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highvern · 6 months

Text

Aphrodite

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x fem!reader

Genre: smut, friends to lovers, established relationship, fluff at the beginning

Warnings: bathroom sex, kissing, groping, fingering, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics but they’re both actually switches (Mingyu is a service top), cumshot, Mingyu is still obsessed with titties, hair pulling, choking (hand around throat but no breath play), doggy style, unprotected sex (not endorsed by author), praise kink and strength kink go burrrrrr, there's a little bit of fluff/angst at the beginning (care/comfort) because she had a hard day at work, porn with feelings

Length: ~3k

Note: Drunk Goggles couple's bathroom scene mentioned in Discovery! the first third is so cute i actually had to close my laptop and step away while editing it so please enjoy my brain rot lol. its implied reader is on birth control and Mingyu knows it but still wrap it before you tap it guys. This was drafted as "Champagne Confetti" but i couldn't post it with that title with a straight face

ALSO stream Mamamoo Wheein's new album In the Mood! Aphrodite was a huge inspiration for the sweeter parts of this fic

read more here

The knob of your bathroom cabinet is digging into Mingyu’s shoulder uncomfortably and his ass freezing on the hard tile, but neither register in his mind much. His sole focus is on listening to you vent about how shitty work was as you wash up behind the flimsy curtain only a few feet away.

“Oh and then she had the audacity to say I should have been more prepared for the meeting! As if she didn’t send me the info an hour before!” You babble, head popping out to look at him.

Mingyu tries and fails to stifle the laughter bubbling at the sight of your shampoo Mohawk.

“What a bitch!”

“Right?!” You move back into the spray and out of sight.

“She’s just mad because you’re better at her job than she is.”

“I wouldn’t be if she actually did her job.” You sigh.

“I’m sorry baby.”

“‘s not your fault Gyu.”

“Do you want me to beat her up?”

“Yeah, because sending my gigantic ass boy toy after her is gonna get her off my back.” You call, closing your eyes as foam rinses from your hair down your skin.

“The correct term is boyfriend.”

“The correct term is baby daddy.”

“You’re fucking nasty.”

“You love me.”

God, I do.

But it’s too early to say those words with the level of earnestness he feels so Mingyu bites his tongue.

Steam and lavender soap tickle his senses as you wash away the evidence of your previous distress. Your manager is number one on Mingyu’s incredibly short shit list.

Mingyu had barely waltzed through the door of your apartment after work, excited to spend the evening cuddled on the couch with a movie like you do every Thursday. He nearly shit himself when he found you sitting at the kitchen counter, tears staining your face and eyes rimmed red. You dove into his chest and cried for an over hour, unable to speak as wretched sobs escaped your throat. He’s never felt so helpless as he sat there, stroking your back as he held you, whispering gentle affirmations into your hair. It was his idea for you to hop in the shower once you calmed down enough to assure him you weren’t injured and “no, no one died.”

The entire time, Mingyu sat close by listening intently, chiming in occasionally with agreements. He hadn’t follow you into the stall, void of the desire to worsen your mood. Shared showers were not a favorite in this household. Either it ended after two minutes to move to the bed or one of you hopped out, annoyed that the other was hogging the hot water and leaving them in the cold. Mingyu wanted you to relax but the only way he could relax was to make sure you’re actually okay. Which is why he is planted on the ground near the door like a guard dog, keeping an eye on you in case the tears returned; numb butt and sore shoulder be damned.

The squeak of the faucet signals the end of your bathing, echoed by the ruffle of the curtain as you push it aside to exit the tub. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, a smile spreading at the glow radiating from the apples of your cheeks void of the earlier splotchy dullness. You already look a million times better than when he entered your home.

Mingyu is trying very hard to be a supportive boyfriend while you continue to rant; but it’s challenging when the actual woman of his dreams is standing only feet away, completely nude and soaking wet, skin flushed from scrubbing and glistening in the warm glow of the light above the mirror. It takes all his might to ignore the swell of your breast and gentle the sway of your hips, or the curve of your thighs as you stretch for your towel on the rack above the toilet. The movement sends droplets falling in staccato from your hair plastered against your head onto your shoulder before trailing down your front, tracing dizzying patterns across your skin. His very own Aphrodite, exiting the sea to fill his heart.

“I hope she gets fired soon. I know I didn’t look like an idiot in that meeting, it was all her.”

“No one thinks you’re an idiot.” He looks down at his hands playing with the cuff of his sweatshirt to distract himself from how you start twisting to towel off, body bending and stretching suggestively as you concentrate.

“She definitely does but who cares.”

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah, actually.” You smile, towel wrapped around you snugly as you step away from the tub and towards him. “But I could still really use a hug.”

“I can do that.”

Mingyu jumps up from his place on the floor, beaming at the soft look on your face as he tangles you in his arms. He plants peck after peck across the crown of your wet hair, nose filling with the scent of your shampoo as he squeezes you against him tightly. The remaining moisture on your body is wicked away by the soft fabric of his sweater, covering him in wet spots along his front and down his arms.

“You’re the best.” You sign into his chest as he leaves a kiss on your hairline.

To distract himself from what he really wants to say, Mingyu blows a wet raspberry against your forehead.

“Nope! Never mind!” You squeal, trying in vain to break out of his strong grip. “Get away from me!”

“But baby you just said I was the best!” He counters, arms tighten to prevent you from wiggling lose.

“No, you’re gross and I hate you!”

“GASP.”

You can only roll your eyes at your boyfriend's dramatics.

“You hate me? I wipe your tears, clean up your snot, order us take out, and you hate me?” Voice rising in pitch, he gapes at you.

“You ordered take out?”

“Focus on me! I’m hurt. Devastated!”

“Oh no, what will I do?” You deadpan, but the twitch of your mouth betrays your amusement.

It’s a dangerous game given you’re still locked in his arms and his penchant for being over the top.

“I’m deeply deeply wounded missy. So there’s only one way I’ll forgive you.”

“And what’s that?”

“Kiss?” He says with puppy dog eyes and puckered lips that makes him look like a fish.

“Oh my god!” You cackle at his ridiculousness.

“Oh, there she goes again! Do you not care about me at all?”

His question is punctuated by him collapsing against you and fake crying. Laughter bubbles in your chest like champagne. Mingyu makes you feel better without even trying.

“Alright, come here you big baby. Let me give you a kiss.”

Matching smiles meet in a sweet kiss. In your relationship, one kiss frequently becomes ten or twenty so there's no shock when you keep planting pecks against his lips before moving to tickle them across his cheek, brow, and tip of his nose. Mingyu is all smiles and giggles under your lips as you move back to his mouth.

The short kisses become heated swiftly. You wipe the smile off his face easily enough, thanking the universe it takes almost nothing to get Mingyu started (not that you’re any better). You’re impressed he didn’t jump you when you stepped out of the shower in all your naked glory. Honestly, you’re a little disappointed he didn’t. But now with your towel unraveling from your tussle, pressed against his solid frame as you nip his lips, you know it’s a matter of seconds before Mingyu crowds against you and makes you feel a lot better.

Like clockwork, a simple hum in the back of your throat paired with your nails trailing down his chest sets Mingyu off. He turns with you still in his hold, lifting you up and depositing you on the cool marble of the countertop, pushing your legs apart to make room for himself. Clumsy hands push your towel away, giving him access to play with your chest. When the nail of his thumb scratches your nipple, you arch against him with a sigh. The shift breaks your lips apart and Mingyu wasted no time diving for your throat.

Apparently tonight is one of the few nights Mingyu wants to be a little more demanding with you. The hand not plucking your chest moves the tangle itself amongst the wet hair at the crown of your skull, giving a firm tug that has your spine arching, stretching your neck with a whine to give more space to bite along your throat. Teeth scratch against the cords of muscle, but his tongue soothes the abused skin immediately after; even when he’s rough, he treats you like a princess. You feel yourself clenching around nothing at the maddening combination of sensations.

“Please, Gyu”

“Please, what?” He asks, not budging an inch from where he latches to your collarbone.

“Touch me.” You whimper.

His mouth replaces the hand pinching your chest, sucking your abused nipple into his blistering mouth. The hand that was on your chest, skates down between your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, letting your foot find purchase on the handle of the cabinet next to you to spread you wide.

He starts slowly, middle finger parting your downy lips to trace from your entrance to your mound. The calloused pad of his finger nothing more than a gossamer touch against your heat, maddening as it teases you. Curling your hips upwards, you give him more space to circle your entrance before he dips his middle and ring finger inside, thumb stretching to caress your swollen clit.

“So wet already.”

“If you had a boyfriend that treats you how you treat me, then you’d understand why.” You pant into his hair.

“Think I understand plenty.” He replies, moving your hand to caress his dick where it sits tented in his shorts.

The bathroom is filled with shameless whines and puffs of breath as you work each other up. You’ve successfully gotten a hand into his underwear, fisting the head of his cock in a tight rhythm just how he likes. The other busies itself scratching down his back as he preps you for what's to come by twisting two fingers inside you, heel of his hand grinding against your clit with every thrust.

“Need you inside.” You whisper into his mouth.

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you?”

“Mhmm,” your tone is verging on pathetic but his reaction washes away any embarrassment.

“Then be a good girl and turn around.”

Mingyu steps back, giving you space to quickly jump off the counter to turn your back to him. He busies himself with removing his sweater while you settle on your elbows, ass pushed out in front of him teasingly. It gives him pause, easily distracted by the arch of your spine and the subtle jiggle of flesh as you rock from one foot to another. You watch in the mirror as he blinks lazily, using one hand to push down his pants while the other cups a cheek, squeezing it in his palm. When his shorts are finally pooled around his ankles, he steps closer to let his length rest on your ass.

You can feel his leaking tip brush your tailbone, leaving a faint trace of dampness across your skin as you roll on to the balls of your feet to grind back on him. The rigid velvet of his shaft has arousal��dripping down your thighs crudely.

You watch his face with rapt attention in the mirror. He’s hypnotized by how his cock looks pressed snug against your rear, resting hot and heavy in the valley of your cheeks. His throat bobs with a harsh swallow; hands wrapping around your sides, lazily tracing the curve between the bottom of your ribs to your hip bones. Mingyu’s hips move of their own volition, rutting across your ass as his cock continues to drool on your skin.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Come on baby, I had a hard day. Need you to make me feel better.”

Mingyu's eyes find yours in the mirror. You know the pout on your lips will get you everything you want. Mingyu knows it too.

“Condom,” he prompts.

There’s a stash in the drawer to your left but Mingyu is fully aware he lacks the will power to reach over and grab one when his hands are filled with something so much more enticing right now.

As you shake your head with a mischievous quirk of lips, he’s pretty sure you’re playing a cruel joke on hum.

“Shit,” He curses. “Are you serious?”

“Fuck me, Gyu.”

Palming his cock, Mingyu recites a silent prayer that he doesn’t blow his load immediately. This is the first time he gets to fuck you raw and goddamit if it’s short lived. Tracing his tip through the mess between your legs, he collects your arousal to lube him up. He can feel how soaking you are at the idea of him fucking you without the barrier of latex, inner thighs smeared with your essence. Hopefully you’ll come as quickly as he probably will.

“You’re so dirty, letting me stuff you with my cock like this. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” you gasp when he nudges your clit. “Your dirty girl.”

“That’s right, my dirty girl.” He growls as he pushes inside you.

The first inch has you both closing your eyes, vision filled with stars. As nice as he feels bare inside you, it’s the mental is getting you off more than the physical. Every time Mingyu stretches you out on his cock is a treat, but the knowledge that the flared head of his cock pressing deep inside is leaving traces of his seed along your walls has you breathless. You’ve never let anyone else fuck you like this and a part shielded in your chest hopes he’s that last to.

Mingyu is more or less losing his shit behind you. The scorching wet clamp of your silky inner muscles that he’s only felt on his tongue or fingers is better than he could ever imagine. Your pussy gushing to coat his cock as he splits you open has him on the verge of tears. When he’s settled in, your ass pressed firmly to his pelvis, you wiggle against him.

Mingyu responds by pressing forward, pinning your hips to the counter harshly to prevent you from moving again. You’re clenching around him so hard, it takes all of his self control not to cum.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” You mewl.

You’re really not helping.

“Calm down.” He grits out, both to himself and you.

“Need it.”

“Oh you need it?” He chides, delivering a bruising thrust.

You reward him with a sharp whine.

“Calm down baby, I'll give it to you. Always do, don't I?”

One hand circles the base of your throat, not squeezing; just resting the curve against his palm as his thumb trails along the side of your neck. It stops your breath anyway. But then Mingyu leans down to press his chest with your back, face coming into view right over your shoulder to whisper in your ear while looking you in the eye through the mirror.

“But you gotta be a good girl and spread it for me.”

You heave at his words, afraid you might pass out. Hands scramble to grab your own ass cheeks, pulling the flesh apart so he has a clear view of your pussy sucking him in as he starts curling his hips inside you.

The way he’s fucking you is vulgar. Hand wrapped around your throat as the other moves back into your hair, your own brushing the tops of his thighs as he cants against your ass, balls slapping against your pussy with each thrust. Mingyu leans back to watch himself disappear into your cunt, pulling you up into an arch. The feel without a condom is melting his brain but the visual absence of latex is doing incredible damage to his psyche too.

You both are a mess of sweet whines and rough groans, bathroom echoing with the clapping of skin and wet squelch of your full pussy. Breaking his focus on the way your entrance stretches to accommodate his thick cock splitting you open, Mingyu looks in the mirror to watch the way your tits bounce in time with his hips; your mouth open in a silent scream, eyes misty with delirium as you watch him watching you.

“Feel so fucking good like this, shit.” He pants. “Hear how wet you are? Fucking love it don’t you?”

Your head falls forward pathetically, only stopped by the palm still resting around your throat. When Mingyu gives a tentative squeeze, you whimper a quiet agreement. He watches as you force a hand between your thighs, fingers rubbing your clit in tight circles to push you closer to the edge.

“Gonna come,” you whine.

“Yeah?” Mingyu asks, excitement clear as day. He tilts his hips to fuck deeper, stretching you just a little bit wider on his cock to send you home.

“Fuck!” You sob, tensing as your orgasm washes over you.

Every muscle in your body ignites, squeezing impossibly tighter as electricity snaps through your nerves, licking your veins and exploding your field of vision in a blinding white. Like a taunt bow string being released, you curl in on your chest as you clench around your boyfriend’s cock, gushing down shaky thighs. Your free hand grips the edge of the sink, holding on for dear life as you twitch in his hold.

“Where do you want it?” Mingyu cries, two seconds behind you and using his last functioning brain cell to not piss you off by assuming he can finish inside despite wanting nothing more. “Gotta tell me where you want, Y/N.”

“On me, wanna feel you on me!” You cry, still playing with your clit as you pry open teary eyes to watch Mingyu from the mirror.

A bright red blush spreads across his chest and up his neck, glistening with beads of sweat and condensation from the steam clogging the air. His bottom lip swollen from where it's locked between clenched teeth, neck straining and biceps bulging from his harsh grip on your body. He has enough sense of reality to slip the hand around your throat into your hair, gathering the strands in a makeshift ponytail to keep it out of the way of the mess he’s about to make.

He pulls out with seconds to spare against a tsunami of pleasure that begins to surge through his body, beginning in his balls and crashing outward to swamp his nerves. It ripples across his skull, raising goosebumps in its wake as it ebbs through his blood stream. Mingyu’s abdomen flexes as he fists his cock still slick with your combined arousal over your ass; thick streaks of his seed rushing forward. You feel a hefty rope land between your shoulder blades, the sticky heat intoxicating as it trickles down your back. A few drops sputter on the dip of your spine and your hand still spreading you wide, decorating you in his own diamonds.

Mingyu can’t help the way he stares at your hole, obsessed with how you clench around nothing like you’re missing something. He wishes he was watching you squeeze around his dick, his cum dripping out of you with each pulse of muscle. Maybe someday he’ll get to.

As your orgasms subside, weariness circles on the edge of your senses. Two sets of eyes flutter shut, chests heaving and hearts beating in time. Unwinding his hand from your hair, Mingyu lets it gently rest next to your hip on the counter, preventing him from collapsing against you and into the sticky residue he’s left. He can’t feel his legs, head empty of coherent thought. Unconsciously, his thumb traces the dimple at the base of your spine, the gentle caress grounding him to his body.

The quiet of the bathroom is only disturbed by the hum of the overhead fan. You both are spent, muscles weak and nerves fried. Occasionally a deep breath interrupts but it's peaceful as you bask in each other's presence.

“Oh my god,” you pant, breaking his trance.

“Hmm?”

“How did you get cum on the mirror?”

#svthub #svt x reader #kim mingyu x reader #mingyu smut #kim mingyu #svt smut #seventeen smut #kim mingyu smut #dghe couple #🫡 highvern #not seeing heaven for this one I fear

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avenging-fandoms · 8 months

Note

i know this will sound too weird, but can i request something for sin hours? where y/n is also a singer and she meets harry at the studio, they're both tired but end up having some... fun? LMAO i'm so weird (btw, i love your work and hope you're fine!)

*you know the faint moaning in 'cinema'? just.. you'll see*

**kinda long.. bear with me. i love this fic

*it's smut. if you don't like it, that's okay! i'm sure there's other great harry fics. if you aren't 18+ FUCK RIGHT OFF

You had just flown in from Japan that morning, but you couldn't turn down the opportunity to work with Harry Styles. Harry never did collaborations on albums but you two wanted to work together.

The building was nice, and outside stood Harry with a few other people. You hop out of the car with a smile, Harry's arms immediately opening and you couldn't help but squeeze him a bit. "I have loved you for so long, this is a dream."

Harry grabbed your shoulders and bent down a bit. "I have been obsessed with you for a long time, your lyrics are amazing." He compliments you and you can't help but blush. Harry flashes a smile before introducing you to the people outside. "Shall we begin?"

The session was supposed to start at 8, but you guys didn't officially start until 9:45. You all got caught up talking about deep things, adventures, advice. It was like you had known these people for years and you had just met them an hour ago.

When the session actually started, it was like magic as you two worked with one another. Correcting or changing something the other does politely, so many compliments and singing harmonies together.

"Yn, get in there with Harry and sing the harmony with him." You open your mouth to speak, but you just stutter. "You did it out here, go ahead."

You head into the room as you gulp and Harry holds out a pair of headphones. He counts you two down and the music starts, the both of you singing, enjoying how you sound together so much you can help but sing the whole song with him.

The audio ends and you let out the biggest yawn. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I just flew in from Japan this morning and did not get as much sleep as I needed when I got home." He holds the door open for you and you thank him quietly.

"I completely get it, I just came back from Greece." You sit on the couch and he sits next to you with a bit of space, listening to you both singing. "That sounds incredible," Harry looks at you and grabs your thigh. "You are incredible."

You inhale sharply, your lips becoming dry as you open your mouth. Your tongue pokes out slowly and he watches. "Thank you."

Harry winks and looks away from you, standing up. "Let me sing what we have for 'Cinema.' It's just the beginning?" He asks and you couldn't answer, you had no idea was 'Cinema' was.

The music started to go and he started to sing. You watched as he sang, closing his eyes softly, moving his mouth to the side sometimes. "If you're getting yourself wet for me, I guess you're all mine."

You move a leg over the other and lean forward, hand over your mouth. That was so fucking hot.

An hour later, a few people had to leave, then 20 minutes later everyone else left, you and Harry saying you're going to stay to record some more.

""Cinema' is quite the risqué song, Mr. Styles. I love it." You smile as you sit on the stool. Harry smirks as he closes the door, standing in front of your microphone.

"It's missing something though, don't you think? Especially in the beginning." He moves next to you, moving his stool behind you and you lick your lips quickly with an excited shiver.

"Yes.. but.. what were you thinking?" You ask quietly, looking up as he towered over you. His hand holds your cheek softly, inhaling slowly with a smile.

"I want something faint in the background. A noise. And with the lyrics in the song.." His lips kissing your neck softly, your hands immediately grabbing the back of his biceps and whimper.

"Harry.."

"Something like that, yeah." He chuckles and pulls away, laying you back against the stool. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

"Yes, oh god yes please." You beg and he moves his microphone next to him by your head. His fingers pull up your shirt a bit, pushing into your sweatpants and into your underwear. Your hips move in the air as you tried to get his hand closer, but he didn't move.

"So responsive. Do you like being touched?" He leans over you, hips in front of your face with his hard on pressing through his sweatpants. You drop your jaw and pull the waist band down and moan when his dick is exposed.

"Do you?" You ask, spitting in your hand and stroking him slowly, moaning as he slides two fingers into you. You moan and shake your hips, moving them against his hand. His palm rubs your clit as you do, your hand moving faster as your orgasm approached quickly. "Fuck me, Harry."

"Are you sure? I don't have.. I'm clean."

"Me too. And I'm on birth control. Just please fuck me." Harry picks you up over his shoulder, putting you on the couch and pulling off his hoodie, to which you took off your shirt. Harry kissed you and held your breasts in his hands, twisting and pulling and flicking your nipples as he pushes you back against the couch.

"I need a taste." Harry hums, disappearing between your legs and immediately moving his tongue all over your pussy. You gasp and grip his hair, rolling your hips and shaking. "So fucking delicious." You pulled him in for a kiss, Harry locking his arm under your knee and bend the other one. "Put it in."

You smile and grab his dick, sliding his tip up and down your pussy. "Fuck.." You throw your head back and Harry moves his dick against your clit, and you could cum just then. Harry got impatient and did it himself, the both of you moaning.

"How far is too far with you, Yn? Kink wise." He asked, moving in and out of you slowly. You bite your lip, holding his chin and pushing your thumb in his mouth, pulling him towards you.

"Show me what you got, Styles."

Harry picks your hips up off the couch and fucks you into him, your hands holding desperately onto his arms. He slowed down and flipped you over, pulling your hips up and holding your wrists behind your back as he fucks you roughly.

"Fuck.. fuck.. Harry.." Your fingers tried to grab anything, but he had a tight grip with just one hand. The other hand laid hard smacks on your ass, then gripping your hair tightly and forcing your head back.

Harry let go of your hands and held your hip, twisting your hair around his fist. You sit up and Harry pulls out of you, the both of you on your knees as you kiss him roughly. You sit him down on the couch and push his legs out, sitting on his lap and moaning as you slide onto him.

"Your moans are just as pretty as you sing." He whimpers, kissing your neck as you bounce on him. You lay back and hold his knees as you continue to bounce your hips. Harry's thumb rubs your clit and your moans harmonize together, your orgasm quickly approaching.

You sit up and grip the hair on the back of his head, biting his jaw and collarbone. "Can I leave marks?"

"I wish you could, but all my outfits expose my neck and chest." He throws his head back and closes his eyes. "Where can I cum, sweetheart?"

"In me." Your arms wrap around his neck and he laughs.

"Are you sure? That's very risqué." His nails scratch down your back and thrusts his hips up. Harry's mouth kisses down your chest, moaning against your tits as his nails dig in your skin.

"Come on, Harry. Come on.." You smile, brushing your hair out of your face. Your fingers trace his features and watching as he cums, smiling slowly as you hear him whimper your name.

"Did you..?" You shake your head and his eyes widen, now pushing you back against the couch and wrapping his left hand around your throat, ring and middle fingers on his right hand quickly fucking you.

You gasp and hold onto his arm for dear life, moving your whole body and screaming his name. "Good girl, good job." He breathes, pulling out of your slowly and kissed you gently. "Wait here."

You laid on the couch with a bright smile on your face, Harry coming back a few minutes later with towels. "Towels? At a studio?"

"Sometimes I get sweaty when recording, I just get really into it." He shrugs, spreading your legs open delicately as he cleaned you up while humming.

You sigh contently and close your eyes, Harry continuing to hum as he kissed your thigh, your hip, your stomach. You smile and move your head, licking your lips. He kissed your chest, your collarbone, your neck, your jaw, your lips.

"I'm going to need more studio sessions with you."

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #smut #nfst

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fandomnerd9602 · 9 months

Text

Substitute

Wanda Maximoff x Nerd!Reader

Avengers High Series

Dating the most popular young witch on the Avengers High campus has been one of the greatest joys. Special dates on weekends, front row seating when she's doing a cheerleading routine during one of the football games. Though your favorite thing to do is to just sit together on a cool day and listen to the Lungs album of Florence and the Machine.

But you were deemed the second most intelligent student at Avengers High, second only to Tony Stark; some faculty would deem you first due to your responsible nature. This allowed you some unexpected perks. Mr. Fury approached you one morning with an interesting proposal.

"It's just for one day" he assured you, "notes are already written. I just need a substitute for this class."

"And you want me to do?"

He gave you a nod. You looked at which class it was going to be, an idea already forming in your head.

"Sure thing Mr. Fury" you gave a smile and went off to go talk with Wanda. She, having seen the whole exchange, walked over to you rather confused.

"What was that all about?" She asks with a little giggle.

"Nothing" you reassure her, "see you after class?"

Wanda gives a quick little nod before kissing your cheek and heading off to class.

Wanda's first two classes for the day were uneventful. She tried to sneakily text you but she got no response. You weren't there for lunch either, Wanda was finding today rather unusual for you to not be there. But she made her way to her final class of the day, Creative Writing, her favorite class and you weren't there to walk her to it.

She came into the classroom and slumped into her usual seat, not even looking up. Her fingers quickly typed out one last text to you. Where are you?

Look up, was your response. Wanda immediately looked up and gasped.

"Good morning class" you say with a little smirk, "my name is (Y/N) and I'll be filling in for Miss Hill today"

Wanda couldn't stop staring at you. It wasn't hard, you were at the front of the class and you seemed like such a natural being a leader.

"Ms Maximoff" you smirk, "is there something you wish to share with the class? Your mouth will be catching flies"

Natasha couldn't help but giggle from the back. The red head was getting a kick out of the site before her.

"H-Hi" Wanda managed to get out

"Hello to you as well" you smile before going back into a lecture. You give your girlfriend a little wink. Wanda was hardly paying attention during the entire class period.

And then at the end of the class period, the bell rang signalling the end of another school day. Everyone else was quick to leave except for Wanda, she found herself packing her backpack a little slower than usual.

"So this is where you were?" Wanda found herself laughing.

"Mr. Fury needed someone to fill in so i guess it was either me or Tony" you shrug. The two of you share a little laugh.

"I-I thought you were ignoring me" Wanda bit her lip. You walk up and gently comb a few strands of hair from her face.

"Never" you whisper back, "and from what I saw, you missed a few points of my lecture."

"Oh drat" Wanda mockingly responds as you wrap your arms around her waist. "I suppose you'll just have to tutor me after school today"

"I suppose so." you answer back before pulling her into your arms. "I'm free to tutor you now if you'd like."

Wanda giggles as you begin peppering her face with kisses. "I love our study dates" she sighs as she wraps her arms around your neck, kissing you again.

What a surprise indeed.

for @aloneodi @lifespectator @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @cole-el @holiday-house-of-m @fromtimetoinf @supercorpdanbeau @iamnicodemus @tokufighter @natashaswife4125

#marvel #marvel imagine #marvel fluff #mcu #mcu imagine #mcu fandom #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #scarlet witch imagine #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #avengers high #high school au #high school #wanda maximoff fluff

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tomorrowillbeyou · 9 days

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Thursday 2005 demos

These are some early demos for A City by the Light Divided which were stolen from the band and leaked in September 2005. I haven't seen anyone post about them so I thought I would myself. Below are lyrics and some extra context. I have tried to transcribe the lyrics as best I can but I have pretty bad auditory processing disorder so there will inevitably be some errors. If you spot a mistake, let me know and I will edit the post. The formatting and details of the lyrics are mostly based on the CD booklet.

Blog post

After the demos were leaked, Geoff made this blog post on the Thursday website on September 21 2005:

Hey friends- SO… we see that the early demos we did for the record have FINALLY leaked. In this day and age anything and everything that passes through a computer eventually ends up being available to everyone at the click of a button. Many of you know that Thursday is one of the few bands that actually supports file sharing!!! We love the fact that music is available to everyone whenever they need it. We have always told our friends and 'fans' that they should download any of our albums that they can't afford or can't find in stores. These demos, however, weren't ready for anyone to hear. These songs have all changed substantially since those demos and will probably change between now and the recording. Just to help you guys understand these demos, here's a user's guide: 1. most of these songs don't have names because the lyrics are still being written… a song only really becomes a song for us when we figure out EXACTLY what it's about. 2. One of these songs is actually the reincarnated out-take of a song that we cut from war all the time. 3. Andrew had just joined the band as a full fledged member when we recorded these and his keyboard parts were still sketchy at best. 4. There is one song, however, that is much closer to finished than the other's. It's called "At This Velocity" and it's about a crash landing in an airplane on the other side of the world. This song was started when we were in Australia on tour with the Flaming Lips, the Mars Volta and Poison the Well. The first line of the song is, "We were safe, Now we're paralyzed, Suspended in flight…" We hope you enjoy it. On a related and timely note, we are very excited to announce that we will be heading into the studio with Dave Fridmann at the beginning of October to start on our new album. His work with the Flaming Lips, Weezer, Mogwai and Sleater Kinney has produced some of the finest albums of the last ten years. Dave is one of the few modern producers really pushing the medium and he's one of the nicest guys in the business. We started preproduction on the sixteen songs we've written. In the short amount of time we've been working with Dave he's already pushing us to new musical and emotional ground. Anyway, thank you all for the love that you have always shown us. These demos aren't really a good indication so try not to listen to them too much (we don't want you to get used to them this way!!!). We're just happy that all the really great stuff on this album is still a secret!!! Keep checking the website for updates and tidbits. thanks and love, Geoff (and all the Thursday boys)

1 - At This Velocity - Lyrics

We were safe Now we're paralyzed Suspended in flight At this speed it makes no difference Where I start and where you end Or if you sit in an emergency aisle.

We could be dead Complete the equation: Our names are X and N We have no value In these calculations: We're placed on a plane, Pointed straight down, Traveling at five hundred feet per second, Five thousand feet from the ground -- how long will it take us to hit? How fast will we start the disintegration? No time left - just keep moving No time left - just keep moving How fast will it take us to hit? How long till we start the disintegration?

We could be safe here, forever, Floating in the clean blue air. Somewhere between the sun that gives us light and the ground that puts it out. And we'll kneel in the aisles Press our hands together, close our eyes, speak these words so softly into the black box And it goes: "Mother, father, can you hear this? I want to thank you for all the sweetness. I'm not coming home, we're never coming home."

2 - Telegraph Avenue Kiss - Lyrics

She's the song that you tried to sing And the note that you couldn't hit So you locked her up in a music box Turned the key on all of us She spins silver strings in the dark With metal teeth that ring in her heart When the cover drops The world just fades away, away, away From her, waiting, waiting, waiting for her to say: It doesn't matter what you say, Doesn't matter what you think you mean, You know our love's not unconditional.

A book of matches and a cigarette A love note that you never sent You can fold it up but you won't forget You can strike a match but it still might not light Now I'm the one that's stuck inside the silver cage, The bird that can't fly away, clip its wings if it sings Of the way, the way, the way that it hurt Waiting, waiting, waiting for her to say: It doesn't matter what you say, Doesn't matter what you think you mean, You know our love's not unconditional. Doesn't matter what you say, Doesn't matter what you think you mean, You know our love's not unconditional.

The music box is open It's spinning with the room If you're the record playing, I'm the needle in the groove. Listen to our song:

You're in my heart, In my hands In my lungs.

We move like a carousel Streak lights and mirrors in our eyes It's time to let this go Can't stop spinning Around, around, around, around, around, around, around, around, around, around, around You know our love's not unconditional Unconditional Unconditional You know our love's not unconditional.

3 - The Other Side of the Crash / Over and Out (Of Control) - Lyrics

Note: This contains a section from Panic On The Streets Of Health Care City, the "reincarnated out-take" mentioned in the blog post. Panic later appeared on Kill The House Lights.

The lights go down, outside (before our cars collide) The city silhouettes itself (in forty shades of fire) Do you know where these lies are leading? I'll meet you there. I'm covering up my eyes Before they cover up your eyes And wrap your body all in white, And we awake in the light of all the lies This can't be happening Sorry, someone made it.

We wake up Covered in the marks of all these razors Racing up our veins We'll live and learn to love again Open up your eyes and we'll be safe again From the razor's edge.

And the hospital ward sleeps Through the surgery Hiding needles in the drawer (for emergency) While upstairs they sleep In maternity Fever and the pitch. It's a brand new day, Just to be awake, This is how it feels To live and learn to love again Open up your eyes and we'll be safe away From the razor's edge.

The I.V. drips, the days drag on The anesthetic's not wearing off Adjust the light switch in the hall Someone has left it on, And maybe the x-ray screen keeps it from getting dark The bulb burns out when it gets too hot Keep crashing this car (over and over) Keep crashing this car (over and over) Keep crashing this car (over and over) I can't keep crashing this car Still it spins out of control So hold me close or I might disappear this time Out of control We fight currents in the water When we can't let go of the shore. We've lost control.

4 - Autumn Leaves Revisited - Lyrics

The leaves will fall and so will you When you do, bury me under them too Seconds pass, we'll make it through Eventually we all go home It won't be long It won't be long

I live with a girl who’s been waiting Seven months left till they bring home the baby He swore he was paying for school They shipped him over. Now he scatters on the front lines He swore he would follow his conscience But done the wrong way follows his orders instead. When he shoots, he sings this song But he doesn’t know that she’s been singing it, too. It won't be long It won't be long Until they find a way home

We walk along the wire tied between horizons You close your eyes like it's nothing at all Throughout the rise and fall, everything, everything Changes, I will be here when you die

Did you hear the trumpets play the day your father died? Did the violins swell those circles under your eyes? Did you play the part straight like a march? Or get lost in the beat, thinking and feeling… Did the drums in the streets make the people dance? Or fall to their knees from the sound? Knock the leaves from the trees, and they fell from the branch? They looked beautiful As they hung in the air Spinning around Did you float in the air? Spinning around?

There must be somewhere that cigarettes burn through the night And the leaves don't abandon their trees to the light Where the sky's always clear and the summer never ends… Won't you take me there?

The leaves will fall and so will you When you do, bury me under them too Seconds pass, we'll make it through Eventually we all are going home

5 - Untitled - Lyrics

Note - this didn't end up on ACBTLD, but did make it onto Common Existence as Last Call.

The center cannot hold, the side collapses Full of broken words, sing the song inside the dark arcade Color me in city greens The streets unwinding, spitting flames Cars around the arteries We scream and swerve and fall apart.

Everything we love, it falls apart, And the architect abandons us.

I'll save us from the sky until a feeling burns, you try It plants a seed of fire that flowers in the corner of your eye Circular breathing We'll keep them always moving Heart attack efficiency, Erase the figure as it falls.

Everything we love, it falls apart, And the architect abandons us.

The city shakes like tired hands The light divides what darkness mends Our bodies echo in our plans.

Everything is falling apart.

The wedding starts The guests appear The church bells ringing endlessly The bride and groom are hand in hand And everything goes as it's planned: The parents smile, The priest chokes up, The organ plays "Amazing Grace" And underneath the thin white veil

Everything is falling apart.

And the people sing: La la la la, da da da…

The city shakes like tired hands The light divides what darkness mends Our bodies echo in our plans.

Everything is falling apart.

#thursday band #a city by the light divided #oh god i hope i didnt fuck anything up ive read this over like 6 times now

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sweetsweetjellybean · 7 months

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In a city the size of Chicago, Eddie should be easy to avoid. Or maybe the city isn't as big as you thought?

Masterlist Listen to Sour Girl Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago. Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC:6558 beta'd by @superblysubpar

Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The old wooden frame of your window groans against the track, burdened with too many layers of paint to make the slide smooth. The swirls of creamy pinks and oranges have faded hours ago into the star-lit summer sky. The boy is below, standing in your backyard, fist full of pea gravel taken from a neighbor's garden. A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below. You raise a finger, signaling for him to wait before you turn away. Tossing a few things in your empty backpack, you take a pillow from your bed, and your comforter is wrestled free from the mattress. With careful footsteps, you creep down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. The light from the fridge casts a triangle across the floor as you take a few Capri Suns to add to your bag. Leaving through the slider, the end of your blanket trails behind you through the grass that was trimmed that morning. You slip off your flip-flops, leaving them beside a pair of larger, well-worn sneakers with a chain wallet tucked inside the right shoe. Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning.

“I got it,” you tell him, tossing the pillow behind you.

“Nah-uh.”

"My dad took me to Tower this afternoon." Rummaging in your pack, you pull out a Discman and over-the-ear headphones with the cord in a tangled mess. "I could only get two. I had to choose between Rage," you begin, ticking off album titles on your fingers, “Soundgarden, STP, and Pearl Jam.”

“And?”

Taking out the CDs, you press them against his chest, letting go as soon as his fingers go around them. His brown eyes widen as he examines what’s in his hands as you pick apart the knotted cord.

“Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop AND Down on the Upside? You haven’t even opened this one.” He holds up the Soundgarden CD before using his teeth to rip open the cellophane covering the plastic case.

“I waited for you.” You smile.

His face softens. “You’re a doll.”

He lies back, his head nestling into your pillow, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the sky. After putting the CD into the player, you follow him, pulling the comforter over you both and resting your head on his bicep. The headphone speakers are flipped out, tucked between you, as Chris Cornell's melancholic voice begins to seep into your ears, velvety and dark like the night itself.

"Listen to this transition," he insists, his voice filled with the same awe that it always does when he talks about music, "The shift from acoustic to electric guitar is seamless."

“I wish I could hear it the way you do.”

As you gaze skyward, a slender branch sways in perfect rhythm with the chords, green leaves fluttering with the bass. The stars multiply and shimmer as if they’re caught up in the flow of the song.

“You do,” he says, his head turning toward you, “You’re the only one I know who loves it as much as I do.” He studies your face, his eyes locking with yours. The music building until it’s too intense, and he looks away. “It’s lyrics that hook you. You’ve always got so many words floating around in that big brain of yours.”

The disc spins, and you both listen, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the breeze, and fireflies painting the sky with their gentle glow. Time passes in the slow way it only does for kids on a cool summer night.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?” He answers, eyes closed.

“Are they fighting again?”

He doesn’t talk about it, but everyone knows—an ugly secret festering on an otherwise picture-perfect street. No one wants to get their hands dirty by getting involved.

“Why won’t she leave him?” A simple question in a world of black and white.

“I want her to,” his adams apple bobs as he swallows, “She says she loves him.”

“Just stay here with me tonight, okay?” Rolling to your side, you wrap your hand across his chest, offering him the only protection that you can.

“Yeah, okay.”

When you wake the following morning, the songs and memories you were reacquainted with last night have faded to a dull throb–much like the martinis. But remnants of their lyrics persist, crawling under your skin, irritating like an itch, a tune hummed without the words to accompany it. Your phone’s screen lights up with an incoming text, the short burst of vibration sending it skittering across the surface of your nightstand. It takes a moment for your bleary eyes to focus on the notification on your lock screen.

Unknown: I admit last night could have gone better. Let me make it up to you. Coffee?

After tapping in your passcode, you open the message app to reply.

You: Wrong number

Darkening your screen, you let your phone slip from your hand onto the bed beside you. With a sigh, you lean back, staring at the ceiling, seeking answers that remain elusive. The scent of brewing dark roast and toasting bagels rises up the stairs with the sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen. A cup of coffee (or five) and a shower is what you need to wash away the past and leave it firmly where it belongs– in your rearview.

It's the bottom of your second cup when Steve walks into your massive walk-in closet with a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, the freckled skin of his chest looking golden in the soft glow of the elegant pendant lights.

“Is that what you're wearing to work?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” You finish buckling the strap of your chunky mary-janes. “Something wrong with it?” you ask, catching sight of yourself in the mirror, dark distressed jeans and a band tee recut into a fitted v-neck.

“Of course not,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair before sitting down heavily on the leather bench. His shoulders slump as he looks across to the cherry built-in shelves holding the rows of tailored suits hung by progression of color. “You always look beautiful.”

Taking your watch from the marble top of the large center island, you wander over to where he’s seated. He hooks a finger into one of the large holes in your jeans, tugging you over to stand between his legs, his big hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs.

“Guess I’m just missing the days of wearing jeans and a jersey to work,” he says, his smile not smoothing the faint crease in his brows.

“You traded that in for a car service and a big fat paycheck,” you point out, kissing the top of his head and moving back to your side of the closet to select a blazer.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower.

“Steve, I don’t need all of this,” your hand sweeps in the air, gesturing to the lit shelves holding more clothes and shoes than you could ever need. “Just take me to a concert every once in a while.” Your voice trails off as notification chimes on your phone.

Unknown: Nice try, doll. Robin gave me your number.

“Can you imagine if we were still in that cramped apartment in Lincoln Park?” He scoffs, pulling on a light gray pair of suit pants. “We were tripping over all our stuff.”

Steve found the three-bedroom, three-bath brownstone on a tree-lined street in the ritzy Gold Coast neighborhood just after he got promoted from Metro, marking the beginning of his rise up the ranks in Second City Media. He spent a year and a chunk of his trust fund on a meticulous renovation before the two of you moved in. It is beautiful—large air rooms with lofty ceilings adorned with pristine white crown molding and wainscotting throughout, giving a modern but classic feel. Living with so much space is lavish in a city of this size. But you would be just as happy back on that ratty couch in Lincoln Park, drinking beer straight from the bottle and eating pizza without the fuss of plates, working on your laptop while he watched a Cubs game. Steve is driven–determined to be a success, and he is, but with the money came the stress. And it’s taking a toll.

Your finger hovers over the block button, but you press add to contacts instead. “Hey,” you change the subject, slipping your phone into your jacket pocket, “Did you ever look into that sailing charter you wanted to book out at the lake? We could do that this weekend?”

“I wish I could, Ace. I’ve got those weekend meetings about the streaming radio we're trying to launch. Pick out a tie for me?” He asks, pulling off a starched black button-up from its hanger.

“Sure.” You walk over and spin the rack holding up dozens of ties on shiny brass hooks.

“What do you have going on today?” The well-defined muscles of his sculpted shoulders, earned from never skipping a day at the gym, flex before disappearing into his shirt sleeves.

“Not a lot.” You pull the silky slip of deep maroon fabric off its hanger. “Lola is put to bed for this year. I just have an album review to finish up and a meeting with my editor today. Maybe a series on the Fall tours?” You propose, mostly to yourself, as you bring him his tie.

“Maroon, huh?” One brow raises with the question, “I would have picked black.”

“I know.” The corner of your lips turn up in a sly smile before you rise to your toes and place a kiss on his mouth, “I’m gonna go.”

“You want my driver to drop you off?” He asks, looking in the mirror and adjusting his tie.

“Nah, I’ll drive myself. Argyle and I are going to the Subterranean for drinks. Santigold is performing. Do you want to come?” You throw out, picking up your ancient army green messenger bag you can’t bear to part with, straining with the fullness of your laptop and notes.

“I’ll pass. Not really my scene.” As he fastens his gold cufflinks, they catch the gleaming light.

“You never come to shows with me,” you sigh.

“I know, I know. I’ll try and catch the next one,” he says, sliding his feet into shiny Italian leather shoes. “I’m meeting Robin for lunch. You want to join us?”

“No. I’ll let you have your girl time.” You blow him a kiss before heading out the door.

“See you tonight, okay?”

“Love you. See you tonight,” he calls after you.

Passing through rooms decorated with rich creams and calming moss greens, you yell over your shoulder, “Tell Robin I said we don’t have any more room for paintings of flowers that look like vaginas.”

“They’re a good investment,” his voice fades as you jog down your stairs, grabbing your keys from the stained-glass bowl on the table beside the door, ignoring the buzz coming from your pocket.

The world is full of cliches. Many become so ingrained that we accept them as unwavering truths. Every cloud has a silver lining. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Actions speak louder than words. A rotten apple will spoil the bunch. Don’t spit into the wind. Well, that last one is just good advice, but there is one that has stuck with you. Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Music is your deity, and working at Stax is where you worship at its altar, spreading the Gospel of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s a place where your lifelong obsession is not only validated, it’s celebrated. Your journey leading up to this point feels like destiny, like the universe conspired to harmonize your two greatest loves—the lyrical power of words and the soul-stirring magic of music. Each day within these walls is a new chord, a different tempo, and you revel in the ever-changing rhythm of your life. One spent intertwined with the music and the people that create it. The magazine's pages are your stage, your canvas, and with every keystroke, you paint the stories of the music, offering them to those who care to listen.

Without taking your eyes off your laptop screen, you reach for your coffee mug only to knock over the tittering tower of CDs that you had stacked on the corner of your cluttered desk. The plastic jewel cases meet the cement floor with a shattering crash, the noise echoing off the walls of the open industrial space that houses the offices for Stax Magazine in the heart of Fulton Market District. Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out. The perpetual chaos of your desk has become an ongoing punchline in the office banter. Your phone begins to ring at the same time an IM pops on your screen - both from your editor, the enigmatic J. Hopper.

“Art Garfunkel’s house of pizza,” you say by way of greeting, trying to get the CDs back in their cases and toppling a pile of mail in the process.

“Where are you? Why aren’t you here? We had a meeting at 2,” comes the gruff voice of a man who's clearly not amused.

“It’s only one forty,” you reply.

“Get your ass in here now,” he yells, disconnecting.

Hopper's bark has always been more bluster than bite. The towering, older man has been a fixture in this building since its days as a "hard-hitting" newspaper. While the city has evolved and transformed, Hopper and this old brick building have remained resolute, like an immovable rock in the ever-shifting stream of time. He possesses zero patience, holds a disdain for people, and dismisses any music created after 1978. You love him as much as your own father. He offered you a position fresh out of college when other magazines wouldn’t take a chance. He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

With a gentle rap of your knuckles against the frosted glass, you step into Hopper's office. He's seated behind a substantial oak desk, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. A hint of cigar lingers in the air, though you've never been able to catch him smoking. He remains engrossed, squinting at his desktop screen with a furrowed brow. Settling into one of the vintage leather club chairs, you wait for his acknowledgment, your gaze drifting across the framed magazine covers and photographs lining the walls. One of a much younger Hopper clad in a tattered flak jacket catches your eyes. His face smeared with dirt and grit, standing amidst the ruins of a war-torn Kosovo street, a city reduced to chaos.

"Where’s my album write-up?" He asks without looking up.

"I emailed it to you before lunch," you reply, confirming on your phone.

He pushes back from his desk, propping up his feet on the edge, and offers you a soft smile from under the bushy mustache covering his lip, "How are you, kid? Everything okay? Harrington treating you, right?"

"Of course, Hop. He knows he'd have to answer to you otherwise. What about you?" You ask, leaning forward, "Is Joyce looking after you? Making sure you're watching that cholesterol?"

"Yup, she's got me eating all these organic vegetables, no booze, no smokes. Kinda takes all the fun outta life." He laces his hands behind his head, stretching out his back.

"Oh yeah, does that include that bottle hootch you got stowed in your bottom drawer?"

He sits up with a quick move, pointing his finger in your direction. "You don't know anything about that. Are we clear?"

The only one who can scare Hopper is Hopper's wife.

"I don't know. What are you going to do if I give Joyce a call? Seems to me that's something she'd want to know," you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You'd be out on that sidewalk before you hung up the call. Don't test me." He shakes a finger at you, "Now, what are you pitching me?"

"Well, I'm going to a club tonight, so I'll have a live performance review. And I was thinking of a piece on the bands touring this Fall. Kind of like a road map that the readership could follow and hit all the good shows."

"Those sound good, kid, but I got a feature for you to cover." He leans forward, narrowing his eyes, "You know this Eddie Munson character?"

The blood drains from your face. "No. Not-not really," you stammer, "we're from the same town, but I haven't seen him in years."

"Well, it's time to get reacquainted. I want a series chronicling the opening of CursedSound Recordings, and I want you to write it."

A featured series is something that other journalists fight over, and usually, you'd jump at the chance, but not this time. Not this series. Not Eddie Muson.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, looking down at your lap.

“You don’t think–”

“Give it to Miles.”

“I’m giving it to you. Morales is busy with–”

“I don’t want it,” the words burst out of your mouth before you think better of it. Less than twenty-four hours after seeing Eddie, your world is spinning out of control.

Hopper's face turns to steel as he plucks the pen from behind his ear and throws it down on the desk. “I think that you’ve forgotten how this works. I give you an assignment. You write it.”

Your lips part before the protest in your brain is fully formed.

“If you’re about to tell me no again, it better be followed by a damn good reason.”

His eyes are locked on yours while he waits for a response, one brow raised in challenge.

“Listen, kid,” he picks up a stack of papers, shuffling through them as he talks, “I’ve looked into this Munson character. He has a good reputation in L.A. His name is in the credits for over half the multi-platinum releases in the last five years. And word is, his studio is booked out with big names for a year in advance.” He pauses for a moment to be sure his words sink in. “Establishing a good relationship with him is in the magazine's best interests. And what's good for the magazine is good for you. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, Hop,” he answers for you when you remain quiet.

“Yes, Hop,” you repeat.

“Good,” he says, lacing his fingers together. "The printed word isn’t worth what it used to be. Everything's gone digital, the never-ending twenty-four-hour news cycle. The competition's cut-throat out there. Trust me, our friends over at Spectrum would eat this up for Chicago Lifestyles. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d be all over this. Especially since it was proposed by corporate. I figured you went around me and pitched it to Harrington directly.”

The mention of Steve’s name sets your teeth on edge. He hadn't breathed a word about this assignment earlier, and now he's reaching out to Hopper, painting a picture as if you're disrespecting your editor and exploiting your personal connections to secure a story.

“I would never do that,” you shake your head.

"Alright then. Call Byers at Metro," Hopper instructs, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Bring him with you. His assignment is just wrapping up."

You nod, your blood boiling and your mind racing. Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you finally reply with an outward calm, "Okay."

Hopper's eyes remained fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Now, why are you still here wasting my time? Get out."

You don’t need any more prompting. Swiftly, you rise from your seat and make your way out of Hopper's office, formulating plans to murder your fiancé.

With a heavy sigh, you sit back down at your desk. The Stax logo bounces off the edges of your laptop screen. Your phone lights up with a photo of Steve. You let it ring a few times before sending it to voicemail. A few colleagues linger nearby, mugs in hand, their idle chatter blending with the hum of printers and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Your to-do list sits on your desk with strike-throughs on only half the tasks, but the priority of the ones remaining isn’t enough to capture your attention.

Reaching down, you tug at the handle of your tightly packed bottom desk drawer. It sticks, protesting the overload. The bright yellow color of the Sony Sports Walkman stands out from among the other clutter. You hesitate when reaching for it, the beginnings of the ache already tightening your chest. But you can’t resist, your hand closes around it, pulling it and the headphones coiled around out from under a pile of old concert passes attached to lanyards.

Swiveling your chair away from the desk, you face the windows and slip the headphones onto your ears. A gentle press of your thumb produces a satisfying click, and a soft crackling sound fills your ears as the capstans start to whir.

The crystal blue of the cassette is dulled behind the transparent black window, but you can still make out the handwriting on the yellowed label.

For when you miss me.

“Did you ever listen?”

Everyday.

A bird's eye view of the stage is perfectly spaced in your viewfinder, with Santi downstage dominating the mic, her other arm outstretched to the fervent crowd. Your finger clicks the shutter as a text pops on the screen.

Eddie: Seems this city isn’t so big after all.

With a huff, you close the screen, pocketing your phone.

“What’s going on with you?” Argyle shouts over the crowd, handing you back your drink as you both lean over the black-painted railing on the balcony at The Subterranean.

"Nothing," you reply, your gaze returning to the stage where Santigold is Chasing Shadows.

“You’re moody,” he accuses, leaning closer to your ear to be heard over music.

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s true,” he shakes his head. “You’re moody. Moody dick.”

The corners of your lips lift as you roll your eyes.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with mister dark and handsome sound engineer guy from last night, would it?” He probes as someone bumps into you from behind, throwing you off balance.

Your eyes narrow as he steadies you with a hand on your elbow.

“Hey, I know things,” he says, sipping his drink and looking back out over the crowd.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, turning and leaning on the banister to face him, “What do you know?”

He turns his head toward you, his thoughtful brown eyes connecting with yours. “I know you looked freaked the fuck out when he showed up for drinks and even more so when he said he was staying. And I’ve seen you tell off enough people to know that’s what was going on at the bar when you walked away from him last night,” he says, looking back toward the stage, gesturing with his hands, “Now we're here, with my future baby mama killing it on stage, and you’re sucking all the energy out of the room.”

The song ends with the crowd erupting in applause. “I love you!” Argyle shouts toward the stage with his hands cupped around his mouth as the bass starts back up with the opening of High Priestess. Santi looks up, throwing him a wink, her voice low and fast as the reverb vibrates under your feet.

“Future baby mama?” You laugh.

“Yeah. Do you think you could use your press pass to get us backstage?”

“No. I don’t think you need to add to the population tonight.”

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” you say, scrubbing your face.

“Keeping everything all bottled up ain’t good for you, little mama,” he pokes your arm, letting you know he’s not going to drop this, “I’m your boy. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

“Circle of trust,” he says, stirring the air between you with two fingers when you don’t respond.

You lean against the rail, considering. “Alright, but this stays between us,” you threaten him with a pointed finger. His head nods as his fingers slide across his mouth like a zipper.

“There’s not much to tell,” you say, looking down at the sticky floor. “I had a crush, and he didn’t feel the same way.”

“I get it. The fury of a woman scorned. What did you do, go full bunny boiler?”

“No,” you chuckle, “Nothing like that. That part didn’t even really bother me. He was my best friend, my only friend for a long time. I thought there was something between us, that he cared about me. Maybe not the same way I cared about him, but you know, I thought we were close. I must have built it all up in my head because one day, he just takes off.” You swallow the sharp pain pressing into your chest, “He never even said goodbye.”

“Nooo,” Argyle’s eyes widen.

“It broke me,” you admit.

“Harsh,” he agrees, “And he never called you? Or gave you an explanation?”

“Not until yesterday. He asked me to lunch. You know, he actually had the nerve to say that Steve has me on a tight leash.”

“Typical.” He shakes his head, swallowing the last of his drink.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swirling the last of your ice into your watered-down drink.

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.”

“How did you get so wise?” You ask.

“I don’t know. Must be all the weed,” he says with a hand on your shoulder, turning you toward the bar. “Let’s go get another drink.”

“You never told Steve any of this?” He asks as you join the crowd of people that constitutes the line.

“No,” you sigh.

“No?” He repeats in surprise, “This is bad news, man. Why wouldn’t you tell him? What are you going to do, just going to keep it a secret forever?”

“I guess. It doesn’t really have anything to do with him.”

“This is going to get messy.” He shakes his head as you move up in line.

“Well, I’m not real happy with him either right now. He went behind my back to Hopper, deciding that I’m going to cover Eddie’s recording studio's opening. He completely humiliated me in front of my boss. I look totally unprofessional.”

“Well, that's not cool,” Argyle sympathizes as he takes the plastic cup from your hand and tosses it into a trashcan tucked beside the bar.

“No, it was very not cool,” you agree, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Wait," he looks at you with sudden revelation, “Technically, isn't Steve your boss?"

“That’s not the point–”

“And isn’t your job to write about major happenings in the city, like when fancy L.A. sound guys open up studios?”

“You're not helping, Argyle.”

His hand lands on your head, offering a comforting pat like you're a child before the line begins moving again. "Cheer up, Bernstein," he quips with a grin, "I'll buy the next round."

Your anger hasn’t abated when you walk through the front door of the brownstone. Steve is already in bed, shirtless with the taupe velvet coverlet pulled up to his waist, glasses perched on his nose, not looking up from his laptop as you enter the room.

“Hey, Ace, how was your day? Did you write me–”

“Anything you want to tell me about, Steve?” You ask, your voice already coming out more heated than you intended.

He looks up at you, brows pulling together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, dropping your bag onto the blue slipper chair in the corner of the room, “Maybe about how you went behind my back?”

"What?” He questions, slamming his laptop shut.

“The story, Steve,” you huff, leaving the room through your closet. You’ve just put your shoes away when he appears in the doorway, padding across the carpet in his bare feet, wearing just his boxers.

“Munson’s opening, that’s what you’re mad about?” He demands.

“You totally blindsided me,” you complain, pulling a hanger off the rod and hanging up your blazer with enough force to have the other clothes swinging. “Why didn’t you say anything this morning?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of it this morning.” His hands run through his hair, tugging in frustration.

“So what, it just came to you in a flash of brilliance?” Popping the button on your jeans, you tug them down your hips, kicking them into the corner instead of putting them in the basket.

“No, it didn’t, and I hate it when you’re sarcastic. Robin wanted to stop by and see his studio. We had lunch nearby,” he informs you, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the gold chain he wears glinting in the low light.

“So the two of you just decided what I was going to be writing? Maybe that’s something you should be discussing with me.” You lay a hand on your chest before pulling your shirt over your head and giving it the same treatment as your jeans. “You know, your fiancée, not some old buddy that sold you weed a few times back in Hawkins.”

“The content Stax puts out is directly under my approval, just like Metro and the Newsdesk and every other division.” His voice, which has been steady and even until now, begins to rise, “I’m not going to call you and ask for permission every time I make a decision. Eddie and I have kept in touch. How do you think we landed that interview with Radiohead last year when they wouldn’t even sit down with Rolling Stone?”

“That’s another thing you kept from me. I had no idea Eddie was your best friend.” Your eyes narrow as your fingers yank at the delicate clasps of your jewelry and watch.

Steve's eyes roll in frustration as he shakes his head. "He's not my best friend. He’s a business contact. I know him through Robin. They were is band together, you know this."

"That feels like a lifetime ago, Steve," you remark, the clinking of your jewelry against the marble island adding a discordant scrape.

"Well, some people aren't embarrassed about where they came from," he accuses.

"I'm not embarrassed," you scoff and begin to pace as if you can outrun his words.

"Oh, please," he says, taking a seat on the bench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge, his gaze tracking your restless movements. "You cut off anybody we still know living there. You won't even go to visit your parents. They always come here."

“You never listen to what I’m saying. This has nothing to do with Hawkins or my parents.” You halt your steps, your hand slices through the air, punctuating your statements. “It's about you making me look like a fool in front of Hopper. Like I’m trying to go around him to corporate to get assigned the big stories. Like I’m sleeping with the boss. I’m not ruining my reputation so you can give free advertising to your friends.”

“You're being crazy right now,” he yells, wincing with regret as soon as the words leave his mouth. He stands, moving closer, making an effort to control the tone of his voice, “I gave you this assignment because you know Eddie, and it will make for a better story, not because I’m fucking you. We’ve been together since the day you started at Stax. We’ve been engaged for two years. If anyone was going to think that, they already would’ve.”

Your head shakes, rejecting his rationale. He throws up his hands in frustration. “I can't have a conversation with you when you’re like this.” He starts to walk back toward the bedroom but stops abruptly, spinning on his heel and pointing his finger in your direction. “But I'll tell you one more thing—you are going to write this story.” He waves a hand toward the bathroom. “Now, go wash your face.”

Your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you walk into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

A sliver of gold from the streetlights outside pierces the tiny gap in the curtains. You’ve been lying on your side staring so long that you can see its warm hue behind closed lids whenever you start to drift. You burrow your arm deeper beneath your pillows while your feet shuffle, searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Steve’s breathing hasn’t changed behind you. He’s having the same trouble falling asleep. He turns over, his weight rocking the mattress. He’s much closer now. You can feel the comforting warmth from his chest, filling the space between him and your back.

“Baby.” His breath caresses the spot just behind your ear before the wet press of his lips traces a path along your neck, latching on to the apex when it meets your shoulder. A gentle bite follows the swirl of his tongue as he moves even closer. The rough pads of his fingers glide over your shoulder and down your arm, coaxing the thin strap of your tank with them.

“Please,” he whispers between kisses, his fingers finding their way under the bottom edge of your tank top, the light scrape of his blunt nails against your ribs sending shivers across your skin. Your breathing is picking up, the fire from your argument morphing into a new kind of heat. His hips flex against your ass, his cock hard and ready. When you turn your head, his lips are there, a wet slide over your mouth until they pull back, floating just above you, lingering with a question. And when his hand cups your shoulder, urging your body to turn towards him-–you answer.

The sultry feminine voice drifts from the speakers in your bedroom, her smoky timber weaving through the air like dark tendrils intertwining with the high piano notes. Your hips rise with the flow, a slow, unchanging cadence, the stretch of his cock creating delicious friction against your velvet walls. You move higher until he almost leaves you before you start your descent, the angle finding all the hidden places that light you up beneath your skin.

"M' sorry," he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open at his words as they carry you away from the depths.

"Hate telling you no." He gazes up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hair pushed back from his face, and a flush across his skin.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your hands cover the ones wrapped around your thighs, guiding them up your body. His warm, rough fingers are eager to map out every contour. Your head falls back when they find their destination, cupping your breasts with a possessive grip.

The song shifts, the new baseline a drawn-out pulse lining up with your movements. The lyrics are raw and a little filthy, fueling the urgency of your rolling hips, your clit grazing the short hairs at his base.

"Don't like telling you what to do," he mumbles even as his hands drop to your hips, attempting to hold you still as he bucks up from underneath. "Just wanna take care of you."

"Steve," his name passes your lips in a low moan as you lean forward, taking his hand from your hips and pressing them into the pillow, "Stop talking."

Sitting up, you shift your position, leaning back, bracing your hands behind yourself on his hairy thighs. You set a new pace, bouncing harder, driving him deeper, taking what you want.

“Jesus, fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes hitting the back of his head while his hands slide across the sheets seeking any purchase as you ride him. The music surges, its tempo rising in perfect sync with the wet intimate sounds of your bodies coming together, the rhythm repeating over and over.

"So close…please," his fingers slip between you, adding pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that he finds there, "Need you to cum."

"No," you rasp out breathless, pushing his hand aside, your eyes locked on his as you bring your own fingers to your mouth. With a swirl of your tongue, you coat them with wetness before sliding them down to touch yourself, controlling your own pleasure.

The muscles in his neck strain with effort, his gaze darkening, fixated on you. “Goddam, so sexy like this,” he murmurs.

Your body tightens, taut like a bow-string, the tension building until the crescendo crashes over you. The music washes over your senses as you reach your peak, your legs trembling with the intensity. You push your body further over the edge, succumbing to the euphoria lost in the wave of sensations.

Floating back down, your eyes open to the sight of your ceiling, your body still arched, catching your breath. His fingers tighten on your ribs, reminding you he's there. Sticky wetness dripping between you is evidence that he reached his own climax. His hands gently urge your forward to collapse into his chest.

"Wow, that was…" He strokes the sweat-slicked skin of your back. "I’ve never seen you like that before. What got into you?"

"I think you did," you say, placing a kiss over his heart as your fingers smooth through the hair covering his chest. He chuckles, holding you closer.

The gentle croon of the music fills the quiet space between you as you lie entwined, drawing closer to sleep's embrace. With a fumbling hand, Steve reaches for the remote on his nightstand, silencing the stereo, returning the room to a restful hush. He places a final tender kiss on your temple, his eyes closing as his features turn peaceful. But for you, even in this stillness, another song lingers in your mind, its lyrics echoing like a secret.

AN: Thank you for reading and rebloging. Your comments are what keep me at my keyboard plugging away at this story. Please keep sending me your songs and asks! They have inspired so much of what's to come. xoxo- Jelly

Read Song 3 Here

For updates follow @tornupdates & turn on the notifications

#stranger things #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #torn #torn series #torn!eddie #Spotify

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nolita-fairytale · 1 year

Text

cigarettes & coffee (carmy x fem!reader songfic)

summary: carmy can't sleep and neither can you. after moving in together you spend a morning drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. (part of the make my heart surrender verse, but can absolutely be read as a standalone piece).

word count: 1.2k

warnings: smoking, she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, but i don't think any others

listen to: cigarettes & coffee - otis redding

a/n: just a lil something to hold the carmy fandom over while i work on some engagemet smut and the prequel to make my heart surrender

"it's early in the morning about a quarter til three, i'm sittin' here talkin' with my baby over cigarettes and coffee."

"Can't sleep?" Carmy hears you say, your soft footsteps filling his ears.

He's curled up next to the windowsill, inside of the reading nook that's tucked perfectly into the apartment's alcove.

"Nah," you shake your head, your footsteps carrying over to your now shared open kitchen.

You notice that he's opened one of the windows and is fumbling around with an unopened pack of cigarettes.

"Sorry did I wake you?" he asks, just a hint of nervousness in the sound of his voice.

"It's okay," you respond, quietly reassuring him.

And it is okay.

But it's also going to be an adjustment.

"darling, I've been so satisfied, honey, since I met you, baby, since I met you."

You start making your morning coffee as you can hear Carmy beginning to fidget with his lighter. Carmy has a marlboro pressed in between his lips as he listens to you. He shifts forward from where he sits so that he can move the needle of your record player back over to the dark-colored vinyl you both were listening to the night before. He half-smiles as he watches the record begin to spin, turning the volume down just a hair from where it was the night before.

The love he has for vintage denim is the same love you have for vintage records, you'd explained to him when you'd first met.

You'd really lucked out yesterday by finding this old copy of Otis Redding's "The Soul Album" at the used bookstore a couple of blocks away. You'd purchased it as a symbol of you and Carmy's new chapter. Every time you wanted to remember this phase of your life, you could pull the vinyl from its sleeve and take a trip down memory lane.

"but it seemed so natural, darling, that you and I are here, just talking over cigarettes and drinking coffee."

Carmy takes a look around at the mess in your -- well, now the both of your -- apartment. Unpacking amidst the move felt like it would never end, and he felt bad about the state of disarray he'd left your apartment in. Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he lights up the end of his marlboro in avoidance.

He inhales the smoke deeply -- a somewhat frustrated and burdened quality to it.

You chuckle to yourself.

Yes. This is who you get to wake up to every morning: the man that you love, your best friend, your lover who sometimes carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"What's on your mind?" you ask softly, setting a timer on your phone for your French press.

Carmy sighs as he exhales the smoke, angling his face in the direction of the open window.

Sure, you'd both agreed he wouldn't smoke in the house but... it would take some getting used to.

"The agnolotti you made me a few weeks ago," he finally answers, his eyes fixed on the sun peaking just underneath the horizon.

Of course he's thinking about a menu.

"For The Bear?" you ask, curiously.

"Maybe. What do you think?" he asks back, turning his head to look at you.

You turn to him, your back pressed against the kitchen counter as you say: “I thought you said you already tried a stuffed pasta."

The corners of his lips curl into the smallest smile as he answers, “Not yours.”

You smile softly, thinking it over.

A few weeks ago, before the madness of the move, you'd been on a creative bender. You'd dreamed up a savory braised leek agnolotti del plin with a lemon beurre monte to brighten up the dish. You and Carmy had been working opposite shifts as of late, and it had worked out perfectly that you'd been able to surprise him with a home cooked meal when he'd gotten off of a particularly challenging shift.

"It could work," you state, a strategy beginning to unfold in your mind.

"We could do a little R&D with it as a special before committing to something that detail oriented. Think it would still work with the flow of things. Not too much extra work for Manny and Angel? Maybe Syd would be up for the challenge...? Or maybe you and I could work on it together."

"I'll throw it out there... talk it over with Sydney," he replies, coming to a temporary pause on the thought.

Carmy continues smoking his cigarette as you busy yourself with the remaining dishes left over in the sink. Since you started moving him in, it'd mostly been takeout or ordering a pizza -- neither of you having the energy to cook between the move and the restaurant.

"and oh, my heart cries out, love at last I've found you, oh, and honey, won't you let me just build my whole life around you?"

As your timer goes off for the coffee, you push pause on dishes and dry yours hands off.

You make up one of your little serving trays with two mugs, filling both cups 3/4 of the way. You add the remaining coffee, still in the French press, and the remaining milk you have in your fridge, to the tray.

Ready for your morning coffee, you turn around, tray in hand, as you take in the image of your handsome boyfriend. He's exhaling the smoke out of the window, his back pressed up against one of the walls of the alcove. The sun is just starting to rise, and you can't help but think he looks like an old hollywood movie star with the way that the sunlight hits his face.

You can't believe you get to wake up to this every single morning now.

"i would love to have another drink of coffee, now, and please, darling, help me smoke this one more cigarette, now, i don't want no cream and sugar, 'cause I've got you now, darling."

Sure, you'd agreed you wouldn't smoke in the house but when he looks this good doing it, you don't have the heart to stop him. You make your way to where he sits in the apartment's little reading nook before setting down the tray of coffee.

He looks to you, noticing the amused look on your face as your eyes flicker over to his cigarette. He looks down for a moment, before looking back to you, his blue eyes catching yours.

"Am I in trouble?" he asks, a small smirk on his lips. You pick up your cup of coffee taking a sip before responding.

You shake your head, "Not this time."

You lean in towards Carmy, and just as he thinks you're going to kiss him, you take the cigarette from him, trading him your coffee cup. He watches you, completely enchanted with you as you curl up on the other side of the seating area. With your back pressed up against the closed window and your feet hanging off of the reading nook seating, you bring the cigarette up to your lips to inhale.

Carmy takes a sip of your coffee as you exhale, facing towards the open window just like he'd done previously.

His chest filled to the brim with warmth, he asks you, "How're you mine?"

You shrug, the corners of your lips curling into a smile you reply, "Guess we both got lucky, huh?"

"it's so early in the morning, and I've got you and you've got me, and we'll have each other, and we don't, and we don't want nothing but joy."

taglist: @allthefandomstogether @gaysludge @sobshoney @harrysmatcha @starbritestarlite @tpwkkmila @cool-girl-is-hot @nunya7394 @galaxyprincess51-blog @carmensberzattos

#carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto #carmy x oc #the bear hulu #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #carmen 'carmy' berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto headcanon #the bear headcanon #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy berzatto fluff #make my heart surrender #still into you #carmy #songfic #song recs

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rqgnarok · 10 months

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Last ask with TS just melted my heart so building on that… Slow dancing to Sweet Nothing by TS with Jamie Tartt??? All the fluff

jamie and taylor swift together, ya'll know my weaknesses way too well

Jamie frowns. "Do I know this song?"

You turn from where you're cutting some veggies for dinner, eyebrows raised. "I sure hope you do. We've only listened to the album a million times since it came out."

The kitchen is bathed in golden sunlight, the last few rays of the sunset hitting your home just right as the day ends. Jamie's on the couch with a book in his hands; a used, tattered copy of something he reads more out of comfort than the desire to actually focus.

It's been a slow day, the kind that happens after a good win the previous night that leaves Jamie tired and satisfied, wanting nothing more than to spend the next 24 at home with you by his side.

Of course, you were more than happy to oblige. Hours filled with sleep and sleepy sex, quick snacks and lots of water until your stomachs begged for actual food. So here you were now, Sunday mostly gone, a Taylor Swift playlist playing softly in the background while making dinner.

The song ends and another one begins, a plain, sweet piano melody making you smile down at the food. Suddenly, Jamie's vacated his spot on the couch and walked up behind you to wrap his arms around your middle, tucking his face into your neck and kissing the skin.

You hide another giddy expression. Sweet Nothing was one of Jamie's favorite songs from the album from the get-go, always thinking of you when it played. As a public figure who has spent too long in the spotlight with every single part of his personality up for display and inspection, your relationship had been quiet at the beginning, from the public and Jamie's teammates since he was between teams and had a target on his back.

You took it like a champ, following his cues and letting him make a shelter out of you and your relationship, somewhere he could be himself from every angle; loud and unapologetic, small and quiet, sweet and eager to love. Loving him back has been the easiest thing you've ever done.

"This one 'm sure I know," he murmurs, chest glued to your back, warm and safe. He's wearing a hoodie and shorts, and you're wearing nothing but an oversized shirt. "Come dance with me."

"Five minutes ago you were so hungry you were dying," you quote his own words back at him in a terrible impression of his accent, earning yourself a poke to the ribs. You jump further into him, making it easier for him to whisk you away from the counter.

"I can wait three more minutes," he assures, placing your arms around his neck and his own on your hips, keeping you close. He starts rocking you side to side, his forehead to yours. "Wanna have you close, angel."

Any joke sitting ready on your tongue dissipates at his words, soft and sweet and so very Jamie. "You always have me, baby."

Jamie only crowds closer, mouth to your ear, singing surprisingly in tune along with the song. "You say 'what a mind', this happens all the time..."

#jamie tartt x reader #ted lasso #leo writes

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neonoddeye · 11 months

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Save room for us | Sanji x GN! Reader

The Sanji brain rot has been so intense lately, I had to do something about it! The fic is named after a song from one of my favorite albums ever by Tinashe, btw (you should listen to it).

CONTENT WARNINGS: kinda angsty but with a whole lot of comfort, takes place right after the events of whole cake

Heart goes numb

Perched at the edge of your seat in the aquarium, you awaited Sanji, five minutes before the agreed upon time. When the crew finally set sail from Whole Cake with the beloved cook and the crew got a chance to catch sleep, you caught Sanji after breakfast, stating bluntly that “we need to talk after dinner tonight.” You felt bad for stating the invitation in such a sinister tone, especially after the nightmare Sanji just emerged from, but your emotions got the best of you. The numbness shielding your heart was thawing away, and you couldn’t stand the pain of hiding your feelings for Sanji any longer.

These nights don’t get easier when I see you with her

A light knock on the door pulled you out of your running thoughts, and the man of the hour stepped in, holding a plate of your favorite snack and a cup of tea.

“I noticed you gave most of your food to Luffy at dinner, so I made you something.” You can hear the apprehension dripping from his words, and your heart aches knowing you worried the poor man.

“Thank you, Sanji,” you reply weakly, avoiding eye contact with him out of guilt as you speak. “I’m sorry I didn’t eat that much, the food tasted great. I just… didn’t have an appetite.”

“That’s okay, don’t worry!” Sanji assures you as he places the food and tea down gently next to you. “Tell me, what are you worried about? Is there something you need to tell me?” He takes a seat next to you, giving you more personal space than usual, and you finally look up at him, your eyes threatening to well up with tears as you see his beautiful blue eyes full of concern for you.

“Sanji I-“ you start, then take a shaky, deep breath. “I didn’t mean to worry you so much when I said we need to talk. I’m not mad at you, I promise. You’ve been through a lot these past few days, and I’m really happy to have you back. I missed you.” Your words are fragile and wavering as you try to avoid telling him your true feelings.

“There’s no need to apologize, y/n, I know you didn’t mean to worry me. I missed you too, and I’m really happy to be back-“

“No, Sanji,” you interrupt him, feeling the dam of emotion slowly break free with every word shared between you too. “I really missed you, it was painful without you around.” Your voice picks up a little bit, and you look him square in the eyes, finally gathering up the courage to spill your every thought. “I was so worried about you, getting married to some girl you don’t even know and seeing your awful family hurt me too. But, the more I spent time away from you, the more I realized it was more than just friendly concern.”

Sanji’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” you sigh, and turn your body to completely face Sanji. “God dammit, Sanji, I like you. I mean I have feelings for you, and it hurt being away from you, and I know it sounds so fucking selfish but it hurt when I saw you with Pudding. Seeing her fawn over you was agonizing. I know you drool over every girl, I don’t care about that, but I was afraid the two of you actually had something special. It made me realize that I want something special with you, Sanji.” You sharply inhale at the end of your confession, not realizing you forgot to breathe between your words.

She will never love you, oh, the way that I do

Sanji’s eyes widen, and the two of you stare at each other in shock of your words as he begins to process. After a solid 30 seconds, he exhales, then gently pulls you into his chest for a hug, his long arms holding you as if you were made of porcelain.

“Honey, you should have said something before,” Sanji whispers, his chin resting on the top of your head. “I’m so, so sorry I was hurting you this whole time.” You can hear him begin to choke up. “If-if I had known-“

“It’s okay, Sanji, I’m not upset with you, I didn’t intend on coming across that way.” You look up from his chest, and your heart stings at the sight of tears welling up in his eyes. “You didn’t have a choice, I knew that. I’m so happy you’re here with us. I’d go through all of that again if it means I get to be here with you every time.”

You’ll come back for us, someday

Sanji brings his hand to your cheek, delicately wiping away a tear you didn’t even notice came out with his thumb. He’s disregarding his own tears, smiling down at you with true warmth and contentment.

“Is it too early to say I love you? Because I really, really do. I’ve wanted to be with you ever since you joined us. I know it’s difficult for me to show that to you right now, so will you be mine? So I can continue to show you how much I love you?”

“I’d want nothing more.”

The last thing you see is your new boyfriend grinning ear to ear before he squeezes you into his chest, breaking any sort of tension that was previously between you two. The happiness is radiating from him like morning sunlight, grazing your skin and making you feel warmth for the first time in days. Tears of happiness and relief flood out of you, and mumble out an apology into his chest for dampening his shirt. He doesn’t have a care in the world. Once you break free of him to catch your breath, you gasp slightly, noticing how close your face is to his. He’s still holding you by the waist, and you can feel his shallow breaths against your face as he keeps you close. You then notice he’s staring at your lips, and in an act of newfound bravery, you place your hands around his neck and close the distance. His lips meet yours with the same gentle care that he holds you, and you both linger for a moment, basking in the sensation and bliss of contact you both craved for so long. He pulls away, only to give you a forehead kiss, lingering a bit longer into the warmth of your skin. When you get a chance to look back up at him, you swear you can see hearts in his eyes.

“Sorry, I couldn’t wait any longer,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks and ears paint themselves red with bashfulness.

“Never apologize for that. Please do that more often, actually.” You swear you can see blood begin to trickle out of his nose, and you giggle. You can absolutely tell that Sanji is truly in love with you.

“Oh! The food! I can’t waste this, would you stay here with me while I eat?” You ask Sanji, much more lighthearted than before.

“My love, could I stay with you for the whole night?”

“Please do.”

The two of you talk about everything and nothing as you eat your late night snack made by him, all the while basking in the relief of finally being with one another. Truly, you’d go through every fight on that god forsaken island again if it meant you’d be in Sanji’s arms.

‘Cause we were built in dreams of gold

(Just save room for us)

#sanji x you #sanji x reader #black leg sanji #sanji one piece #one piece #one piece x reader #sanji x y/n #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #sanji fluff #one piece fluff

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hwashotcheeto · 4 months

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𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

Park Seonghwa X gn!reader

Summary: Taking care of Hwa after a long day of...everything

WC: 1k

Content: Fluffffffff (all fluff, so much fluff, it's like cotton candy, pure sugar, oml)

AN: My first fic! Something short and sweet to ease into this. :> Enjoy my selfish indulgent fantasies about caring for mother Hwa.

Also MASSIVE thank you to the loml @malldreamprincess for making the moodboard, I love her so much, omg she's amazing

Also also listen to Hwa's cover of "Angel Baby" while reading this. If ykyk

It's been a long day for everyone. Especially long, since it felt like everything had been booked at once. Photoshoots (yes, multiple), an interview, a performance, and ending the night with brief recording.

It was already 11:30 when Seonghwa went into the booth. His body was screaming at him to sit down, but he knew if he did, he might not get back up.

So despite his eyes threatening to close, he continued with the recording.

You watched him from outside, a few feet away from an equally tired, if not more so, Hongjoong. You'd followed Seonghwa through most of the activities, and just going everywhere had you tired. You couldn't fathom the tiredness the guys were feeling.

And how often they had to endure it. This kind of day wasn't a rarity, but it wasn't common either. Their full album was going to be out in a few months, so obviously they needed to work on it. But they had other things to do, and that so happened to all be in one day.

Your heart ached as you watched your boyfriend tiredly try to record his lines, and kept fumbling on words because his mouth just couldn't make the correct shapes.

Hongjoong sighs, looking up at Seonghwa through the glass. “We have time tomorrow. You should just get to sleep.”

“But if I get done tonight, I don't have to do it tomorrow,” Seonghwa protests, in the strongest voice he can manage, which isn't much.

Hongjoong hangs his head, drumming his fingers on the desk. He looks up at you after a few seconds, and it hurts to see the light in his eyes all gone. He was about to pass out right there in his chair.

“Please go convince him to sleep, he's gonna pass out before he gets it right.”

You nodded and looked at Seonghwa again, his eyes beginning to flutter, his body swaying.

You get up from your chair and walk around the booth, going to the door and stepping inside. Seonghwa saw you coming, but he didn't move. He didn't even take the headphones off. You decided to do it for him, and to your surprise, he didn't protest. He may have already been asleep standing up, from how still and quiet he was.

“Tokki,” you call softly. Seonghwa finally shows signs of life, looking at you through his dark, silky hair. You brush his hair back and hold his cheek, to which he immediately leans into, his eyes snapping shut. “Please come back with me. You look like a zombie.”

“I need to-” He tries to speak, but you put your thumb over his lips.

“Hongjoong said you could do it tomorrow. It's okay, we can go back.” Seonghwa opens his eyes to look at you again, and just like Hongjoong, there’s no light in them. Dark pools of nothing. It almost scares you.

Seonghwa thinks about it for a few seconds, but he knows what his answer will be. He truly had no reason to stay awake when they have time tomorrow. You know it’s some unfortunate insecurity, and the demand from this industry he's joined, making people believe he’s more than he is.

To you, he's already everything he needs to be.

Seonghwa eventually nods, and you smile, pulling him into your arms. He hugs you back, leaning on you, nearly passing out right there. You keep him awake a little while longer, and help him out of the studio, and back to his dorm room.

When you make it back to his room, you're nearly carrying him. You make Seonghwa sit in his desk chair, and he instantly falls back into it, his head rolling back.

“Tokki, can you hold on just a little longer?” You ask, pulling his head up. He just hums, and you tap his cheek, making his eyes open. “I wanna take your makeup off, okay?” He nods, small short nods.

You sit on his lap as you carefully take off his makeup, carefully going over his skin with the cleanser. His arms are draped around your waist. A comforting little motion that means nothing to him, but so much to you.

Seonghwa, again, is falling asleep in the chair from your gentle touches. “Just a little longer,” you remind him, running a cotton pad across his eye. He hums in response, melting into the soft touch. You're holding his cheek with your other hand, making sure he stays in place, but it's just lulling him to sleep faster.

You finish removing his makeup and he whines when you pull away. “I'll be right back, nae sarang, I just wanna change your clothes, okay? You deserve to be comfy.” Seonghwa whines again, not caring about any of that. He just wanted to fall asleep in your arms. He could've been wearing combat gear, he'd still pass out just as comfortably.

But he stays awake a few minutes more as you strip him of his clothes and change him into his blue satin sleep set. As he feels it against his skin, he realizes that this is much more comfortable than his day clothes, and he's grateful for your effort.

Honestly, he's always grateful to be taken care of. Being the oldest of ATEEZ, he's obviously seen as the parent figure (mother, typically), and it gets exhausting.

So when Seonghwa found someone who was willing to spoil and care for him as much as he cared for his members, he swore to never let you go.

You quickly changed into one of his hoodies to sleep in, and finally helped him into his bed. He instantly cuddles up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and putting his head on your chest.

“I got you, jagiya,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. “I love you.”

“Saranghae,” Seonghwa mumbles back, squeezing you tighter.

You smile down at him as he passes out on your chest seconds later. You still watch over him, until your eyes snap shut, and you both are sleeping through the night.

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed! 💜

This is a work of fiction written by me. This does not represent the idol in any way. Any re-upload is not allowed and will be reported.

#seonghwa #seonghwa fic #seonghwa fluff #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa ff #ateez #ateez fic #ateez fluff #ateez ff

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underscorehealy · 19 days

Text

birthday sleepover: matty healy birthday fic 3

wc: <1000

cw: none

an: sadly, this is the last installment of the birthday universe, but today is matty's 35th birthday!! happy birthday, matty!! we love you so so much!! and as always, i hope you guys enjoy <3

-------------------------------------------------------

even though you and matty have been dating for a few months now, you didn't have a lot of money to afford to move in with matty. plus, he lives 45 minutes away from your job, and you only live 10 minutes away, so you promised him that when you have enough money, you'll move in with him

you live in a tiny little flat. the perfect size for just you, but if matty wants to stay the night or it just happens like that and either one of you ends up falling asleep, you're more than happy to let him stay. and you two are so in love.

with his birthday on a monday, you had really hoped it wouldn't interfere with your work schedule, but you had decided to take monday and tuesday off to celebrate with him. with george helping charli finish her album, ross in america with chloe, and adam with carly and his son, everybody else was busy so you had promised yourself to make matty's day as special as possible.

you invited him to sleepover at your flat monday night into tuesday and without even thinking about it, he said yes instantly. so with monday arriving, you spent all morning decorating your flat and buying him just one more present. and just in the nick of time, you heard the door open. "happy birthday, matty!!" you yelled as you stopped what you were doing and instantly ran over to him. he let out a giggle trying to catch his breath. "thank you so much, sweet girl." he said placing a kiss on your head.

you both just decided to order takeout for dinner and some cupcakes you had baked earlier for tonight. after dinner, you dragged him up to your bedroom just for him to turn red at the sight of rose petals spread across your blanket and a card and present wrapped in a bow. you sit him down as he begins to read through the card

"matty -

i feel like the luckiest girl in the world to be writing this right now. that's because i am the luckiest girl because i have you. you are the sweetest, caring, loving, funny, )and a bit of a smartass) boyfriend i could ever ask for. you're always here for me on my best days and worse days. you never fail to comfort me when something goes wrong and you listen to everything i have to say with such an open heart and open mind. i'm so happy i get to go on this journey through life with you and i promise to never take it for granted and that i'll always be around and i'll love you forever and always no matter what.

- yours truly"

you notice him tear up at your words, and he pulls you in for a deep, longing kiss. you never want to leave this position. you both spend the rest of the night in each other's arms watching whatever dumb show is on tv until you both end up falling asleep

#matty #matty the 1975 #the 1975 #bfiafl #drive like i do #at their very best #iliwysfyasbysuoi #matty healy #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy x reader #matty35

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pricelessemotion · 1 year

Text

Starstruck and Metal | E.M.

Summary: [4.3k] you meet eddie for the first time. it doesn't go quite like you expected.

Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist!reader

Warnings: none!

Notes: huge thank u to my bestie chuck for beta reading 🫶 also if you solve the crossword hint i love u

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InStereo magazine was not The Rolling Stones, but it was a start. The modest music magazine had a humble following, enough to earn some hums of recognition whenever someone made the mistake of asking what you did for a living. Most days, it’s great. You relish in the joy of working in a field some people only dream of entering. The leap from column writer to main article was a large one, but you insisted that you were ready. Your first assignment as a music journalist and of course you got stuck with Eddie fucking Munson.

Any self-respecting music journalist, anyone with some skin in the game would have laughed in the face of their editor. But instead, you smiled. You nodded enthusiastically, mimicking the bobblehead that has since been removed from your desk. When you decided to become a music journalist, you wanted to write about people who were changing the field. Instead, you were being tasked with writing some puff piece being used to save a wannabe rock star’s reputation. God forbid you gain the reputation of being a difficult woman–in a male-dominated industry no less–by turning down such a great opportunity.

Even if that opportunity included spending a day with Eddie fucking Munson.

You paid out of pocket for the cassette of Corroded Coffin’s debut album that was currently underscoring your drive to West Hollywood. You refused to meet the frontman without having listened to their music beforehand. They were good. A little rough around the edges, but it was to be expected. Outside of the occasional headlines, you hadn’t heard much about Eddie or his band. Corroded Coffin was making ripples, not waves. Of course, no one really cared about the music when they could be reading about who and what their lead vocalist was doing.

Still, you find yourself parking outside of a humble ranch-style home in a neighborhood full of similar housing that likely cost a fortune to live in. The modest proceeds from Corroded Coffin’s tour have obviously paid off, considering that nice area and affordable don’t usually exist in the same sentence when talking about LA housing. The June sun is beating down on the empty street, and you’re thankful that you decided to wear a T-shirt and jeans. You tell yourself that the sweat collecting on your brow is from the heat and not nerves.

Double-checking that you have the right address, you slam the door shut on your sedan and take a deep breath. The air feels cleaner here, less smoggy. You’re not sure if it’s because of the altitude or the tax bracket of the people who live here. Probably both. You reach into your purse and feel around for what you already know is inside. Pen. Notepad. Tape recorder. The holy trinity for a music journalist.

There were very few topics that Eddie wasn’t willing to talk about. You guess that when you’ve had your insides strewn across the pavement for everyone to see, you don’t bother trying to uphold any semblance of mystique. Beginning the daunting trek toward your assignment, you remind yourself of two things:

1) Don’t ask about his father

2) Don’t ask about what happened in Hawkins, Indiana in 1986

The first rule seemed simple enough. As far as the public was concerned, Eddie Munson came to Hawkins at the age of 12 to live with his Uncle Wayne like how a fully formed Venus sprang up from sea foam. He wasn’t and then he was. End of story. The fact that Eddie’s management went out of the way to make sure his father wasn’t brought up only made you more curious.

The second rule was a little harder to accept. Anyone who knew anything about Eddie Munson wanted to know about 1986. Despite the fact that his highly publicized murder charges and subsequent exoneration are part of what caused Corroded Coffin to skyrocket to fame, he’s remained very tight-lipped about the whole situation. He plays off every question about it in interviews with a smirk and a sly comment. Just charming enough to get away without answering. Just vague enough to keep people guessing. Maybe his publicist wasn’t such a waste after all.

Eddie Munson opens the door a few moments after you ring the bell. Using a ringed hand to shield his eyes from the midday sun, he squints at you. A pair of sweatpants hang low on his hips. He has a severe case of bedhead despite the fact that the time on your watch indicates that it’s nearly two in the afternoon. The confusion that draws his brows together also indicates that he has absolutely no idea who you are. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you state your name and purpose before realization graces his features.

“It’s you! Shit, yeah! You’re here for the– the thing!” He tosses a careless look over both of his shoulders before widening the opening. “Come on in.”

Eddie closes the door behind you and rushes down the hallway in order to put some real clothes on, leaving you standing in the empty living room. The inside is surprisingly clean for someone who’s gained the reputation of being a hot mess. It smells like cigarettes, weed, and lemon pledge. The lemon scent is strongest as if someone was trying–and failing–to use it to cover up the previous two. A record player is tucked into a corner, the vinyl still spinning. A line of electric guitars is propped up against the back wall, each of them no doubt costing more than your monthly rent. One of the stands is noticeably empty and you glance to your left to see a beat-up acoustic resting on the couch. On the coffee table, there are piles and piles of scrap sheets of paper. For most of them, the handwriting is too illegible to read or it’s been crossed out. Eddie seems to write lyrics like he lives his life: fast and all over the place.

Stepping closer, something along the upper corner catches your eye. Slyly lifting up a pile of paper, being sure not to disturb the configuration, you find that your suspicions are correct. Eddie received the same copy of Sub Rosa as you did. Obviously, it didn’t go over well. He’s used a pen to black out his eyes. Much to your amusement, you see he’s also drawn horns and a tail. The hand that’s flipping off the camera is illustrated to be holding a pitchfork.

That’s not the full extent of Eddie’s doodling, though. On the bottom right-hand corner of the magazine, there’s a smaller picture of him standing next to a certain brown-eyed beauty. You’re quick to note that he’s drawn a crude halo and angel wings on his long-legged companion. They’ve been scribbled out as an afterthought, making the halo look more like a crown of thorns.

So, you think to yourself, he’s a little immature. You can work with immaturity. Immaturity means that he won’t be as guarded as some of the other celebrities your coworkers have had the misery of meeting. In fact, from what little you know about Eddie, you wonder if he even has any guard at all. He did leave you alone here with stacks of potential songs for his band’s next album. If you were a better journalist and a worse person, you would probably take the time to decipher his chicken scratch and see if you could glean any insights into his creative process. But you don’t. Instead, you release the stack of papers and wait.

For a moment, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You’ve never been inside of a famous person’s house before. You’re not sure if you should sit down and make yourself comfortable or if Eddie has something else planned for the two of you to do. The specifics of your assignment were intentionally vague, most likely to accommodate Eddie’s spontaneity.

Venturing further into the living room, you come to stand in front of a shelf. Brushing your fingers across the collection of vinyl, you tilt your head to read the names along the spines. There are the usual suspects–Dio, Metallica, and Judas Priest–but what surprises you is that, in the midst of all the metal and hard rock, there’s an array of old-school country music. At the end of the lineup is the most surprising one of them all; Sentimentally Yours by Patsy Cline. It’s exceedingly worn, cracks and creases litter the empty sleeve. If you were a betting woman, you would say that the record is currently on the player across the room.

A muffled crash followed by a string of curse words breaks you out of your reverie. Eddie opens the bedroom door with the finesse of someone who is obviously used to being the center of attention. He’s traded his sweatpants and tank top for a pair of ripped black jeans and a v-neck. It felt reassuring to know that you hadn’t underdressed for the occasion.

It also gives you a moment to drink in the blinding light that was Eddie Munson. He’s leaner in person. Though he always looked lithe in every photograph you saw of him, his frame seemed more imposing and large. Maybe all the stars just look that way when they’re so high above you.

He was taller, too. The boots on his feet surely aided in that, given that the soles were at least an inch thick. Still, you didn’t anticipate how much you would have to tilt your head up just to look him in the eyes.

There, standing in Eddie Munson’s rented living room, you realize something; You’re absolutely starstruck.

Although you had turned up your nose at the prospect of interviewing him and regarded his reputation with the same disdain you reserved for bad drivers and shitty landlords, you were still a person after all.

With all of the stars around, it’s easy to think of Los Angeles as the center of the universe. But you are not a star or anything even close to it. You’re some space debris, hopelessly floating and waiting for something bigger to come around and influence you with its gravitational pull.

Eddie is a heavenly body. You can’t help being pulled into his orbit.

“So, I see you’ve found my collection.” His voice is still rough with sleep. The sound makes you weak in the knees.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop.” You mumble, tucking Patsy Cline back into the shelf. “You’ve got some really good stuff here.”

“Don’t worry about it. Actually, that reminds me, I have something for you.” He swiftly turns and stalks back towards what seems to be his bedroom, motioning for you to follow him.

The blood rushes out of your cheeks. The terms of your interview suggested that you would have a lot of access, but this was different. This was up close and personal. Your feet seem to have a mind of their own because while you’re still wrapped up in the fact that you’re gonna see Eddie Munson’s bedroom, you’re already following him down the hallway and through the open door.

It’s about as messy as you would expect. The furniture is all pale wood and earth tones, fitting the mid-century modern stylings of the rest of the house. You suspect that Eddie took the time to clean up a little while you were rifling through the stacks of paper. The bed is haphazardly made. There’s an ashtray on his bedside table, filled with the remains of a few cigarettes.

“I’m not supposed to smoke inside. Shh.” He brings his index finger to his mouth, pink lips barely brushing the skull ring he’s wearing. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You let out an airy laugh. Being reprimanded for smoking inside is the least of Eddie’s worries and you both know it.

Eddie’s nimble fingers skim the top of the dresser, brushing aside even more sheets of scrap paper. A couple of guitar picks plummet to the floor, but he pays no mind.

“I heard that metal isn’t usually your thing.” He remarks, still sifting through the clutter.

That much is true. While you dabbled in a little bit of everything, not only as part of your job but also as part of your interest in music, metal wasn’t usually the genre you gravitated towards. In fact, the most metal album that you had listened to recently was written and produced by the man standing in front of you.

“It’s not, but I’m open to everything.”

“Aha! Here it is.” Eddie holds up the cassette like it’s the key to the universe. Handing it to you, you can see that the writing on the sides is reminiscent of what you saw in the living room, though slightly neater. You’re familiar with some of the bands listed, but the songs don’t ring a bell. “I thought I would broaden your musical horizons.”

You gawk at him. For someone whose job is about words, you can’t find any. He took the time to make you a mixtape?

“Track five is a personal favorite.” Eddie says, leaning towards you and tapping the tracklist, obviously unshaken by your inability to form a coherent thought.

“Thanks. I’ll give it a listen.” You manage to choke out, tucking the cassette into the front pocket of your purse.

Looking around the room, you see that there’s a battered copy of The Lord of the Rings on his bedside table. The corners are frayed, and you’re certain that you could accidentally tear the cover off of the paperback if you’re not careful. Cautiously, you trace the spine with your finger, waiting for Eddie to say something. To tell you that it’s the one thing that’s off limits. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching you. Opening it, you can see Property of Eddie A. Munson written underneath the title in a childish scrawl.

“You like books? I mean–you’re a writer, so of course you like books–I mean, have you read that one?” Eddie is visibly flustered, the words coming out of his mouth at an alarming rate. It almost makes up for the way he rendered you speechless moments ago.

“I’m more of a Dune girl myself. But, I love The Lord of the Rings. My dad used to read it to me before bed every night.”

“Yeah?” A small smile tugs at his lips before he practically whispers his next words. “Mine too.”

A flash of something you can’t quite decipher crosses Eddie’s face.

“Right! Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?” He shuffles out of the room like his life depends on it. You’re still reeling at the fact that he brought up his dad unprompted. Keeping a brisk pace, you put the book down and follow him into the kitchen.

“We have…” He trails off, opening the door to the refrigerator. “Nothing.”

He shuts the refrigerator and dashes to the table by the front door. He mumbles to himself before grabbing a few things, shrugging on a jacket, and finally turning to face you again. A pair of sunglasses covers the half of his face that isn’t plastered with a mischievous grin. From the tips of his fingers hangs a set of car keys.

“You hungry?”

–

You should’ve known that Eddie Munson would try to kill you within 20 minutes of meeting him. Lifting up the garage door, he reveals that the car keys were in fact, not car keys but keys to a motorcycle. The vehicle in question is an absolutely stunning deathtrap. It shines so beautifully that you can see your terrified face in the warped reflection.

Putting his helmet on, Eddie straddles the bike and looks at you.

“C’mon.” Eddie smiles wolfishly, tilting the spare helmet towards you. “I’m a safe driver. Promise.”

You’re still standing frozen. His wolfish grin melts into something more patient.

“Hey, if you don’t want to take the motorcycle, just say the word. I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna do.”

Despite the sincerity in his voice, you can’t help but take the words as a challenge.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” You profess, though the shake in your voice is evident. Grabbing the helmet out of his hands, you ignore the way your face heats up when your fingers brush.

Eddie takes gross advantage of California’s lane-splitting laws, leaving you clinging to his leather-draped torso for dear life. Outside from the occasional shout of assurance that you can’t understand, the ride is quiet but for the roar of the bike and the wind in your ears. You’re vacillating between being absolutely terrified of crashing and secretly relieved at the fact that you didn’t have to make small talk on the drive from his place to wherever he was taking you.

You were very close to liking Eddie Munson. Now, you were sure that he was sent as some kind of karmic punishment.

“Parking in L.A. is always a pain. That’s why I love this baby,” He gingerly pats the handles as he kicks the parking brake down. “She can fit basically anywhere.”

You hum in agreement, mostly just happy to have made it to your destination in one piece. While Eddie hops off the bike with ease, you have a little more trouble. Swinging your leg over, your toe catches on the fuel tank, causing you to stumble and nearly fall to the ground. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that Eddie is biting back a smile. He offers a calloused hand out to you. You brush it away out of embarrassment, planting both feet firmly on the ground and taking in your surroundings.

You had expected Eddie to take you to one of L.A.’s finer dining venues. Somewhere with fancy mood lighting and clientele with pockets so deep that they don’t even bother to put the prices on the menu. His management was footing the bill, after all.

The building that sits before you is none of those things. The diner is old and slightly dilapidated. Graffiti mars the stucco that hasn’t already crumbled away. The neon sign that says Zazie’s! blinks drowsily, more of an eyesore than eye-catching.

Eddie opens the door for you. As the bell above it jingles, you’re hit with a rush of conditioned air and canned nostalgia. The walls are covered in artifacts from a bygone era of poodle skirts and letterman jackets. A lonely jukebox sits in the corner, playing a soft hum to a Billie Holiday song you have long forgotten the name of.

A plump woman sits behind the counter doing the crossword in the newspaper. Likely, the same one you were doing that morning. A thoughtful look is etched into her soft features, and you wonder if she’s also stuck on 57-down: Idle during the heist. The ten-letter space confounded you so much that you were almost late. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like Eddie is the type of person to care too much about punctuality. At the sound of the bell, she looks up, squints, and smiles.

“Is that you, Toto?” The glasses that sit on the tip of her nose are attached to a chain around her neck. She lets them fall to her chest, her voice bright and amiable.

“You know it is, Dorothy!” Eddie gushed, an award-winning smile back on his face.

They fall into easy conversation, making it obvious that he’s a regular here. You keep glancing at him trying to find hints of ingenuity but there are none. Eddie regards the woman with the warmth and respect that you would expect from a boy scout, not a rockstar.

Sliding into a booth, Dorothy hands you both a menu and leaves to make a fresh pot of coffee.

“You have to try the french toast, it’s divine.” Eddie barely steals a look at the laminated folder before folding it back up and putting it down on the table.

“I’ve never really been a french toast person. I don’t know if I wanna risk it.”

Eddie gives you a pointed look, sunglasses slipping down the slope of his nose. “You rode a motorcycle. How much more risky is a plate of french toast?”

“Maybe that was all the risk-taking I had in me for one day.” You force yourself to shrug noncommittally. You don’t know why breakfast food is the hill you’ve chosen to die on, but you’re going down swinging.

“Well, you already trusted me with your life.” Eddie takes the sunglasses off and tucks his fist under his chin, forcing you to look into his deep brown eyes. “Think you can trust me with this?”

Suddenly, all of the fight in you disappears. There’s that sincerity in his voice again. You realize then that the best and worst thing about Eddie Munson is how genuine he always sounds.

“Yeah, I do.”

The smile on his face is so bright that you feel compelled to look away. Eddie orders for both of you. It’s enough food to feed a small army, but it seems that Dorothy is used to it because she leaves the table with a wink and says if y’all need anything just holler!

“Do you mind?” You say, pulling out the notepad and pen from your purse.

Eddie freezes for a fraction of a second. It’s almost imperceptible. Almost. In the small amount of time you’ve known him, it has become abundantly clear that Eddie wears his heart on his sleeve. Recovering quickly, he gives you the go-ahead and smiles. For the first time today, his grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So,” You begin, clicking the button on your ballpoint. “I have to ask. Toto?”

Eddie barks out a laugh. He goes on a whole spiel about how he was having a terrible day and walked into the diner feeling homesick and hungry. When he first came to L.A. he felt like Dorothy stepping into the technicolor world of Oz. Once the novelty wore off, he found himself missing when the world used to be so black and white. Upon telling the wise waitress, aptly named Dorothy, she lovingly told him, Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. The nickname stuck ever since.

The story almost sounds rehearsed. A perfect sound bite that shows how you can take the boy out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the boy. And yet, you feel inclined to believe him. Eddie just seems to have that effect on people.

The food finally arrives and you’re amazed to find that Eddie’s eyes are not bigger than his stomach. He talks about music and his band in between bites of pancakes and hashbrowns, both of them drowned in an inch of syrup. He speaks of his friends back in Indiana with a certain fondness, but you can’t help but notice how avoids naming his hometown. He also never refers to Hawkins as back home, instead saying where I’m from.

Conversation between the two of you flows as easily as the never-ending coffee from Dorothy’s pot. It’s almost too easy to forget that this is an interview. Remembering yourself, you take a moment to ask Eddie one of the harder-hitting questions you have in your back pocket.

“What about Evelyn Chau?”

Eddie winces. The open book that was sitting before you shuts tight with a resilient slam. The mouthful of pancakes and syrup seems to turn to sludge as his chewing slows. Despite having no regard for table manners earlier, he points at his lips and holds up a finger to indicate that he needs a minute to swallow.

After taking a sip of coffee and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, he slouches in his seat and crosses his arms defensively.

“What about Evelyn Chau?” He repeats your question back to you but with an unmistakable air of forced nonchalance.

You want to crumble under his pointed gaze, but you don’t. You steel yourself with the reminder that asking uncomfortable questions is part of your job description. Besides, it would raise many more alarms if you didn’t ask about the raven-haired model spotted painting the town with him than if you did.

“Everyone wants to know if you’re together.”

“Everyone.” He exaggerates the word, using his index finger to trace the lip of his coffee cup. “Does that include you?”

The smirk on his face indicates that he’s either messing with you or flirting with you. Maybe both.

“Well,” you demure. “are you?”

“Evie is just a friend.” Eddie’s still perfectly composed, but the familiarity with which he says her nickname betrays him. His face twitches when he catches his slip-up. “A really close friend.”

It’s already too late. He couldn’t convince you that she was just a friend if he tried. A flash of a crossed-out halo and crooked angel wings comes to mind.

You’re about to ask him another question, but Dorothy and her impeccable timing interrupts the moment by placing the check on the table. Eddie throws down a few bills from an old leather wallet, while you’re trying to figure out how you can spin a two-hour diner date into an entire article.

Eddie stretches as he stands up, the hem of his black v-neck raises to expose a tattoo on his right hip that snakes down further than you’re supposed to look. On the other side, you catch a muddled array of purple and red scar tissue. Averting your eyes, you look up and are met with a stony gaze. He caught you staring.

“What do you say we get outta here?”

Because you’re a very stupid, stupid woman, you agree.

likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished ♥️

taglist: @twisted-wonderland-of-wren

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #mimi wrote ✍️#can i ask you a question?

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likeadevils · 2 months

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is there a specific order you like to listen to the red vault tracks in? i’ve been thinking about this a lot ever since 1989 tv came out because the 1989 vault tracks tell such a cohesive story so i’ve been trying to figure out how to do that with the red vault

YES ITS LIKE. THE ALBUM TO REARRANGE FOR ME I GENUINELY HAVENT LISTENED TO THE ORIGINAL TRACKLIST IN YEARS NOW

i think i’ve run through it before but here’s my thoughts on the mains tracklist

state of grace: perfect opener no notes

22: this is and holy ground can switch for me, i think either makes a fantastic track two, but it’s hard to pass up 22 track 2. also i like how the second song and the second to last song parallel each other

treacherous: building off of 22’s “you look like bad news, i gotta have you”

i knew you were trouble: it’s the obvious mirror of treacherous, and also i think it’s important to establish the emotion->exact opposite emotion flip of the tracklist, and treacherous and ikywt are a really obvious example of that

all too well: i mean what else can you choose. also it’s a good flip of ikywt because it’s all the moments where it DIDN'T feel like trouble

wanegbt: “i remember it all too well 😔” -> “I REMEMBER WHEN WE BROKE UP 😡🙄” is just an insane whiplash. ALSO track sixes are such a hard landing to stick and can easily be overshadowed by the track five, and having a song that’s already been released kinda lets the song simultaneously have its moment beforehand and let you kinda check out on your first listen through while you recover from atw

come back be here: i think cbbh really just deserves a main album slot, mostly cause it deserved to be played on tour, but i also think it’s a great whiplash from wanegbt and a great lead in to…

the last time: it takes the more crush-focused aspects of cbbh and plays them out to the bitter end, just that cycle of always leaving and coming back and leaving again. also it’s the end of the first half of the album

red: it’s a great pick me up in the middle of three mellow songs, also i can’t separate this from run which i can’t separate from sad beautiful tragic and i can’t put sad beautiful tragic right before all too well so it needs to be further down the tracklist

run: “loving him was like driving a new maserati down a dead end street” -> “give me the keys, i’ll bring the car back around” makes me go CRAZY

sad beautiful tragic: THE AMOUNT OF PARALLELS WITH RUN IS INSAAAAAAAANE

holy ground: again this is a bit of a floater like i could see an argument for this being track two. and the argument is it goes hard at the start of the red tour

better man: this just needs to be by the end of the album for me. it feels like the start of the summary, wrapping up what we’ve learned and starting the hard work of moving on that the last few tracks will continue

i bet you think about me: that first verse really stretching out the betterrrrr’s after better man is funny. also, after an album of one sided pining in one way or another, it’s just like hey. fuck you. also, at first it kinda bugged me how the last few tracks starts at 4am, then 3am, then the middle of the night, but then i started seeing them as just slowly losing less and less sleep over it, which i kinda love now

nothing new: here is the damage i am left with. even if i move on from this relationship, here is the mindset that will whisper in the back of my mind forever— that i am valuable because of my youth, that my happiness is mockable and my sadness is quaint. this is the thing that led me to the relationship and this is the thing that i will be left with after it

begin again: and then… begin again. choosing happiness, choosing maturity, choosing childlike joy. like, you all know it’s an amazing closer, but after nothing new it just sings

+ forever winter: i think this does add important context to her general mental state? like 22 mentions how everyone is miserable, but really focuses on the highs of being 22. forever winter adds to it, how your peer group is falling apart and even when you are at your worst, you are being someone else's shoulder to lean on. it's not Needed to tell the story, but it is a good bonus.

+ starlight: more good context, especially in taylor's personal life-- as far as i can tell, this is the first song she wrote for red that Wasn't about crash and burn heartbreak, and it really kicked into high gear an obsession with vintage fashion and mid century celebrities that she ended up building part of her personality around. she's not just trying to find her old self again, she's building a new one

+babe: what am i supposed to do, not end the album with this is the last time i'll ever call you babe?

+ state of grace (acoustic), the red demo, and all too well (ten minute version) to get the tracklist to 22 and also fun bts context!

#asks*#claire's versions*

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blueberrypancakesworld · 6 months

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Heeey, I really love your content, so could you maybe write about an ordinary day with Dead, a little bit fluff and making out.🥹♥️

A normal day

warning : fluff, kissing, cuddling, no use of Y/n, reader is fem

masterlist

Info : Thanks for the request and the kind words enjoy reading it and everybody else too ;)

Disclaimer : I don't want to glorify anything, it's about the actors who play a role, not the real events.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

°A normal day would be now yes a normal day with Dead and his girlfriend together with the other boys. In the early morning hours when she would still be asleep the light would already be on in the common sleeping room.

°The day would always begin for the blond with a few drawings pictures he had seen in his sleep out of his longing of the dead. Wanted to get a few more albums cover ready before he would wake her. His cold hand stroked her cheek and she slowly woke up from the goosebumps. She looked at him a little annoyed and yet with a smile as he pulled her into a kiss. His excuse that always came.

°The morning that was always too early according to her was then at breakfast together she made sure that her love did not only eat ready-made pizzas. Sometimes she did not even feed him that he would have something against it however the incentive was then usually a further round on the Friedhoff which they made at break of the night mostly.

°,,If I didn't have you," he said, his hand resting on hers as they both drank their black espresso. Only darkness for the soul she thought to herself and smiled when she saw him taking a sip of milk in spite of it. He always did it, but there was a little lightness in his heart.

°From the shared apartment, the entire black coven met in the dilapidated house. The red run-down wooden house had clearly seen better days. But Dead and his heart were surprisingly handy and had already repaired the roof more than once at night at the request of their friend. But at the latest when he ended up laughing on the floor below, they decided to do it by day.

°While the band was rehearsing and she wasn't listening, she was giving some hints and playing the guitar herself, writing some poems, cleaning the house or trying not to let the garden in the backyard of the house die. The garden in which she had also planted dark roses, which surprisingly were Dead's favorite flowers.

°The rehearsals were usually so loud that she hummed along and shouted a little. She knew his lyrics by heart and practiced with him whenever they had time. Before they all together either what in the snacks in the city hollten or the pancakes devoured she had made them all. Much to her delight, the boys were all over her. ,,My cooking is the best," she mumbled and took one herself before sitting down next to Dead on the couch.

°The rehearsal continued for a while before they both headed back home. Hand in hand and even if he didn't want it at first he liked the contact. She gave him a kiss again and again and she felt how he stroked her fingers. Again and again they talked about new lyrics, album covers and new artworks.

°When they were back in the apartment and cuddling on the couch watching horrofilms. The snacks flowed while she felt his fingers tracing gentle circles over her fingers up to her arms and pulling her to him. Apparently he decided to leave kisses on her hat before he pulled her onto his shot. That the day ended with more than just cuddling and kisses for them both was as clear to them as the hell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@icarus-star

#lord of chaos #lords of chaos 2018 #jack kilmer #lords of chaos dead x reader #loc dead x reader #reader is female

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sleepanonymous · 27 days

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Hi! I hope you don't mind, but I would like to ask your input on something, since you post a lot of "lost media" stuff. Do you know what the general etiquette for talking about members' past bands/projects in public spaces?

Here's the thing: I only discovered Sleep Token a few months ago, and when I first listened, I was shocked to recognize Vessel's voice immediately. Apparently I've actually been listening to one of his old projects for like 8 years now 😭 It's lovely to know he's still making music and it's wonderful to see how he's progressed with his skills (his voice!! Oh my god, he's grown so much), but I can't help but feel a little sad because I'm worried I'll be shunned if I mention his old works around ST fans. What has your experience been with this sort of thing? I just don't want to start a fuss on accident.

Hi, Anon 🖤 I don't mind at all, thanks for the question. With the anonymity of Sleep Token, it's very tricky to talk about any of the band's past projects in fan spaces. Basic etiquette is to not mention them at all because of the names and faces associated with the projects. For that reason, the rest of this answer is going below a "keep reading" cut.

If you are a Sleep Token fan, and don't want to see past project names, do not click on "Keep Reading."

First off: Anon, I'm so jealous of you! Lol, I'm surprised you found Blacklit Canopy first, that's such a rarity in this fandom! You have no idea how many times I'm like "Where was I in 2012?! Why didn't I find this in 2014?!"

Secondly, my whole experience with this particular corner of the fandom has been lovely tbh. But I think I get away with posting "lost media" because I make sure to keep names/YouTube/anything identifying detached from the posts. I only ever refer to him as Ves (and not his full stage name) and I don't mention Sleep Token (or if I do I abbreviate to ST). I think the closest I ever got to mentioning Ves's past project actually was in this lost media post.

Another reason I think a lot of fans would consider it improper to mention Ves's old project is because the relationship he was in with the other half of Blacklit Canopy technically changes 70-80% of Sleep Token's songs. The intricate lore that fans have created is suddenly lost, and we're left with roughly three albums about "the girl that got away" and how Ves coped with it. That isn't inherently a bad thing, but I understand why it's not everyone's cup of tea. Since you're new to Sleep Token, I'm going to assume you haven't seen these interviews: about why the member's identities "don't matter" and what Sleep Token's goal is as a band.

I have seen people make posts about Blacklit Canopy here on Tumblr before without receiving backlash (at least outwardly), but that's only because it was in a similar manner to this post (the majority of it was under a "read more" cut), they kept the band names separate in the tags i.e. they didn't tag Sleep Token, and didn't mention Ves's name at all. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I've seen posts literally stating "It is disrespectful to listen to Ves's old music," which I don't agree with. One: there's an entire other person involved. Two: if Ves didn't want his fans to know, why are the Blacklit Canopy YouTube channel and Twitter accounts still up? And three: they literally released a deluxe EP on Spotify at the beginning of the year which Ves is 100% aware of and signed off on, if it wasn't him who published it in the first place. I'm not here to tell fans what they're feeling is wrong— on either end of the spectrum— because I understand where they are coming from and why they might feel that way.

All of the above said, there are safe fan spaces where it's perfectly acceptable to mention both Sleep Token and Blacklit Canopy in the same sentence; even identities. That goes for all Sleep Token members, past and present, and their other projects. So if you were wanting to keep them a mystery, then I'm sadly out of suggestions aside from DMs maybe. There are more people on this site Who Know™️ than you might think.

On Reddit you have both r/BlacklitCanopy and r/SleepTokenTheory

On Facebook you have the Blacklit Canopy Fans page

On Discord there's discord.gg/blacklitcanopy

I'm not so active on Reddit, and I don't have Facebook, so I'm very biased toward option three I'm also an admin there.

#anon asks #sleepanon answers #i'm actually terrified and might delete this post later

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x--daughters-of-darkness--x · 5 months

Text

Evanescence, ‘Fallen’ | The Album Story

RS: Listening back, it is striking just how bold and ambitious it is for a debut album. Not many bands come out with a full choir and string section on their first album. Did you have to fight for those elements at all?

AMY: “You know, it helps when you have something that you really want to do that you’re gonna fight for. But that you have the ability to do. If I had a crazy idea of Gregorian chants or an all-boys choir, something that I couldn’t actually make happen, it would be a lot harder, because we’re gonna spend all this money on finding somebody to create the sound and then find the team. At least with choirs, specifically, in high school I was the choir president. I loved choir, I was inspired by a lot of that old Celtic and Latin hymn stuff. And I took Latin. So I was like ‘I’ll write it, I’ll do everything, all you gotta do is help me put together a small team of vocalists, it’s not gonna be that expensive’. We can make this happen. I think just having the moxie, or whatever it is, to go ‘I’ll put this all together, all you have to do is just trust me artistically’. It’s still a fight. It was harder to fight for real strings, because that’s just expensive. That’s just something that cost a whole lot of money. But to me, that was so key to what our sound was. The whole idea was that it was if a heavy band with riff-driven, pop hooks could get in a head-on collision with a dark film score. If it didn’t have that film score part of it, it would have felt like so much was missing. I do remember having a discussion with the label about ways we can make it sound real with pads and stuff – they’re better than they used to be. But I just always said ‘No, whatever it is, we’re on the hook for it. In the end, I promise we’ll get the money paid back. We have to have real strings. It has to be real’. And then we ended up with David Campbell who is one of the absolute best in the industry for that, and we’ve had a lifelong, career-long partnership now that I’m so grateful for.”

RS: The ‘Bring Me To Life’ demo was the first taste people got of this reissue. It’s remarkable how fully formed that track already was even at that early stage.

AMY: “There’s probably 10 demos of that song. The label had fixated on it and decided it was going to be the single we were going to focus on. So it was just constantly changing, we felt like we were in this demo forever. But they all happened over the course of just a couple of years. So the very first demo, before the chorus was what it was, I don’t even know where that is. I don’t even have that. It started without the rap but also the ‘Wake me up inside’ part wasn’t there. It was the verses and the chorus was like…I could sing it for you but that’s not going to translate into your magazine. But the one you heard that’s on there was sort of in the middle. That wasn’t the last one.”

RS: It is still the song we know, it just needs a few tweaks. It’s interesting to be able to see the process behind that.

AMY: “I always remembered that little sample in the beginning that became the piano part. That was always still in my head because we listened to it so many times before making the song. We wanted the piano so it would be like a film score starting out.”

RS: How big a role did your cinematic influences play in creating the album?

AMY: “We were really inspired by film and would go to the movies all the time. Part of that is just the age we were in high school. But it also felt like research – ‘Donnie Darko’, ‘Edward Scissorhands’. It was like I was really learning from it. My favourite part about film was the music, not so much the soundtracks, that’s great too, but the score is what makes you know how to feel. There is a whole sub story going on underneath. You are feeling things that are deeper than just the words and actions of the characters. So that’s when I started getting really inspired. I wanted to be in a band, but I would really like to score film and was going to school for that when we got signed.”

RS: ‘Everybody’s Fool’ is a track you have discussed a lot in the past. It seems to express some frustrations around the idea of fame and success but, again, it was written so early in your career. Once you found that success, did the song take on any new meaning for you?

AMY: “At the time, I was the teenager, a big sister, and my siblings were younger in elementary school. My two little sisters, who are very close in age, were in their boyband and pop girl moment. I was like ‘Oh my god, you guys are totally dumb. Listen to real music, I’ll show it to you’. I was always trying to influence them with Green Day, and Nirvana songs that didn’t have horrible things in the imagery. But at the same time, like they were going through this time where it was not just about the stars but school cliques and what you look like seemed like a really big focus. Who liked you, all that stuff, everybody goes through that. I think what I really wanted to say was that what I respect is authenticity. That should be the thing that we’re trying to win, not the beauty contest. Just be yourself. But then, strangely, soon after I found myself in the spotlight really fast in a really big way where you are on a stage for people to just look at you and talk about you like an object and that was hard. That was a weird time for me, because I was really young and really never bought into all that. But when it’s happening to you on a really large scale, you can’t just tune it out and leave the cafeteria. You have to actually face it – ‘There’s my career, how do I be the most of myself and show all the parts of myself that I really want to be seen and not be misunderstood?’ I just felt really misunderstood. But I think the lesson really is that you have to keep on, look at yourself, look at your real friends and the people around you that really know you. Remember who you are apart from it. It’s always been good for me to take breaks from this. I don’t think I need to anymore the way that I did. I know who I am. I know we’re gonna be here. But it was always important for me to step away and go ‘I’m not Amy Lee. I’m just Amy still’. I still have hold of my identity which is ever changing. It still has room to grow. I’m not stuck as that album cover picture forever, even though that is still a perception in probably millions of people’s minds. So you just have to give yourself the freedom to keep growing.”

RS: In terms of what may come next from you, how has looking back and reflecting on your early days affected how you want to move forward?

AMY: “I think it’s always a positive thing to remember your roots, even if it just means you’re going to branch really, really far away for them and do stuff that you’ve never done. I think you have to know who you are and know where you’ve been, because this is just the next chapter in that story. I’ve been doing that all year to where I just kind of never want to hear it again. Not really, but it’s definitely a little bit of what I said before about recognising those innocent moments where I’m not trying to be ahead of somebody’s criticism or anything. Write something without feeling any fear. That’s really sweet. I don’t know how I could recreate that. It’s hard to say because I dearly, dearly love our band, my guys and now Emma (Anzai, bassist). I’m most interested to hear what her new dynamic brings into the situation when we get together. I’ve wanted to be in a band with her for a really long time and it just finally worked out.”

#amy lee #evanescence #2023 interviews

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