universe seems rather important, the link above is a gift🎁link to the article, so that even if you do not subscribe to The New York Times, you can read the entire article. Below are a few excerpts:
Not long after the James Webb Space Telescope began beaming back from outer space its stunning images of planets and nebulae last year, astronomers, though dazzled, had to admit that something was amiss. Eight months later, based in part on what the telescope has revealed, it’s beginning to look as if we may need to rethink key features of the origin and development of the universe.
[...]
But one of the Webb’s first major findings was exciting in an uncomfortable sense: It discovered the existence of fully formed galaxies far earlier than should have been possible according to the so-called standard model of cosmology.
According to the standard model, which is the basis for essentially all research in the field, there is a fixed and precise sequence of events that followed the Big Bang: First, the force of gravity pulled together denser regions in the cooling cosmic gas, which grew to become stars and black holes; then, the force of gravity pulled together the stars into galaxies.
The Webb data, though, revealed that some very large galaxies formed really fast, in too short a time, at least according to the standard model. This was no minor discrepancy. The finding is akin to parents and their children appearing in a story when the grandparents are still children themselves.
[...]
Working so close to the boundary between science and philosophy, cosmologists are continually haunted by the ghosts of basic assumptions hiding unseen in the tools we use — such as the assumption that scientific laws don’t change over time.
But that’s precisely the sort of assumption we might have to start questioning in order to figure out what’s wrong with the standard model. One possibility, raised by the physicist Lee Smolin and the philosopher Roberto Mangabeira Unger, is that the laws of physics can evolve and change over time. Different laws might even compete for effectiveness. An even more radical possibility, discussed by the physicist John Wheeler, is that every act of observation influences the future and even the past history of the universe. (Dr. Wheeler, working to understand the paradoxes of quantum mechanics, conceived of a “participatory universe” in which every act of observation was in some sense a new act of creation.)
[...]
The philosopher Robert Crease has written that philosophy is what’s required when doing more science may not answer a scientific question. It’s not clear yet if that’s what’s needed to overcome the crisis in cosmology. But if more tweaks and adjustments don’t do the trick, we may need not just a new story of the universe but also a new way to tell stories about it.
[color emphasis added]
Image caption: "These six galaxies may force astronomers to rewrite cosmology books. (Image credit: NASA, ESA, CSA, I. LABBE)"
Synopsis: Mrs. Seresin is a hard person to surprise. However, stealing a page from her book, Jake may have managed to catch his wife off guard.
Notes: Here is entry one of two for @roosterforme's '80s Rocktober challenge! The song is Centerfold by J. Geils Band. Part of the To-do List collection.
Warnings: 18+ only; smut.
Word count: 3.8k.
Mrs. Seresin did a little happy dance as she stuck the key in the lock and opened the door of her PO box. This was the last time she would have to stop by the post office to pick up her business mail. A smile pulled her lips as she cradled all the mail in one hand and locked the box with the other.
She was also delighted by the thought of all her sample books and design digests moving to her new studio. Now, she and Jake had more room for collector edition novels and travel tchotchkes in their home office. Jake was returning tonight from a week-long training and had promised to help pack. He might’ve been more excited than her that she was finally getting a studio.
Jake never stood in the way of her career, but he did voice his opinion about her need for more separation between work and home. Yes, she had an office—they technically shared the space—but sometimes work spilled into other areas of the house. And Jake knew she was overworking when he was away.
Today’s mail drop was sizable and included a few new sample books. A couple of her monthly subscriptions also arrived. She’d have time to thoroughly sort when she got home. Jake wasn’t due back until later.
Once home, she parked in the garage and was greeted by Ruck when she entered the house. She spent a few minutes loving him before going upstairs to change. Ruck on her heels, she returned to the garage to get the mountain of mail. Back inside, she stood at the kitchen island and sorted.
A sample book for a new tile company’s latest collection. The wallpaper samples a client requested. Pantone’s interiors collection for the new year. New editions of Dwell and Architectural Digest. The last piece of mail was wrapped in an opaque poly plastic bag. Going for ease, she fished scissors out of the drawer beside her and sliced off the crimp.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said aloud as she pulled a glossy magazine out of the wrapper. Staring back at her was a shirtless Jake, wearing Wranglers with his thumbs hooked in the belt loops. He donned his favorite Stetson and had a toothpick dangling from his lips. The title Flyboy was printed above his head in a font that mimicked the infamous Playboy.
A smile plastered on her face, she sighed as she flipped it open. As tempted as she was to immediately look at the centerfold, she browsed the articles and features first. Jake put a lot of thought into Flyboy—from the photos to the articles and down to the barcode, which included their wedding date.
Now she understood why she’d been banned from his calendar photoshoot.
Every year, the Lemoore-based strike fighter squadrons competed to raise money for charity. By New Year’s Eve each year, the squadrons were expected to present a check for at least $12,000 to the charity of their choice. The three years previous, Jake’s squadron, the VFA-151 Vigilantes, had at least doubled the minimum expected donation. The squadron’s creative approaches to raising funds not only brought in a lot of money but made them the reigning champions.
Over the years, the Seresin became a staple in the competition. Year 1, Mrs. Seresin pitched the Commander to allow the Vigilantes to participate in a date auction. The night was memorable not only because the squadron raised $64,000, but also because Mrs. Seresin got into a bidding war with the Commander’s ex-wife over Jake. The victor, she got kudos from the Commander for putting his pain-in-the-ass ex in her place.
The following year, Jake suggested weekend car washes from Memorial Day to Labor Day. The weekends he and Mrs. Seresin volunteered were always the highest grossing. When Mrs. Seresin couldn’t join him, he was sure to send her pictures of him and the rest of the squad posing in black triangle bikini tops.
For Year 3, the squadron was cleared to host an air show. It got so much publicity that the Navy decided its official demo squadron, the Blue Angels, would participate. Obsessed with the Blue Angels as a child, Jake nearly blacked out when he was presented with an honorary patch for flying alongside them.
No one thought the Vigilantes would be able to top the air show for Year 4. However, inspired by an anniversary gift from his wife, Jake proposed a calendar. Twelve months, 12 pilots. After the initial laughter, everyone was sold.
When Jake told his Mrs. Seresin, she immediately sprung into action to assist. By the time Jake left for work the next morning, she had secured a pro bono photographer and had plans to dress the sets and pilots. Jake knew his wife was a force, but she never ceased to amaze him. She had to shoo him out of the house before he was late for work, because he was showering her in physical gratitude.
Mrs. Seresin couldn’t help but smile as she thought about all the late nights and takeout. Ann, her long-time friend, agreed to be the photographer and de facto assistant art director. Mrs. Seresin and Ann had staged and shot so many home and business interiors together, they lost count. They were excited to tackle a new frontier.
However, Mrs. Seresin did not get to conquer the frontier that was Jake in front of the camera. When he asked her to not attend his shoot because he wanted to surprise her, she choked down her disappointment and respected his wishes.
However, her disappointment was in the rearview mirror the minute she saw Jake’s photo at the reveal party. Clad in just his dress whites pants, Jake’s megawatt smile lit the image while he kneeled alongside Ruck. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, Ruck was also smiling at the camera.
To top it off, Jake was the pilot for December, Mrs. Seresin’s birthday month. “An early birthday gift,” Jake called it as he hugged her to his side and kissed her temple.
That night was for Jake and the rest of the squad, but Mrs. Seresin felt like the real winner.
After its release, the Vigilante calendar took social media by storm. It was easily their most successful campaign, raking in over six figures. And of course, Jake and Ruck became everyone’s favorite duo.
Although Jake wasn’t on social media, and Mrs. Seresin kept her social footprint strictly business, the internet sleuths still found them. Fortunately, they were respectful of their boundaries. Even more surprising, learning Jake was married and that Ruck was Mrs. Seresin’s dog just made folks swoon harder.
An hour after opening the mail, Mrs. Seresin was tucked on the couch, wine in hand, and reading Flyboy cover to cover. Ruck laid at her feet and lifted his head every now and then to confirm her noises weren’t duress.
Mrs. Seresin held the magazine sideways to take in the centerfold in all its glory. Jake was standing naked in the foreground of a hangar with his helmet perfectly positioned to keep the photo modest and have his call sign on full display. His signature smile, sandwiched between deep dimples, added to the cheekiness of the missing vowels on his helmet. She couldn’t help but smile.
Jake knew the magazine arrived today. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he thought about her reading it. It wasn’t the pictures he was nervous about, it was the pages in between.
Curating Flyboy was a trip down memory lane for Jake. He spent time scrolling through their shared memories and writing his perspective of their adventures. It was fun, and he even decided to start a journal.
Jake was confident the magazine caught her off guard. His birthday plan was unfolding perfectly. He was hoping his outfit, his flight suit, was the second punch of a one-two celebration combination. The cherry on top was riding shotgun: a half dozen her favorite donuts.
Since her birthday was two days after Christmas, Jake vowed to keep her birthday separate from the holidays. To honor that, he always celebrated with her in early December. More used to having her birthday swept under the rug, it was the first time in their relationship Jake was able to surprise her.
The truck headlights lit the closed garage door as Jake pulled into the driveway. Once parked, he slipped out of the vehicle and prepared for Mrs. Seresin’s three-legged protector, Ruck, to greet him. Inside, while Jake shed his things at the door, Ruck nosed the donut box. Jake had bought a doggie donut so Ruck could celebrate, too. Package inspected and approved, Ruck led the way to the living room.
Mrs. Seresin was flipping through what Jake assumed was his magazine. She glanced up to find him swaggering over in his flight suit—the top tied around his waist—and a black t-shirt, holding a box. “Hey, flyboy.” Her voice was sultry. “Or should I say coverboy.” Jake couldn’t help but smile, and she mirrored his expression.
“Happy birthday, baby.” He flipped open the box. Her face lit up as she stood to get a donut. Jake watched as she selected her favorite and happily took a huge bite. While she chewed it, she turned the pastry to feed Jake. He obliged.
She tucked a couple fingers in the waist of his flight suit and led him to the couch. Jake placed the donuts on the coffee table and traded her donut for Ruck’s treat. She smiled and fed it to him. Jake’s heart swelled at how gentle Ruck was with her. She finished her donut nestled under Jake’s arm with Ruck’s head in her lap. She fed Jake the last bite. After swallowing, he leaned in to plant a sugary kiss on her lips and murmur one more “happy birthday”.
“Can I unwrap my present?” She smirked at him.
Jake grinned. “You already did.” He tipped his head toward the magazine on the table. Mrs. Seresin leaned forward to grab the magazine, and then returned to her spot under Jake’s arm. Casually, she flipped the pages. “Do you like it?” Jake questioned.
“Love it,” she quickly answered. She looked at him with the biggest smile. He leaned down again and pressed his lips to hers. “So thoughtful. So personal. So hot,” she said between kisses. “But you really didn’t drive home in your suit flight for me?” Her lips pulled into a pout. “I know this is a clean suit. You don’t reek of jet fuel.” Jake wordlessly responded, his bottom lip disappeared behind his teeth as he smiled.
“What was your favorite article?” Jake asked, unfazed.
“Ruck’s, of course.” Jake scrunched his nose at her. She chuckled and returned to lazily flipping the pages. “I also liked reminiscing about our honeymoon. You picked some exclusive photos.” Jake flashed a toothy grin as she looked back at him. He had included some photos he took of Mrs. Seresin on the private yacht they stayed on for their French Riviera honeymoon.
His personal favorite was her draped nude on a deck lounge chair with her legs butterflied while she pleasured herself—her hand tastefully covered her core. “I’d love to recreate some of those by the pool,” he responded.
“Mhmm,” Mrs. Seresin replied, still flipping through the magazine. “Or on another yacht. We do have a milestone anniversary coming up,” she reminded him. Jake responded by placing a kiss to her temple.
“Your photos were nice, too,” she added, making eye contact with him and sticking her tongue out. He squeezed her closer and tried to playfully catch her tongue but captured her bottom lip instead. She leaned into the kiss, bringing a hand to the side of his face. Carefully, Jake removed the periodical from her lap as she slid onto his.
Straddling him, she cradled his face in her hands as she deepened the kiss. Magazine safely on the coffee table, Jake slipped his hands under her shirt—one of his Academy shirts—and his thumbs dipped into the waistband of her bike shorts to rub the soft skin of her lower belly. His thumbs circled lower and confirmed his suspicion—no panties.
She rolled her pelvis into his as she kissed him harder. He moaned, and Mrs. Seresin thought she might come right then. She pulled away, mouth agape, and sat back on his lap. “Get this off.” She demanded as she helped strip him of his t-shirt. “Just like the magazine.” She referred to the picture of Jake shirtless with his flight suit tied around his waist. In the photo his suit was so dangerously low that, with his thumb hooked in the roll, you could see his tiny “Bite me” tattoo.
She rubbed herself all over Jake as they continued to make out. Jake’s hands alternated between squeezing her ass and wandering up her shirt. He quickly learned she wasn’t wearing a bra and was doing his best to coax her out of her top.
She whined and tangled her fingers in his locks, pulling his head back and breaking their kiss. “I want to feel more of your skin.” Jake punctuated his statement by palming her ass.
“It’s not your birthday, you don’t get to make demands.” She ground herself more in his lap, making him groan.
“Not a demand, just a suggestion,” Jake responded. She loosened her grip on him, allowing him to dip his head toward her chest. She watched as he found one of her taut nipples through the fabric. Gently, he tugged it with his teeth. She bit her bottom lip as she enjoyed the sensation.
“Jake.” She drew out his name as her head tipped back. He switched to the other nipple. “Fuck.” She quickly ripped her shirt overhead, and he gladly mouthed her bare chest. As he licked and sucked and massaged, she found a rhythm rolling her pelvis against his.
Mrs. Seresin slowly halted her hips and curled her fingers back into Jake’s hair to pull him away from her chest. Jake looked up at her—lips puffy and cheeks a little flush. He whined when she wiggled out of his lap.
She stood and slowly began to slide off her bike shorts as she sauntered out of his reach. She even turned so he could see her tattoo appear on the swell of her backside as she slowly slid the fabric down. Once her shorts were around her ankles, she stepped out of them.
“C’mon, coverboy.” Back still to Jake, she come-hithered him over her shoulder as she strutted away. Jake immediately knew where she was leading him. He practically jumped off the couch and ran after her. She squealed when his arm snaked around her middle, and he carried her sideways into their office.
There were boxes—half full, empty, flat packed—strewn around the room. Otherwise, the office was in its usual decadence. The floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out to the secluded backyard, letting the moonlight flood the space.
Jake marched past their desk, over to the windows and set Mrs. Seresin on her feet. He soaked in her naked form as he held her until she was steady. Jake was distracted by her curves illuminated in the night light. She got his attention back by tugging on his arm as she turned to face him. Jake made eye contact with her as his hands continued to traverse her body. He could feel the incremental movements of her muscles.
“You ok?” She asked as she wrapped her arms around his neck and moved a stray lock of hair away from his face.
Jake engulfed her in his arms and pulled her into his chest. Her head was tipped completely back. “Never better.” His voice was heavy with lust. She smiled as his lips met hers for a lingering kiss. “Is it my birthday or yours?” he asked as they separated.
She smirked and nipped his lip. “It’s definitely mine.” She slipped out of his arms. He watched as she pressed her back flush to the cool windows. “Your flight suit looks good on, but take it off for me, coverboy,” she said.
Even in the low light, Jake’s smile was beaming. Jake’s movements were antagonistically slow as he loosened the fabric and pushed it down his body. She couldn’t help but smile as he mimicked her earlier motions, slowly revealing his tattoo.
Flight suit abandoned, he stalked toward her, holding eye contact. His cock bounced against his abdomen with each step. Back and palms still flush to the glass, she craned her head back to maintain eye contact as Jake approached. He leaned down for a kiss. A large hand softly cupped the column of her throat. Jake had her pinned between him and the window with his length resting against her belly. She squeezed her thighs together as their make out intensified.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Jake pulled back. “Turn.” His voice was deep. She obeyed and supported herself with her forearms against the glass as she bent and arched her back.
Mrs. Seresin closed her eyes and remembered to breathe as Jake easily slid to the hilt. “You’re so wet,” Jake praised as he began a slow pace. One hand returning to her throat. “Did you work yourself up looking at my photos, thinking about what’s behind that helmet?” Jake rhetorically asked as he gently squeezed her neck. He snapped his hips, making her whimper. He smiled, feeling the hum against his fingers.
For leverage, Jake placed a hand beside hers on the window, and slipped the other around her front between her legs. She moaned and squeezed her eyes closed as his calloused fingers drew tight circles on her clit. Jake smiled into her shoulder as he felt her push onto her toes to chase the friction of his fingers.
Together they found a perfect rhythm. Jake continued to pepper her with praise and move with her. Eventually, Mrs. Seresin had her cheek and chest pressed against the window. She moaned with each thrust. Jake knew if they kept this positioned he’d come before her.
She gasped but stayed pressed to the window as Jake dropped to his knees. Spreading her with his thumbs, he lapped her from behind. She keened as she arched her back more to give him better access. Jake shifted slightly so his tongue dipped into her.
That was all Mrs. Seresin needed. Jake stilled and let her bounce up and down on his tongue. Mrs. Seresin grew louder with each bob. Palms pressed to the glass, she rested her chin on it as she quickened her pace. Finally, her hips stuttered and she slowed her motions as waves of pleasure rolled through her.
Jake popped to his feet and quickly slipped his cock into her throbbing heat. “Yes,” he hissed as her walls squeezed him. A few thrusts and he pumped her full of cum.
He groaned as his body eclipsed hers against the glass. After he caught his breath, he kissed her shoulders. She groaned, lifting her head off the window to look over her shoulder.
“Happy birthday,” Jake said before he pressed his lips to hers.
“A happy birthday, indeed.” She returned to her position against the window.
Quickly, Jake slipped out of her and scooped into her his arms to avoid dripping any cum on the floor. She relaxed into him as he carried her to their bedroom. He deposited her on the bed before getting a washcloth to clean her up.
Cleaned up, he tossed her favorite of his shirts at her before disappearing back into the bathroom. When he returned she was already curled under the blankets. Jake tossed on a shirt and shorts and headed downstairs to let Ruck out.
While Ruck was in the yard, Jake went to the garage and unloaded the last of Mrs. Seresin’s gifts. He set them in the office out of the way. She could open them in the morning.
Their little secret, Jake treated Ruck to one more donut before they headed back to the bedroom. Ruck tucked himself in his bed on Mrs. Seresin’s side of the bed as Jake slipped under the covers and spooned his wife.
She turned to face him. “Thank you.” She gave him a quick kiss before flipping back over to tuck herself against him.
“You’re welcome.” Jake pressed one more kiss to her temple, and then listened to her breathing as he fell asleep.
The next morning, Jake still asleep, she wandered downstairs to make coffee. While she waited for his pour-over, she picked up the remnants of last night. Retracing their steps, she picked up clothes and folded them. As she entered the office, she kept her sights on Jake’s crumpled flight suit. She folded it, a smile tugging her lips as she thought about last night. Her smile became a full fledged smirk as she noticed all the body part prints on the glass.
As she turned to leave, something leaning against the bookshelves caught her eye. Those were not there last night. Two very large packages. She walked over with a hand extended, fingers ready to graze the paper, when she heard, “Go ahead, open them.”
Startled, she jumped back, clapped a hand over her heart and turned to find Jake. His grin outdoing the Cheshire Cat, he leaned against the door frame with a mug in each hand. She caught her breath as Jake sauntered over. He handed her a mug and pressed his lips to her forehead.
“These are your last gifts,” Jake said. She threw him a look as she walked back toward the packages. Perching her cup on a shelf, she dipped her fingers behind one of the folds and tore the wrapping. She couldn’t help but laugh as she caught sight of her own face staring at her.
Quickly, she tore through the paper to reveal framed prints of her draped naked across the hood of Jake’s vintage Mustang and him naked, holding his helmet and smirking. Their centerfolds.
“Where were you thinking we would hang these?” She gathered her coffee and stepped back beside Jake so they could view their photos together.
He shrugged. They looked at each other. “You’re the designer, and it’s your birthday, so you get to pick.”
“I’ll think about it.” They both smiled as she bounced onto her toes to give him a quick peck.
“One more thing,” he said as they parted. She waited for him to continue. “You can’t hang yours in the garage.” She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t want the neighbor boys trying to sneak a peek when the garage opens and closes.” She burst into laughter.
“I love you,” she replied. Jake feigned confusion as she kissed his cheek. Together, they sipped their coffees and chatted about where to hang the photos.
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💌 ⤻ft. THE CEO, THE CHEERLEADER, THE BASEBALL PLAYER, THE ACADEMIC RIVAL
—> how they look in the mirror.
⤻ no content warnings, basically. just how the yanderes look and their favourite feature of themself
notes: i felt a bit lazy this time and decided to make a small post, sorry yall.
🦋 ⤻ archives.
💌 ⤻ THE CEO, ADRIAN HOUDE.
Many articles have regarded him as the top bachelor, not just because of his money, but because of his looks. A handsome actor or celebrity is easy to come by, but a handsome CEO? It's a bit hard. Just look at all the rest of the CEOs alongside Adrian, who have bald heads.
Unlike them, Adrian has a full head of luscious blonde hair inherited from his grandmother. You know those hairstyles on 1950s men in those posters? Adrian's hairstyle is similar to that, if not just a slight bit more tousled.
His eyes are icy blue. With warmth only present in them when you're around. His eyes are hooded and sharp.
He's clean shaven with no stubble at all, and he wears a bit of makeup to hide the blemishes on his skin. Nothing is more attractive than a man who knows how to look presentable. He likes to wear a chapstick with just a hint of tint, just to make himself pop a bit more. He has a rather pale complexion. His jawline is sharp and strong, and his nose is straight with the base slightly upturned. His lips are slightly downturned, but his eyes are always smiling.
When it comes to smell, he probably wears a very stereotypical cologne of Tom Ford. However, there's always a hint of mint of him.
💌 ⤻ THE CHEERLEADER, KATIE WILLIAMS
Katie is the stereotypical pretty cheerleader, but it's not her looks that draws people in the most — though it certainly helps — is probably her ability to charm and manipulate anyone into doing her bidding.
Katie has really dark skin, and she wears it proudly. Her foundation and concealer is always dewy and bright as opposed to matte.
She loves makeup, looks like the 'cold girl' makeup, paired with some bold eyeshadow. Her eyes are double-lidded and are of a rounder shape with false lashes always on them. Sometimes, it's like she never takes them off. Some of her roommates in her sorority like to make funny rumours about it to tease her.
Her lips are plump, and, like a 2000s girlie, she loves wearing shiny lip gloss and lipstick. She doesn't overline her lips, though. They're big enough.
Her hair is naturally curly and she takes good care of it, like any other part of her appearance. She likes to wear her curly hair in space buns with little pom poms in her scrunchies. She really loves selling that cheerleader look as much as possible.
Her perfume is from Bath and body works, and she likes to experiment with it. She finishes most of her products every two months and will show up to class with a new perfume. Some of the girls in the school like to mirror her perfume too when she gets a new one. She's that popular!
💌 ⤻ THE BASEBALL PLAYER, JESPER HARGREAVES
Jesper is a brunette, and his hair is always tousled and fluffy. Even when it's wet, it has that bit of volume in it. He styles it everyday with a bit of gel but it always gets messy during practice. If you both are close enough in your relationship, he likes when you style it for him.
His skin is slightly tan from hours of playing in the sun but he makes sure to wear sunscreen, especially after finding out from videos that not wearing sunscreen can cause skin damage. He cringes everytime he remembers how he rejected sunscreen, deciding he was too 'macho' for it.
He has rather soft features for a guy. If he had a skinnier body, people would no doubt mistake him for a girl. He has soft rounded eyes with double eyelids, a cute button nose and heart-shaped lips and bushy eyebrows.
When it comes to scent, he's pretty basic about it. Just deodorant is fine with him. He's particular about sunscreen, but when it comes to shampoo and all, he's the type to use a 3-in-1.
💌 ⤻ THE ACADEMIC RIVAL, SEO MIN-JUN
Min-jun looks like your stereotypical Korean boy. Sure, he's basic, but he knows how to style well so he goes from average to god-like. He has permed his hair and gotten it a bit more fluffy and curly, the bangs swooped to the side to compliment his face shape.
His skin is pale and soft from all the skin care products and sunscreen he uses. He has a bit of a bigger nose and mono-lidded eyes — he's a bit insecure about these traits, give him compliments about it to make him feel better — but very pretty lips and a somewhat sharp jaw.
He has black eyes and black hair, but when he's alone, he likes to wear some contacts to play around with it. He does wear contacts on a daily basis though, but they don't add any colour, it's mainly to help with his eyesight because glasses give him a migraine and he can't find any shape that compliments his face well enough. Can you tell he's vain?
For scent, he probably wears a custom perfume made by some shop.
Summary: Your job? Pop culture journalist for The Independent. Your assignment? To write a profile on the cocky footballer that you're publicly feuding with.
Word Count: 3.2k
Warnings: Cussing. Enemies to lovers
A/N: Please let me know what you think! :D side note, this gif is my fave thing that Jamie does in the whole show, im obsessed.
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Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
With every newspaper that loudly hit, it was met with another jump from you, despite the fact that you knew they were coming. It had been a long morning, waking up early to catch the tube into the office, so you weren’t prepared for the loud noises this soon into the day, although you now knew more were to come. You stared at the headlines, reading each of them over and over again, as if you were trying to memorise them.
Tartt Seizes Mystery Girl’s Heart
Tartt Kiss: What We Know About The Footballer’s New Woman
Victory Celebration, Sealed With A Kiss
It was clear that the only reason the room was still silent was because a response from you was expected. You really didn’t know what there was to say. Scanning the words, you smacked your lips together before speaking.
“They’re not particularly clever.”
Your boss was whatever the exact opposite of enthused was, evident by his severe stare and the fact that he hadn’t sat down for a single second since you had entered his office.
“This funny to you?” He demanded, rotating his laptop to display an article that had your name and picture featured. An article you had already seen and gone through the 5 stages of grief over. “It’s funny that they know exactly who you are and why you were there?” You shrugged, a fire burning in your chest.
“They wouldn’t have known why I was there if you hadn’t posted the announcement of the profile without checking with me first.”
His round face was turning a bright purple, but you remained nonchalant. These meetings were so much easier for you to swallow when he made it so easy to argue. At the very least, it gave you the entertainment of seeing him so mad. This time, however, it felt different. You could feel it, and you know he did too. Leaning into his palms, which were pressed against the top of his desk, he towered over the newspapers. Despite the fact that there was still a decent amount of space between you and him, you still instinctively leaned away from him.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
You didn’t look at him.
“I’m thinking that it was a football match, and excitement was high, and I’ve been spending a lot of time with Jamie Tartt, and maybe he wasn’t thinking very clearly.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Although it definitely wasn’t entirely the truth, either. He began to nod as he grabbed his phone and began to type. A few seconds passed before he was sliding it across the desk to you.
“And what about that?”
Looking down, you saw the picture from Jamie’s instagram of you walking in his jersey, something you had totally forgotten about. A hot flash shot through you.
“I just borrowed some clothes. I walked to the stadium and it started raini-“ You stopped when your boss viciously waved you off.
“Don’t fucking disrespect me right now,” He said angrily, snatching his phone back. “Spotted wearing his clothes. Pictured exiting his car with him at the Charity Gala. What the fuck is the matter with you?” Your fingers were in your lap, pulling at each other. Even though you were telling the truth, there was no sense in continuing to defend yourself. His mind had been made up.
Within the hour of the match ending, you had received an email from your boss, telling you to come in for a meeting first thing in the morning. You took the tube in, which gave you plenty of time to settle your nerves. As much as you could, anyway.
Your boss began to yell about professionalism, and how you lacked it, while you thought of Jamie. No real conversation had occurred after The Kiss, as he got swept away by the team, and you found yourself being crowded by paparazzi and journalists as you tried to follow. It took two hours to go home, needing to take several detours to fend off the extra persistent ones. After that, you avoided your phone like the plague. It was blowing up with texts and calls from friends and relatives, asking if the pictures they were seeing were of you. Maybe there had been a text or two from Jamie as well, somewhere lost in the mix, but the fear of looking at your phone kept you from them. Instead, you had spent the night at home in solace, and worked on the article.
Your boss went silent for a while, pulling you from your thoughts. His fingers were white against the back of his chair, making you wonder when he moved there from the desk. Finally, he shook his head.
“I’m pulling you from the profile.”
Your spine straightened with the speed of a whip.
“You can’t do that,” You said in shock. He began to shake his head again, but you continued. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You did everything wrong,” He spat. “You couldn’t be fucking professional. Sleeping with the fucking person you’re writing on. Disgusting. I’ll email you when I decide who will take over, and you’ll send them your notes.” The urge to cry was creeping up your throat, but you swallowed it down.
“I won’t be sending anyone shit,” You told him in a firm voice. “I’ve been working on this for almost two weeks. Do you know how hard I worked to get Jamie to trust me? After everything I’ve said in the past?” At this, he laughed.
“Worked him real good, you did,” He said.
The comment felt like a strike to the face, and you leaned even further away from him. All you could see was red. You opened and closed your mouth a few times, his pleased smile only growing with each attempt to come up with something snarky or angry to say. A sort of acceptance washed over you as you knew what needed to be done.
“I fucking quit then.”
Now, the shock was on his face.
“You’re quitting over Jamie fucking Tartt?” He shouted as you rose from your seat. You contemplated this answer before looking at him again, your face blank.
“You’ve made me wish to quit over a lot less, if it makes you feel any better.”
The yelling immediately began to commence once more, but you were already closing the door behind you. It didn’t take long for you to empty out your desk, as you really didn’t bring a lot of personal items to work, and before you knew it, you were at the train station with a box of assorted belongings and a spot in the unemployment line.
The tube was mostly empty, just a few scattered people throughout the car. You took a spot in the back, setting the box in the space next to you while you sat against the window. As the train took off, you lost yourself in thought.
Where to go now? Over the years, you had yearned to move on from The Independent, much like Trent did, but had never bothered to try. Complacency and fear can really hold a person down. It was hard enough landing the job there, how hard would it be now to find a new one? Especially with the tainted reputation you now held? You absolutely couldn’t get any sort of reference from your old boss. Hell, he’d probably have you blacklisted from all major outlets before the day was out.
Looking at the empty seat that held your belongings, you were hit with deja vu.
You can lay on down if ya want. Grab a few winks.
His voice echoed through your mind, bouncing off the walls of the train car. Your head fell back against the seat. Your body ached at his absence. You missed him horribly, and were angry about the things you missed out on. That you didn’t spend the day laughing with him. That there were so many things left unsaid still. That you could still feel the ghost of his lips on your own.
You imagined him sitting next to you, and what he would say if he were there.
Fuck ‘em. You don’t need them. You’ll be alright, love.
Your heart lurched at the thought as you came back to reality, greeted by the sad, grey box that held your belongings. You closed your eyes. It wasn’t the same. It felt like nothing would be again.
But it had to be. Right?
Pulling out your phone, you went to call him to appease the yearning for his voice, but then froze. You didn’t want to call him. You wanted to see him.
You switched to another contact, typing and sending a message faster than your brain could process it. The response came quicker than expected, although you wouldn’t have been surprised if you hadn’t gotten one at all. A sigh fell from your lips as you stared out the window. Anxiety built in your belly, but you knew soon, it would all feel better. At least, you were hoping it would.
When you got off at your respective stop, you were determined as you rushed out. Your foot was on the first step to go up to the street when you paused. Turning, you ran to the first rubbish bin and threw the box on top. It didn’t quite fit, but you still left it. A few people gave you looks as you ran up the steps, some due to your strange behaviour, others because they recognized you from the pictures of you and Jamie in the press. You kept going.
You didn’t mean to run the whole way. But you did. Mostly due to the urgency you felt, but also partially because it was raining so hard that you felt like the streets would flood and carry you away. There was something cathartic about it. Maybe not to your heart, but to your mind. You slipped on the sidewalk a few blocks from the Underground station, almost falling straight into the cement had it not been for the lamppost next to you. It took a second to straighten up again, but once you were, you continued to run.
Within twenty minutes, you were walking down the residential street, rain continuing to pour. Your chest hurt from the running, as it wasn’t something you did with any sort of regularity. With every house you passed, you looked at the numbers on each one, searching for the one from the text. It was hard to see, with the rain and all, but you felt desperate enough, even going so far as to approach porches to properly read them.
It wasn’t the house number that alerted you to his house, however. It was his car, parked in the driveway. Your feet froze at the sight of it, remembering in vivid technicolor the rides you and him shared inside of it. The first one being under similar circumstances as you were in right now. The nerves were really building, as you stared the car and realised you were really at his house, and you wondered if you made a mistake. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to just return his calls? Instead of showing up, unannounced, in the pouring rain?
Am I stupid? You asked yourself. Am I actually insane?
But you still found yourself approaching the door, your feet moving as if they were being magnetically pulled forward. It was nice to finally be out of the rain. You thought of the box in the bin back at the tube station. Did someone else take the belongings for themselves? Or would it end up in the landfill? Not that it mattered now. It was filled with things you’d never need again.
You closed your eyes, thinking of the last two weeks. So much had happened. More than you ever would’ve predicted when you were given this assignment. And it all led to this moment, here, on Jamie’s porch, with you covered in rain water, heart full, and ready to share those feelings with him. After another brief moment to allow yourself to calm down, you lifted your hand and knocked one, two, three times on the door.
As the seconds passed, you felt your heart begin to race. Is he not home? Maybe he went out with the team? Or out to the shops? You knocked again, a little faster, more urgent this time. More time ticked by, and nothing happened. Tears sprang into your eyes. Was this a sign? You checked your phone, ignoring your growing inbox as you went to Jamie’s text thread. Nothing new. Stuffing the phone back in your pocket, you gave the door another sorrow filed look. Would another knock be enough?
No. Either he’s not home, or he doesn’t want to see you, you told yourself. It was that simple.
You all but ran back into the rain, your head down and your spirit crushed. The walk home wasn’t a far one, although you assumed that by how many times Jamie had walked over to your place. Over the sound of the drops hitting the sidewalk, you thought you heard the sound of footsteps, but that was confirmed when you heard someone yell your name from behind.
Jamie Tartt stood before you, already soaked from the storm. He looked a mixture of pleased and confused to see you. His hair was back in the usual headband, sporting a black hoodie and joggers.
“I was on the toilet,” He explained his delay, looking sheepish. You nodded, not caring for a single second what he had been doing. Just happy he was there now. Just you, him, the pouring rain and the bristling trees.
“They pulled me from the profile.”
His face fell immediately, and he took a step forward.
“Because of…?” He asked, trailing off. You nodded, causing him to pinch his chin between his fingers. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have… I’m so sorry.” You shook your head at him, waving your hands in the same rhythm.
“Did you mean it?” You asked him. “The kiss. Did you mean to do it?”
He looked conflicted, like this was a test. Maybe he feared that you were asking in hopes that you could answer to get the article back. Or maybe he was worried that you regretted it terribly and wished that he did.
“Yes.” It was so firm, so definitive. “I don’t regret it at all. I’d do it again. And again. And again.” You smiled widely, convinced that you’d never stop smiling again.
“I quit.”
The curtain of rain didn’t hide the absolute shock that filled his face. You nodded.
“My boss implied that I slept with you to get you to trust me,” You explained. A beat passed and you tilted your head. “Actually, he just flat out said I slept with you to get you to trust me. So I quit. And I took all of my notes with me. So they’ll have to do everything over.” He ran a hand through his wet hair, shaking his head.
“I’m-” He stopped, his eyes squeezed shut as everything processed. “You��”
“I quit my fucking job for you,” You said, speaking loudly but slowly, so that nothing could be uncertain. You took a step forward. “I was miserable. I didn’t want to accept that, but I was.” You laughed, remembering how it felt to hate going into work. It felt like a lifetime ago, considering how happy you had been these last two weeks. “Then I got to interview you, and I remembered why I love writing and journalism in the first place. I quit my job so I can fucking kiss you whenever I fucking want to and not worry about what my boss has to say, or what people who have read my past articles about you have to say. Because I was wrong about you. I know that now.” You shrugged. “And maybe I’ll never get to write another article again, but I’ll get to kiss you, which I think is a good trade off.”
A long time passed where he just stared at you, wide eyes and chest breathing heavy. Finally, after letting you sit in agony for a second too long, he took three quick strides towards you, pressing his hands to your cheeks and his lips were against yours once again. Your eyes closed instantly as you faded into the kiss. It was different this time, with more passion behind it, but the adrenaline that filled you was the same. You put one hand on the back of his head, curling your fingers in his hair, your other hand balling the front of his shirt in your fist.
When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead against yours. The rain was freezing against your skin, yet you were warm.
“It’s funny,” He mumbled to you. “I learned how to behave meself in public, and now you’re out of a job. You were right.” You immediately pulled your head away from his, staring at him with a look of disbelief.
“Are you choosing this moment to make fun of my unemployment?” You demanded, as he laughed. “This exact moment? Right now, you felt it would be the time? After I just said all that nice, romantic stuff to you?”
He kissed you again, and you could feel him smiling against your lips, his body shaking in silent laughter. You wished this moment would last forever. Just kissing in the rain while smiling and laughing in between. No other problems but getting too cold.
You broke the kiss this time, him leaning after you as if he wasn’t ready for it to end. A slight pout was on his lips, but he recovered quickly.
“How’d you get me address?”
“Got it from the highest bidder,” You said jokingly. He furrowed his eyebrows together, and you laughed. “I asked Roy.” His laugh seemed to fill the entire neighbourhood.
“He’d give me address to all the homeless men in London if he could, so I ain’t surprised,” He admitted. You scrunched up your face.
“I don’t like being compared to the homeless men in London.”
“No,” He said in agreement. “You’re much better.” Reaching forward, he brushed a chunk of wet hair back into place, his fingertips brushing against your forehead. His expression was tender. You were still in shock that this was happening at all.
You gave his lips another peck.
“If money were no object, what would be one thing you’d do?” He shook his head at you continuing your game.
“I’d spend the rest of me life with you.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
“You don’t need any money for that.”
His eyes were staring into yours, twinkling despite the lack of light.
“We’re gonna need money for a hospital visit if we don’t get inside,” He said, grabbing you by your damp sleeve and dragging you towards the door. It made sense. There wasn’t a single part of you that wasn’t wet, and Jamie looked about the same.
“Well, I don’t know if you knew, but I’m not gonna have money for anything coming up soon,” You told him. “So if I would have to just die at that point.”
“Don’t worry, love,” He said as he opened the door, gesturing for you to go inside. “I won’t let anything happen to ya. Not ever.”
He shut the door behind you, and for the first time, in what felt like a long time, you didn’t need that reassurance.
So... I might've dropped a few trauma bomb in my previous entries... but we won't further open those particular can of worms *smiles brightly while throwing the proverbial can at the traum-- ehem, garbage disposal*.
Anyways, this is my 5th entry to Humans Are Space Orcs! For today's human documentary, we're going to talk about what adult Terrans can and will do to you if you touch their young, family, close friends, pets, or special mementos given to them by a special someone (which doesn't have to be from a dead anybody or a romantic somebody). We all know people wouldn't hesitate to throw hands just to keep their people or stuff safe.
So, let's refer to my list, cuz it's easier to do lol. Again, I've used movies, series, podcasts, and a writer's angst-filled mind to type this. Should I warn the rest of you for further reading? I guess I should (I was so used to reading things without the warning that I'm sometimes confused of the TW tag on some stuff lol).
TW: Gore, violence, theoretical bodily harm even though I censored most of it, death, stabby people, bullying, the insanity train.
Kill the threat. Bit of an extreme one for the first thing to pop in my head, yes? But it is true. Wars were waged for lesser things. See this news article for one example: "Mom fatally shot home intruder to defend kids, she says". This one was published on August 18, 2022. In 2012, cuz I'm too lazy to search recent ones, there's another news articles featuring the same thing but focuses on a mother shooting an intruder to protect her 3-month-old baby. In 2015, an 11-year-old boy also shot an intruder trying to defend his 4-year-old sister from possible harm. I could go on and on about this but in countries where guns are not accessible, the next possible thing to use in defense would've been something sturdy and blunt or something extremely sharp. Actually, if we were in a time wherein tribes or kingdoms exist instead of cities, I can surely say that killing their young would definitely put you and your family in said people's sh*t list.
Fight the threat. Whether is be physically punching them on the face of the place where the sun doesn't shine, nobody cares as long as the deed of letting them know their place is done. Exhibit A that a lot of us know would be bullies ganging up on a younger sibling in school. We know that younger sibling are the proverbial pain in the *ss of older siblings. It's a love-hate relationship between them. But it's also an unsaid rule that only the older siblings can threaten or push around younger siblings. Anyone else touching them aside from the close family ties should be prepared to taste someone's fist. Or feet. Or the pavement. You get the gist of it. Though as long as the child in question can take care of the bullying on their own (which I did in my experience) then the parents or older sibling would gladly back off until the time they notice that things are going too far. Though, sadly, some kids prefer not to talk about their problems which leads to behavioral issues in the future, sorta trying to get attention from their elders but in a negative way.
Threaten the threat. I see this as the tamer version of protection actually lol. I don't know about other countries but in my country, the smart kids in school can threaten your life as a student. We have the usual bling-bling kids with the money and huzzah but they don't last long in the face of being a social pariah at school. They can throw money all they want but the smart kids wouldn't be threatened at all cuz they hold the key to higher GPA. Even the teachers complain about them nerds but action speaks loud and their compilation of evidence speaks louder lol. You'd be lucky if the nerd assigned to you has the patience of a saint cuz if not... well, I've had to stop fights from breaking out from simple arguments. Not just in school though. If you've got connection in higher places then that could also be a way to threaten someone (it does happen in real life so it isn't far-fetched). Though it is more effective to threaten the threat if you're in the same place as them. Another thing would be holding blackmail on said person (though that only works if they're not an immediate threat). If you have enough social influence, well, you can destroy their entire life without touching them even once.
Torture the threat. A friend says I'm too kind for ending their lives easily. Well, watching too many action and horror films prepared me for this part lol. I don't know which one would be done but interrogators have done the worst to get information from their victim. Too gory for this though and I don't know how many kids or emotional teens are in here so I have to censor a ton of the juicy details. Let's say it would be a bit similar to Saw, Jigsaw, and war interrogations. Chemicals, acids, peeled skin, salt, knives, and hammers might also be in place. Just know that it would be a bloody, unforgiving event that would take place in that particular room with that unfortunate victim.
Play the long game. Another said killing them quickly was... well... too quick XD. This one centers heavily on having money and patience. Know who the threat is, where they live, who they interact with, and what makes them tick. For this to work, you need to give up who you were before and settle on anonymity. This is... a bit more drastic than torture but works well if you have too much hate in your chest or the deed done was something you can never forgive. It's more on watching them physically suffer with their injury or doing the threatening on their family (gets messy very fast), but since this threat had amassed A LOT of enemies, they won't exactly know who did the evil deed on them. Shoot them on their legs, feet, and shoulder. Their spine if you're a good shot and know where to hit. Places that aren't close to their vital organs but would render them disabled. You'll let them live, but it will be a life of pain and agony.
Talk to the threat. The most peaceful type and probably the most boring out of this chaotic list > v <. This should be the first thing we do and not escalate to violence if some of us can help it. Again, your patience and wit will be tested here. If your threat is minor (like another child), then talking to their guardian would help with keeping the problem from going through a rollercoaster ride. Sometimes that doesn't work and the problem turns into an adult fight.
In summary, you have 2 kinds of Terrans. One would shoot before asking; the other would talk before shooting. Which is why you should never step on this particular deathworld if you were thinking about making Terran slaves or using our young in experimentation. We haven't given chase on aliens yet. Don't make yourselves the first intergalactic specie the Terrans would obliterate.
Meanwhile in a fast approaching spacecraft...
This alien reading this How To Deal With Terrans manual : Why did we want to go to this deathworld again?
Another alien turning yellow from anxiety : To befriend them and learn about the resident Terrans?
Yet another alien wilting as they feel faint from the information : Oh, thank the stars we won't be terrorizing them.
The alien commander whose frills are flaring in alarm as they read through the unredacted version of the manual : They will torture and skin us for taking their young and their pets?!
This particular scientist whose skins are changing colors in excitement : See? I told you their famous quote of "If predator not friend, why friend shape?" also applies to them!
TLDR; Cast&Crew; Rhys; Samba BTS; Con O'Neill; New Watch Parties: NextGoalWins; Watch Party Reminders; A Safe Space Ship; Hoff The Beaten Path Drama; Florida SuperCon;
Wow yall, I actually have to do a 2 parter today for all the crap that happened. Just. WOW.
= Cast & Crew Sightings =
= Rhys Darby =
Rhys' IG blew up today with all sorts of photos. This was after Samba BTS dumped on us earlier in the day, because apparently our fragile brains needed to explode.
Just to add to the excitement of the day, there were 2 cameos added.
Regarding Short Poppies - On Cameo - IG link = tysm @lividturkeys and Short Poppies Crew! for the video!
Regarding Rhys' Cats! - On Twitter / GD = tysm @elphia_3 for this vid!
Oh look, Rhys is trending on twitter, I wonder why?!
= Samba Schutte BTS =
Everybody say thank you Samba because HE SERIOUSLY DELIVERED today and this time it's featuring Taika!!!!
Thank goodness for all the folks bringing over videos to tumblr because there were a lot today. Pictures first, video links below.
Src: Samba's Instagram
Wanna see all the stills on Tumblr? See @londonspirit's post here.
Some background pictures of the videos produced some VERY INTERESTING research material.
Tumblr Video Links:
Rhys In the Rain - @bizarrelittlemew
The Underwater BTS - @blakbonnet
Taika Pan Up / David Give Them What They Want - @ blakbonnet
Archie Barrel Lifts / Cast In the Rain - @rhysdarbinizedarby
Getting Into the Water - @ rhysdarbinizedarby
Rhys' IG Story About the Sandwich - @ rhysdarbinizedarby
David Fane Veil - @ rhysdarbinizedarby
Taika Running Into Rhys' Arms - @ rhysdarbinizedarby
= Con O'Neill =
Con O'Neill left a really wonderful thanks today, and special shoutout to @ringasunn and all the folks who contributed to his Con O' Neill Love Project!
Src: Con's IG
If you missed the love projects or want to see part 4, here's the links to the Instagram videos:
Love Project: Part 1
Love Project: Part 2
Love Project: Part 3
Love Project: Part 4
== New Watch Parties! ==
Wanna check out NextGoalWins? It's available on Hulu/Disney+
Watch Party: Feb 25, 2 pm PST, 5 pm EST, 10pm GMT
Watch Party HashTags:
#OurFlagWins
#AdoptOurCrew
#SaveOFMD
= Feb 16: Ongoing Watch Parties =
People of Earth S1 is still going strong!
Episode 9&10 tomorrow Feb 16, at 4PM CST/ 10PM GMT
Replay of episodes 1-10 Saturday Feb 17, 8 AM CST /2 PM GMT
Need access? Contact @iamadequate1!
== Uncle Season 1 Watch Party ==
Episodes 4 5 6 tomorrow Fri 16th Feb! GMT - 8 PM / ET 3PM / PST - 12 PM and as always those outside the UK: VPN Article
== A Safe Space Ship Meetup! ==
Remember the in-person A Safe Space Ship event in San Diego CA on the 11th? A bunch of the crew got together and got some fantastic pictures at the Maritime Museum of San Diego! Check it out!
Src: Fangirlfoto IG
== Hoff The Beaten Track Drama ==
Apparently some studios didn't pay their bills so there's some drama going on with Rhys' show Hoff The Beaten Track. If you wanna read the article without a paywall visit: No Paywall / Paywall
== Florida Super Con ==
Who wants some Revenge? 🏴☠️ Welcome aboard the stars of Our Flag Means Death, Vico Ortiz and Samba Schutte to Supercon! Join these pirates July 13 and 14 for a weekend full of Autographs, Photo Ops, and a cast panel.
Buy tickets now or walk the plank: Supercon24.com/BuyTickets
Photo Op and Autograph onsale dates will be shared soon.
Src: Florida Super Con IG
So I’ve seen people claim that shi/hir pronouns are intersex exclusive (mostly intersex people), and others say they aren’t (mostly non-intersex people)
As an intersex person, I've been confused about this for a while, so I decided to look into it
THIS POST WILL CONTAIN NSFW TOPICS, FURRIES, TALKS OF FETISHIZATION OF INTERSEX BODIES, AND INTERSEX SLURS!
Most of the users of these pronouns seem to be non-intersex people, but there are also intersex people who use them.
I've seen a decent amount of intersex people say that shi/hir pronouns are only ours to use, as they were used against us (like a shortened version of he-she). This would make them basically slurs that only we can reclaim.
I've even seen some claims that Geoffrey Chaucer himself coined these words?? (The chaucer thing, I haven't been able to find a source for. Even so, it is most likely just an old spelling of "she/her")
I’ve seen people say it originated on 4chan. It'd be hard to verify, as 4chan is known for not keeping threads up for long. There are 4chan archives, but I've tried my hardest to look for any combinations of things like "shi" and different terms that could work with it like "intersex" "freak" or "hermaphrodite" . I don't doubt it's been used on 4chan, but I can't find much, and archival sites don't go back far enough.
Regardless, the pronouns seem quite old. One thing I did find under the search of ""4chan" shi hir" on Google, was a.. descriptive post on a furry porn website called e621.net
Okay, 13 years ago, that's a start. It certainly contains the word "herm" (short for hermaphrodite), and the word intersex used with this pronoun.
Godspeed TheShadowfox42 I hope you found the image.
Using Google's "Before:(date)" feature, I searched "shi herm before:2010", and unsurprisingly, I found a lot of furry porn.
Stories on sofurry.com, a furry website that looks to be from at least 2007, if not older. I'll spare you the details, but indeed, there, they use shi/hir pronouns for their "herm" characters. Did these pronouns originate from.. furries?? I put that though aside for now, to look further into other uses.
As it turns out, the journey does not end at 2007. Urban dictionary has an entry from 2003
No slurs here, it looks like a neutral usage. Again, going back to Google. Now, search terms "hir "gender neutral" before:2004"
Many results show up now, now articles rather than furries. American.edu (seems to be a university), Swarthmore.edu (this is a college), both from 2001. jstor.org with a journal article from 1999. Unfortunately I can't read that one, as I have to pay a whole $63 to purchase it. I even found a PDF file from 1994 by core.ac.uk
But, what I've realized now is this is not usage of shi/hir pronouns. All of these use Ze/hir pronouns. I don't know if there is any link, but the last pronoun looking the same must've obscured the results.
From the american.edu article on these pronouns. You can see the usage of "hir" alongside "ze", and below it, the usage of ze/zir pronouns, which seem to be used more today.
Shit.. Doing the search all over again with the pronoun "shi" yields.. very few results apart from people talking about Chinese words.
Wait what about those furries from earlier? The tvtropes.org article does include this:
Chakona space? Chakats? Pronouns he came up with? Admittedly I kept seeing these centaur feline hybrid characters come up quite consistently during this dive, but I had to look into it further.
Oh buddy what did I get myself into. This is from 2001 best I can tell, so we're getting quite old here. I scroll down on the page.
And lower down.
Now this is all very interesting speculative biology, but what I'm focusing on is again, the usage of "hermaphrodite" together with the pronouns "shi/hir". Did a furry artist named Bernard Doove come up with these pronouns.
It gets yet older.. New search, "chakats "shi" before:2001"
Again, Bernard Doove's art from 2000, 1999, 1998,
I find a website called yerf.metafur.org
It has furry art, dating all the way back to the mid 1990's, but here, on December 23 1998, is the first appearance of these pronouns on that site.
This Bernard Doove person has been at this project, with these pronouns for a while.
From what I can tell, many of his art pieces, they seem to be quite sexual beings. Quite fetishistic of hermaphroditism at times. (or intersexuality, take your pick)
The other thing I found with my search was a website, furry.org.au/bosshoss/
My search says it's from September 14 1998.
That's certainly some information, but it might come in handy. So Chakat Goldfur provided this website? Who is that? Looking into it, that seems to be a character created by Bernard Doove, that acts as an alter ego. Further down, the person running this website lists some other websites they enjoy. One being "Proxima Centauri", which seems to be another furry artist.
"I met this one at ConFURence 8. Very interesting. (Did I mention shi is a hermaphrodite uni-centaur?)"
(For context, ConFURence is a furry convention held in 1997)
Again, the usage of hermaphrodite, and the pronoun shi. At this point, the website being linked to is long gone, but the wayback machine provides help. The website, http://www.spots.ab.ca/~unicorn/main.htm has been captured all the way back to October 8th 1997.
At this time, the website was under construction. No images are willing to load and haven't been archived, but the description is intact.
So this person uses shi/hir pronouns for their hermaphroditic character all the way back in 1997. There are links to other places where this person used to host their works, but they are all down and haven't been archived. The thread is running thin..
Back to Bernard Doove, the Chakat creator. There must be something more to this. Turns out, there was. On the "yerf" website, I actually found several art pieces that were not picked up by Google.
Febuary 22 1997. Getting yet older. In some art pieces, Bernard references "Forest Tale" and "forest tales", so I went looking for whatever that was.
1995?? you've got to be kidding. It's an adult story involving these "chakat" beings, and sure enough, down the page
Shi/hir pronouns used over and over again.
With the use of hermaphrodite.
But.. This is kind of where it ends. I couldn't seem to find anything older, and I'm not going to contact Bernard Doove over this. Even something as old as 29 years is impressive to me. Bernard Doove states his characters were inspired by other furry artists' creatures of the time, but since it's 1995, there isn't much left for me to find here. Anything before that time is probably lost.
With all the information I have been able to gather, it looks to shi/hir pronouns were created by Bernard Doove who is a furry author and artist. Shi/hir were made to be a midway between "she" and "him" in some way, to be a gender neutral word for hermaphroditic genetically modified beings called "chakats" in his stories. As an intersex person myself, I don't enjoy the use of "hermaphrodite" in such a way, as it's a slur for us. But these types of characters also seem to be very old, and we, and our struggles, were completely unknown to the vast majority of people, even moreso than nowadays.
If you use those pronouns for an intersex person who doesn't use them, it is indeed intersexist, as you are implying we are hermaphrodites.
But as for whether only intersex people can use them? I'm not sure. The original intent doesn't seem be directly linked to intersex people. You could argue that these hermaphroditic characters are fetishized versions of how many people see us, and have seen us for a long time. Afterall, hermaphrodite was, and still is, a common slur for us.
I don't doubt some people have used these pronouns as slurs against us as well, but I also haven't found anything specifically that supports that. It always seemed to be for specific fictional characters that COULD be based off specific intersex attributes
I'm not going to argue one way or the other. This was just me trying to find what I could about these pronouns and their history. Just be mindful of how you use these pronouns, and the connections they have to fetishes revolving around the common misinterpretation of intersex bodies (as in, "having both parts")
Thank you for reading.
I hope you learned something. I know I did, and I now have a headache.
Every now and then, teachers have to remind their students that they’re not allowed to let their family’s Space Marine help them with their science or art projects. For the art projects, it’s mainly to be fair to other students. For science projects it was due to safety concerns after a few incidents across the world. Occasionally a news article would pop up featuring the result of a Space Marine trying to help a kid get an A.
part 4/? part one, part two, part three, part four, part five
warnings: not edited
a/n: comment and reblog :) feedback is much appreciated!
______________________________________________
The cold corners, minimal furniture and stark white paint of Lando’s flat are the exact opposite of the bubbly boy that stands in front of you.
“Sooooo?” He drags out the word while bouncing on the balls of his feet. You’re standing in the kitchen, the ocean infront of you, cooking space behind you and his large flat spanning further to the right.
“It’s completely lovely, it’s just not as you as I thought it would be.”
“Were you expecting a university frat boys place?” He tosses a smirk in your direction.
His response pulls a smile to your face. “I was expecting some art on the walls, maybe some of your merch lying around.”
“There’s merch in a closet somewhere,” he chuckles, “a lot of it.”
His voices softens into a curious tone. “As for the art, it’s complicated, but sometimes it feels easier to-, it’s almost-, I feel like-,”
“Like if you personalize it then it feels like home, and when it feels like home it be becomes that much more impossible to be away so much.” You finish his thought for him.
“Exactly.” A shared look of understanding flashes from your face to his. The sport may be different but you share a similar lifestyle.
Tapping your nails on the quartz counter to end the weighted silence, you seat yourself on one of the barstools placed beneath the kitchen island.
“I cooked last time.” You explain after he makes no effort to move.
Hesitantly he begins to pull utensils from shelves, looking severely out of place even in his own kitchen. There’s very little food in the large fridge, and less than 30 seconds into watching him try to slice a cucumber you decide to take over. His cuts are uneven, messy, and his fingers seem at high risk.
“You don’t cook much do you.”
“You’re judging! No judging!” He whines and laughs, rubbing his hands over his face.
You join him behind the counter as you regain the same easy dance of cooking and conversation as in Australia. You learn that he always has chicken and salad before race day, he’s always wanted a kitten and you pick up on his habit of wringing his hands when he’s nervous or excited. By the time you finish cooking, you know more about him than you ever thought possible.
~~
Lando takes a running leap onto the couch like an overexcited puppy.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down that hallway to the right.” He points with a nod. Humming a thanks, you walk down the hallway he directed. The bathroom, not unlike the rest of the house, is almost completely white with only small silver features. The counter is scattered with what you assume to be an assortment of Lando’s colognes.
You wander back into the living room to find Landos eyebrows scrunched and a twinkling light of amusement in his eyes as he looks down, features accentuated by the glow of a screen . The edges of your lips turn up in a slow smile at his childlike expression before you recognize the phone case as yours. Your heart skips a beat in advance of dropping into your suddenly cold stomach.
Only after he raises his head to look at you do you realize you’ve been standing at the hallway entrance for long seconds.
“Care to explain?” He twerks an eyebrow upwards and nods at your phone. Your rapidly beating heart doesn’t slow as you amble your way over to sit next to him on the couch, overly nervous for no exact reason.
When he flips the phone around to let you analyze the screen, The Notification Centre is overflowing with alerts. The first three pop ups that catch your eye are all courtesy of the F1 app. News Headlines and reports from qualifying sided with little pictures span the screen.
“I don’t see what you find so entertaining. I never read those articles anyway.”
“Sometimes I do,” Lando ventures with a roll of his shoulders, “to know what people are mad at me for. That’s not what I was talking about though.”
You meet his ocean blue orbs as his deep pink lips stretch into a grin. what would it feel like to have them on your-
“You have my Instagram notifications on.” He stated proudly.
You lash out to snatch your phone from his grip, swiping to clear everything from your Lock Screen.
Pointing your nose upwards dramatically, you reply with a sarcastic flourish. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lando just hums a sunshiney tune under his breath and stares at you with a bright smile, like you just solved global hunger.
“I’m going to find a movie now and you’re going to braid my hair.” You salute him behind his back as he moves to let you begin to braid.
“How does the little mermaid sound?”
“Amazing.” You giggle at his choice.
Not 20 minutes into the movie, you feel Landos now braid-adorned head drop onto your shoulder. You expect to see him grinning cheekily up at you but when you look down his eyes are closed, and he’s taking little soft breaths. 99.9 percent of you wants to shake him until he wakes up but with his race tomorrow you decided you can let him get some sleep.
You focus on the movie, but feeling your phone vibrating in your pocket breaks your concentration. You see four messages from Charles and cross your fingers he doesn’t somehow know you’re at Landos as you unlock your phone.
You know Lando is awake again when you feel tingling breaths on your neck as he peeks over you shoulder to look at your phone. Even though the texts are all written in French, it isn’t hard to translate the angry meaning of the emojis and multiple uses of Landos name. You can see him frown in the reflection of your phone and his mouth twitches as if he can’t decide what to say.
“He’s going to hate me forever.” You complain.
“He will never hate you. He just needs to get the fact that you’re not only his anymore through his thick head.” Lando wiggles further back into the couch. “He will, on the other hand, hate me forever, which might cause some problems for my PR team.”
A breathy laugh escapes your mouth as you tip your head back to meet the couch cushion.
“I don’t think I was his in the first place.” You scold Lando with a sarcastic undertone that he doesn’t seem to catch seeing how quickly he sits up to look at you.
“I didn’t mean it like that of course you weren’t his, you’re nobody’s I just mean,” his rambling pauses thoughtfully, “I think he kept you a secret for more reasons then he told you.”
You roll your eyes. “What are you talking about Lando?”
“I mean look at you. You’re absolutely gorgeous,body and soul. And you’re brilliant, and hilarious and independent, and I think you care a lot more than you let on. Charles knew that anyone who met you would never want to leave you alone, meaning he would lose more of you. So he kept you to himself.”
Looking down at his lap, Landos flushed a deep rose colour that blooms from his neck to the tips of his ears. You can feel your face prickling with heat alike his. Those were not words that were exchanged by “just friends”. Your breaths sync as the room goes completely silent around you.
“Thank you, Lando. That was beautiful. No one has said anything like that about me in a very, very long time,” you whisper, as his forehead swims closer and closer to yours in the thick air that filled the room as he spoke.
“It’s true.”
“Lando.” You meant it as a warning but it comes out as more of a gentle whimper as you look up through your lashes to see his eyes, sapphire swirled with pastel teal and flecks of powder blue all in one.
You watch his Addams apple bobs as he swallows and pulls away.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
You both return to watching the movie but the colors blur together and a grainy glaze slides over your eyes. The feeling of Lando being so close to you has a hazy veil over you. You’re still close enough you can feel his soft hoodie brushing against your arm.
“I should probably go soon. I have a really early flight tomorrow.”
“You could sleep here.”
He suggests it so easily, like you’d slept over at his place time and time again.
“Lando, I barely know you and you barley know me.”
“I’d like to though.”
A hopeful smile makes your eyes crinkle as you look at him and Lando, who returns it, extends his legs to lie down on the couch. When he catches your pursed lips and the skepticism that roles off you in waves, he sighs.
“One hour. It’s not that late and I’ll drive you back after.”
“Lando, I'm not good with things like this. I’ve always been someone who’s better alone. I didn’t have many friends growing up and track never helped with that much. And over time, I realized it’s better that way!”
“Because you won’t get hurt?”
“If you love someone or something, you’re giving them the ability to hurt you. I love sprinting with my entire soul, so that already one thing,” you shrug, “it’s just easier.”
“I get that. I truly do. But what I’ve learned is that if you don’t take the risk you could miss out on loving something that could make you happy.”
He catches your eyes and you can’t tear your gaze away from the jewels of his eyes.
“Just an hour?” His dimples show as he gives you an endearing smile.
~~~
You can feel bright sunlight on your eyelids and a warm entity encircling your body in a way that feels comfy and safe. The light only seems to grow until you inwardly moan and flip around in a fruitless attempt to escape the suns beams. Disoriented and tired, you split your eyes open the tiniest bit to allow the world to fade into view.
The sun directly in your face once again, you shift again. A low groan rings from behind you and your memory returns in one fast SnapBack to reality.
“Shit!”
the comforting warm blanket Lando groans again as you try to sit up. His hand is wrapped low and tight around your waist which must of happened sometime during the night.
The night you weren’t supposed to spend at his house in the first place.
You hiss at him. “Lando! I have a flight this morning!”
He makes a noise of protest but releases his grip on you.
You scramble around, swearing in multiple languages while trying to find your phone. Lando watches you, still not half awake, from the couch. When you find your phone face down on the floor, you turn it on to nine missed notifications from Charles and a clock reading 5:30 am.
Heaving a sigh of partial relief you sit up straight and immediately notice the kinks in your back. You were going to pay for yesterday in more ways than one.
“I still have two hours before I have to leave for the airport.” You state to no one in particular, your brain working a thousand miles a minute.
“So things aren’t as bad as they seem. I’m still fucked mind you, just not as deeply. All my stuff is at my hotel still. Oh my-“ you pull at your hair as blood rushes to your head when you stand up.
Lando pats the spot you were lying in only moments earlier.
“Shit is going to get fucked either way Y/N. come back to bed.”
“Lando!”
“Just for 3 minutes? I’ll drive you to the airport after?”
“Lando!!”
~~~~
After running around like a chicken with its head cut off, you make it to the airport seven minutes earlier then you wanted to. As you pull the luggage out of the boot of Landos car, you can see him fiddling with his hands again, pulling his rings on and off.
Peeking his head over the dark tinted windows, he meets your eyes.
“Thank you for having me for dinner. Even if you did trick me into spending the night at your place.”
“Best sleep I’ve had in a while.” He smirks.
“Goodbye.”
“Not goodbye.”
You raise an arched eyebrow at him.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“You seem sure of that Mr. Norris.”
“I am.” He turns on his car and begins to inch away
You call after the slowly moving car. “Oh and Lando? Good luck tomorrow!”
The morning sun glints off the top of his dark McLaren, the brake lights blinking red as he slows to peek his messy morning curls out the window.
Twin Single and Multimuse Blog Carrds with an old newspaper theme! BREAKING NEWS is the single muse one and HEAR ALL ABOUT IT is the multi muse!
FEATURES: A beautiful newspaper based layout with lots of space to give additional details about characters! The single muse one has an expanded bio and the multi muse one has a more grid like one. Also includes a verses page, a connections page, a rules page, and a front page that you can have articles that you write for your characters! If you need any help with editing this to fit your vision please dm me on here and I will do what I can to help!
TERMS OF USE: Like or Reblog if you plan to use it! You are welcome to edit to your hearts content but regardless of how much change you make do NOT remove my credit from the carrd! Do NOT use this to promote hate or illegal content! (this includes call-out carrds and burn-books)
Fanfic: In khaki and nothing more (Bob Floyd x Reader)
Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd x F!Reader (Top Gun: Maverick)
Summary: An outtake based on the bonus scene from “Of gym buddies and overlapping schedules”. In front of everyone else, Bob tends to be quiet and easily flustered. Behind closed doors, he’s anything but… especially when he sees you wearing his clothes.
A/N: I always had a head canon that Bob could be the opposite of shy in bed, given the right circumstances. Thus, this little thing was born.
This is legitimately my first attempt at smut, so releasing this to the world is making me extremely extremely anxious.
Warnings: Smut, 18+ only, MINORS DNI
Word Count: 2.0k
TOP GUN: MAVERICK MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST
From “Of gym buddies and overlapping schedules” (Best to read that first!)
You handed him his khaki uniform button-up, neatly folded, making sure everyone else knew exactly what it was. “You left in quite a rush this morning, and you forgot this.”
Bob’s cheeks instantly turned pink, and you were certain he was recalling the exact reason why he hadn’t taken his uniform with him in the morning. You had woken up in the middle of the night and, not wanting to go nude into the bathroom, you grabbed the first article of clothing within reach. It just so happened to be his uniform. He must have woken up as well while you were in the bathroom: when he caught sight of you in nothing but his uniform button-up, an intense, almost hungry, look graced his features. Suffice it to say, the two of you lost about another hour or so of rest, and you had fallen asleep after that in blissful exhaustion while still wearing it.
Everyone in the vicinity were shell-shocked, even the others like Lts. Fitch, Garcia, and Machado who joined in on the commotion. Except perhaps for Rooster, as he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying what he was witnessing. Bob himself was quite stunned to silence, and you marveled in how flustered he is now when he was anything but that last night.
Upon returning from the bathroom, it was only then that you noticed how truly messy the state of your room was: clothing and underwear littered across the space, shoes frantically kicked off, and a chair near the door even fell to the floor. As quietly as possible, you picked up everything one by one, neatly folding and organizing them by the foot of the bed.
“Hey,” came a groggy voice.
You whipped around in surprise and found Bob smiling sleepily at you. The sheets were until his chest and his normally immaculate hair was mussed from sleep and the previous night’s activities.
“Oh no!” you whispered apologetically. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“That’s okay,” he said, reaching over to the nightstand for his glasses. “What are you doing up?”
“I was just fixing up. Can you believe that we even toppled over that chair?”
He began to chuckle, but as his vision cleared up with his glasses, the laughter died in his throat. He regarded you with an intense look, eyes traveling from head to toe. He called your name gruffly.
“Bob?”
“What are you wearing?”
You looked down and realized that you had Bob’s khaki uniform on. You had grabbed the first article of clothing you found on the way to the bathroom earlier, and didn’t even bother buttoning it up. And that was all that you were wearing.
“Shit. I’m sorry! I just picked up whatever was closest. I didn’t mean to wrinkle it or anything—”
“Y/N…”
“I’ll iron it and it can be good as new by the morning—”
“Y/N—”
“I’m pretty sure it’s still clean and unstained. Gosh, I’m so—”
“Y/N!”
You stopped and looked at him apologetically, wringing your hands with uncertainty. Whatever it is you and Bob started was still pretty new and you did not want to risk ruining it over something small like this. You weren’t sure if he was particular about his clothing and appearance, but since you rarely saw a hair out of place with him, you could only assume so. Gosh, you’re such an idiot, you reprimanded yourself.
“Come here.”
His tone was… different, to say the least. Your brain couldn’t really process the change in his voice, but your body recognized it for what it was: a command. Bob was now seated with his back against the headboard, the sheet now covering only until his waist, his chest bared. The same look was still on his boyish features: if you were to find one word to describe it, it might just be… hungry. It sent a shiver down your spine.
Once you crossed over to his side of the bed, he reached out his hand. Your brain was still trying to keep up with what was happening, yet everything else seemed to just respond naturally to what he was doing. He guided you to straddle him and your arms fell onto his shoulders. You could feel him, soft and solid beneath you, only a sheet acting as a barrier.
His hands traveled from your thighs, tickling at your sides into the skin beneath the open uniform. He laid his palms flat against your back and pulled you flush against him.
An involuntary whine escaped your lips. “Bob…”
He nuzzled at your neck and nipped at the skin above the collar. “You look good in my uniform, baby.”
This was a version of a Bob you haven’t seen. You were having difficulty reconciling what you’re experiencing now to how you’ve gotten to know the quiet pilot, and even to how he was during your first time together a couple of hours ago. Then, he was absolutely attentive and eager to please. That Bob was loving and giving.
This Bob… If the wetness gathering at your core was any indication of how you felt, you weren’t sure what was.
Your body really was acting on its own accord and a part of you felt like you should be embarrassed. But you were just too focused on what Bob was doing and how he was making you feel. His lips traveled up the column of your neck, ending with a soft bite to your earlobe. In no time, he had you moaning and grinding against him.
Rough palms slid from your back and down to your thighs, but he stopped just shy of the apex. You let out another noise, almost pained and complaining. Bob pulled away slightly and he looked at you questioningly. Brow raised and a smirk on his face. It was a look you haven’t seen on him; it radiated confidence and boldness. You’re quite sure it caused you to gush a little more.
“Tell me what you want.”
Words were failing you and you could only whimper his name. “Bob, please…”
“Please, what, baby?”
“Touch me.”
You were rewarded with a bruising kiss, making you gasp against his lips. It was nothing like the kisses you were accustomed to sharing with him: it was urgent and raw. It was like his lips were chasing something that only you could provide. The grip he had on your thigh tightened briefly, then his hand made its ascent, slowly heading to the point you craved. The brief contact of his fingers against your folds was enough to make your breath hitch.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he breathed. He slid his fingers up and down your slit, coating it in your slick. You could practically hear how wet you were, as he went back up to your sensitive bundle of nerves. For every slow and deliberate circle he made to your clit, a gasp escaped you. “And I thought I had it bad seeing you in my uniform.”
The evidence was begging for it to be seen, rigid and erect beneath the sheets. It felt deliciously hard underneath you, and it made you rub yourself against him. It was Bob’s turn to groan. He gripped your hips in an attempt to stop you, but you were having none of it. “If you keep this up, this isn’t going to last very long.”
You giggled and did it again, eliciting another groan from him. Getting on your knees, you tugged the sheet down and he sprang free. It was thick and pulsing and it made your mouth water. Just as you were about to wrap your hands around his shaft, his wrist stopped yours. In one swift motion, he flipped you both and had you pinned to the bed. His face was inches from yours and the cold metal of his dog tags were brushing the valley between your breasts. He smiled wickedly at you, then captured your lips again in his own.
What this man was doing to you was absolutely mind-blowing. When you went on your first date, you had no idea that this was hiding beneath that kind bespectacled face. Now that you’ve had a taste of it, you were sure that it will be a craving that you will forever have. A craving that only he can satisfy.
Your back arched, pressing your chest against his, as the kiss deepened. Bob slowly dragged one hand along your side and down to the crook of your knee, hiking it up to his hip. At this point, the space between you was almost non-existent. You could feel the warm tip of his cock brushing against your warm center, making you moan into the kiss.
He released your lips, but his own never left your heated skin, traveling from your jaw to your neck. “Let’s make sure you’re ready for me,” he murmured into your skin.
His hand found its way back to your core, rubbing your lips with the wetness gathered there. Slowly and methodically, he plunged his digits into you; one first, testing the waters, then a second one, stretching you more. You were nothing but a whimpering mess already.
“Bob, please…”
At the sound of that, he removed his fingers, just as the tension was reaching the peak. You groaned in frustration, throwing your head back into the pillow. Then, the man had the audacity to laugh at you.
“Just a little patience, baby,” he said, with a smirk that you’re coming to love on his boyish features.
“Bob, I swear to god—” But he silenced you with a kiss. He made quick work of the condom and he was positioned above you in no time.
“Ready?” Teasingly, he lined himself up to your slit, only barely entering, but not completely. He absolutely knew what he’s doing to you, and the look on his face was telling you that he was enjoying it.
“Please,” was all you could get out.
Slowly, he pushed into, inch by inch. The stretch is deliciously incredible, making you involuntarily clench around him. The sound that escaped your lips was a mix of a gasp and a moan. He grabbed your leg again, hitching it against his hip, and filled you to the hilt in one thrust. The position of one of your legs wrapped around him made his cock reach a different angle, making you feel thoroughly full with nothing but him.
For a moment, both of you stayed this way, breathing heavily like you had run a marathon. His forehead was resting against yours, eyes closed shut. You could feel him throb inside you and it was so so good.
Your hands traveled from his shoulders, where you had previously been grasping onto him for dear life, to either side of his face. “Bob,” you whispered. His eyes flew open, pupils dilated with lust. “Fuck me.”
It was like a switch. Bob moved immediately, drawing back until only his tip was inside, then roughly sinking back in one strong fluid thrust. Both your legs were now around his waist, giving him more leverage for his thrusts. He was relentless in his movements. He kept his face buried in your neck and he was chanting your name into your heated skin.
The sound of your skin slapping against his spurred you further towards your release. He probably could feel it too, with his increased pace. You could no longer control the noise coming out of your lips: he had you crying out with every hard thrust.
“I can feel you’re close, baby.” His hand moved towards where the two of you were joined. His fingers found your clit again, flicking it and aiding your release. “Just a little more.”
It was unbearable, in the best way possible. With another push into you, you fall apart.
He followed not too far behind. Bob picked up the pace, chasing his own release. You met his every thrust, clenching around him as you could feel him solid and pulsing inside you. It was your turn to murmur into his ear, praising him and urging him to keep going.
In one final jerk of his hips, he shuddered and let out a grunt as he came apart.
He collapsed, most of his weight on you. Beyond carefully sliding out of you, he made no move to get up. Both of you were gasping for air. Silence enveloped you, and only the sound of your labored breathing filled the room. You felt utterly satiated, and honestly still surprised about what just happened. This was not something you had on the cards when you started dating him.
As if sensing your thoughts, Bob swiftly gets up on his elbows, a look of worry and concern on his face. “Shit.”
“What?”
“Oh, god—”
“Bob?”
He softly holds your cheeks. “W-was that too much?”
The absurdity of his question and timing made you choke out a laugh. Now, this was the Bob you had gotten to know over the last few weeks. At the sound of your laughter, his brow furrowed even further. You tried, really you did, to stop laughing. But he looked so extremely adorably worried for something you clearly enjoyed.
“You just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm and you ask if it was too much?”
The concerned look was replaced with his signature sheepish one. “Well…”
“Bob,” you said emphatically, you own hands now on his cheeks too. “If wearing your uniform gets me that reaction from you, then I will definitely do it more often.”
He let out a relieved laugh and kissed you again.
(From the previous fic)
“I—y-yeah,” stammered Bob. “T-thanks, Y/N.”
“I’ll see you later, yeah?” you said, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. You didn’t wait for him to answer and simply walked out, your goal having been accomplished already. You heard some laughter from the group and hushed whispers, like a bunch of gossiping teenagers.
“Always good to see ya, Doc!” called Rooster to your retreating back, the mirth apparent in his voice. While exiting, you saw in the mirrors that he had happily clapped Bob on the shoulder in support, and the latter was sporting a small confident smile. You also caught sight of a still gaping Hangman.
You smiled in satisfaction. You couldn’t wait until you saw Bob again tonight.
A/N: Aaaand that’s it for my first ever smut. I hope everyone likes it! *nervous laughter* Please do leave a comment and reblog! 💖
Check out the other stories in this universe:
A fluffy drabble on Bob and Reader’s date
A smutty drabble on Bob being called “lieutenant”
A one-shot featuring Rooster and Penny’s niece
A drabble set right before Rooster and Niece!Reader have their date
Currently, I do not run taglists. I might in the future. :)