my answer speed is slow paced. however, feel free to chat with me in my asks! i only write for the characters listed in my masterlist. i do not have a current list of what i will and won't write, but if there is a request i am uncomfortable with, i will just delete it.
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➵ about me
my name is vienna (vi, for short!) some of this blog is 18+ for some posts! if you like my work, please feel free to like, comment, and repost!
i’m 21 years old and currently a psychology and criminal justice student! i love to write, watch movies, and listen to music! you’ll find most of my fics are titled after songs.
some more little facts about me! i’m a pinterest warrior, i’m addicted to coffee, i love animals, i love being disgustingly educated, and i aspire to work in the film industry one day!
summary: you and michael get into a fight about you working with someone he no longer associates with, and he avoids you for six weeks... then his team has the audacity to ask you to be at an awards show you were already going to attend
themes: horrible communication, begging, intimate sex, slightly sub michael, teasing with fingering, masturbation
author's note: yes this is inspired by when michael ignored elvis jr for 6 weeks after she went on vacay with her ex hahahaha
1995
new york
You were pissed.
Not the kind of anger that flickers and fades, not the kind that cools with time or distance. This sat heavy in your chest, constant, simmering, alive. It moved through your body like a current, sharp and electric, making it impossible to sit still on the private jet from Los Angeles to New York. Every shift in your seat, every restless adjustment of your hands in your lap, every tight inhale felt like it was barely containing it.
Your husband had been gone.
For six weeks, a little over a month, he was gone, and you had no idea where he was. That was the part that didn't settle, the part that never stopped feeling wrong, no matter how many days passed. It wasn't just that he needed space; it wasn't just that he left after the argument, it was that he disappeared in a way that shut you out completely. There was no location, no real explanation, nothing that grounded his absence in something you could understand.
And the worst part? He hadn't even spoken to you. Not once.
Every message, every update, every piece of information you'd gotten had come filtered through his team, passed along like you were just another person on a list of obligations instead of his wife. It made your jaw tighten just thinking about it, made your fingers curl slightly against the armrest as you stared out the window, the clouds stretching endlessly beneath you.
A little over a month ago, the two of you got into an argument, and when you got back to Neverland later that evening, Michael was gone. The memory of it lingered with a sharp clarity that hadn't dulled over the weeks, the way the house had felt too quiet when you stepped inside, the way something had immediately felt off before you even knew why. A note that barely gave any explanation at all sat in his place, small and insufficient for what it represented.
Needed space. Be back later.
Those words had stayed with you in a way you hadn't expected, not because of what they said, but because of everything they didn't. You had stood there longer than you meant to, staring at it, reading it again and again like it might change if you gave it enough time, like it might reveal something hidden underneath its simplicity.
And you had initially thought later would mean later that night, or even potentially the next day, because that has happened before. Because there had been moments where things got too heated, where he needed distance, where the best thing either of you could do was step away and come back when it wasn't so raw.
But no.
It's been six weeks, and you still haven't seen him or spoken to him.
Six weeks of waking up without him. Six weeks of going to sleep in a bed that felt too big, too empty in a way that made it impossible not to notice. Six weeks of conversations that never happened, of apologies that never came, of tension that never had the chance to be resolved because he never gave it the space to.
What started it all was Quincy Jones reaching out to you and asking for a favor.
Even thinking about that now felt complicated, tangled up in everything that followed, even though at the time it had felt so simple. He is the executive producer of the sitcom The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and he asked you if you wanted to guest-star on the show as yourself because they've had a lot of musical guest stars on the show. It had felt easy to say yes in your head, easy to imagine yourself stepping into something fun, something different, something that wasn't heavy or complicated.
Michael wasn't entirely happy or comfortable with Quincy asking you for a favor because of how things ended between them after the Bad album.
You had expected that. You had known that before the conversation even started, you could feel it the moment Quincy's name came up in the context of anything that involved you. Michael had wanted more creative control and felt like Quincy was stifling that, and you had seen what that frustration looked like up close, had heard it in his voice, had watched it build over time until it became something he couldn't ignore anymore.
Quincy felt like he was owed more because of how successful all three of Michael's albums that he helped produce, Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad, were.
And that difference in perspective had never really resolved itself. It just... ended.
But to you, it wasn't even about Quincy.
You loved Fresh Prince, and guest-starring on it was something you didn't want to pass up at all. It was yours. That was the part that mattered. It wasn't tied to history, or ego, or unresolved tension. It was something you enjoyed, something you wanted, something that felt like it belonged to you and your own career.
But Michael couldn't see past it.
He couldn't separate Quincy from the opportunity, couldn't look at it without seeing everything that had happened between them layered over it. It felt disrespectful that Quincy would treat him the way that he did, but then have the nerve to ask you, his wife, for a favor, and you understood that.
You and Michael went back and forth about it for days.
It wasn't one conversation. It wasn't something quick and resolved. You argued for days about it. The same points, the same frustrations, the same inability to land anywhere that didn't leave one of you feeling unheard. Every time it came up, it carried more weight, more tension, more of that underlying frustration that neither of you knew how to soften without giving something up.
You understood where Michael was coming from, you really did.
That was the part that made it harder. Because you weren't dismissing him, weren't brushing off his feelings like they didn't matter. You supported Michael's decision to separate creatively from Quincy because you also felt that Quincy was stifling him creatively, and you had seen firsthand what that freedom had done for him. Dangerous and HIStory were proof of that. They were bold, different, entirely his in a way that felt undeniable.
And you didn't like some of the comments Quincy had made about Michael, especially when it came to his vitiligo.
That wasn't lost on you. None of it was.
But you tried to explain to Michael multiple times, it wasn't about Quincy; it was about guest-starring on your favorite show, getting your music out there in a new way. It was about doing something that made you excited, something that felt like growth in a way that was separate from him, even if your lives were so deeply intertwined.
You're a successful artist.
That mattered. Even if it looked different. Even if it didn't carry the same scale, the same level of attention, the same weight that his name did. No one is on Michael's level, and you honestly don't want the level of fame your husband has; you get enough elevated fame from being his wife, along with being a musician in your own right.
Your two hit singles I'm Your Baby Tonight and I Will Always Love You were still in heavy rotation on the radio stations.
You heard them everywhere. In passing. In cars. In rooms you walked into unexpectedly. Little reminders of something that had come from you, from your voice, from your experiences. Both of those songs you had written about Michael, and there was something that twisted slightly in your chest when you thought about that now, about how much of him existed in your work while he had removed himself from your life so completely.
And I Will Always Love You was the song Quincy wanted you to sing on the show. The same song that had spent 14 weeks as number 1 on the Billboard charts, the same song that was used for Whitney Houston's movie, The Bodyguard.
It meant something. It carried weight. It was yours.
After days of arguing about it, you told Michael that you were sorry that he didn't like Quincy asking you for a favor, but you weren't going to pass up the opportunity to guest star on your favorite sitcom because of Quincy Jones.
There had been a finality to that moment, something that settled into the space between you that neither of you moved to fix. You told Michael you were going to the set for a meeting with Quincy Jones and the other executive producer, Benny Medina.
When you got home after the meeting, Michael was gone.
The quiet had hit you first, the kind that didn't feel natural, didn't feel like a home that was lived in, even though everything was still there. Nothing had been disturbed. Nothing had been taken. It was just... him that was missing.
You haven't heard from him since.
He didn't come home, his side of the bed remained empty, and the bed itself remained cold. It wasn't just something you noticed once and adjusted to; it was something you felt every single night, the untouched sheets on his side holding their shape like time had stopped there, like he had simply stepped away and never returned. The cold wasn't just physical; it settled deeper than that, sinking into the routine you had built together, turning something that was once familiar into something that felt incomplete every time you lay down.
He didn't call; only his team did, their voices always careful, always measured, never carrying the weight that his voice would have, never sounding like someone who belonged to you. Every message passed through them felt wrong, like a conversation that should have been yours being filtered and controlled before it ever reached you, and eventually, you stopped answering, because if Michael wanted to tell you something, he needed to do it himself. You weren't going to accept distance disguised as communication, not from him.
But yesterday, something had told you to answer the phone when it rang.
Your hand had paused before picking it up, that split second filled with hesitation you hadn't felt in the beginning, because at first you had expected him, had hoped it would be him, but now you didn't expect anything at all. Still, you answered.
His representatives from Sony called and told you that Michael wanted you to be at the VMAs, to which you told them that if Michael himself had ever bothered to pick up the phone to call you, you would've told him that you had to be there anyway because you were presenting a few awards in different categories.
The words came out steady, but there was something sharp beneath them, something that didn't need to be raised in volume to be felt. It wasn't about the award show, not really; it was about the fact that even now, even after everything, he still wasn't the one reaching for you.
And then you hung up and called your manager, Amelia.
The second she answered, everything you had been holding in found its way out, not uncontrolled, but no longer contained either. She let you vent because she knew you were pissed at Michael's behavior to begin with, so for his team to call you and tell you that he wants you at an award show you were already going to be at, pissed you off even more, because it felt dismissive, like he hadn't even thought about the fact that you had your own career, your own obligations, your own presence in that space without him.
You were already going. You didn't need him to tell you.
And then you packed your stuff, each movement deliberate, controlled, like putting everything into place was the only thing you could manage when everything else felt so unresolved. Someone from your and Michael's security team brought you to the airport for you to board your private jet, and now you were in New York, the transition happening so quickly it almost felt disconnected from everything that led up to it.
You were taken to the hotel that Michael would be staying in, and you were brought up to his room so you could get ready, but he wasn't there, and you knew he wasn't going to be. The space felt temporary, impersonal, despite belonging to him, like it was just another place he had passed through without staying long enough to leave anything behind.
You knew you probably weren't going to see him until you got to the award show, so you might as well take your time.
You take a long bath, trying to scrub away some of the stress you're feeling, letting the heat wrap around you until your muscles finally begin to loosen, until the tightness in your chest eases just enough to breathe through. It doesn't erase anything, but it gives you a moment where the anger isn't sitting quite so close to the surface.
You had intentionally picked your dress before you and Amelia left Neverland.
You wanted—no, needed to make a statement, to let Michael know that what he did wasn't okay. Not something subtle that could be overlooked, not something that could be misread or ignored, but something undeniable, something he would see and feel without you having to say a single word.
You've been married for ten years, together for 13 years in total. That kind of time wasn't surface-level; it wasn't fragile; it was built on years of knowing each other in ways no one else did, years of arguments that had always ended with resolution, even if it took time to get there. You've argued before, but those moments had never turned into this, had never stretched into silence, into absence, into something that left you alone to sit with it for six weeks without a single attempt to fix it.
It wasn't okay, and he needed to know that.
Once you stepped out of the bath, you dried yourself off before putting on your robe, the soft fabric settling around you as you stepped back into a room that was already moving with quiet urgency. Your glam team was already waiting in your room, ready to do your makeup, their presence filling the space with purpose as you sat down in front of your makeup artist.
Amelia is keeping track of time, keeping everyone on track, her attention sharp, her voice steady as she moves through the room. Your styling team is steaming your dress so it's not wrinkled, the gold fabric hanging under the light, shimmering even before you've put it on, every detail catching softly as steam lifts around it. It already looks like a statement before it's even on you.
Your makeup artist, Lauren, is asking you what kind of look you want to go for, and you tell her you want a golden smoky eye since your dress is gold.
"You okay?" Amelia asks as she watches you.
She's been watching your body language, which is relaxed, thanks to your bath, but still very much controlled, like she knows what you're trying to conceal. There's a stillness to you that isn't natural, something held too tightly beneath the surface.
"I'm fine," you say, and Amelia doesn't press because she knows you're not going to say.
You're completely focused on making sure you're ready and on the carpet on time. You weren't walking the carpet with Michael; you already knew that, and that knowledge sits quietly in the back of your mind, something you don't allow yourself to dwell on. But you knew that you would be seated by him, and that's unavoidable, something waiting for you whether you're ready or not.
After your makeup is finished, your stylist helps you into your dress.
The fabric settles against your skin like it belongs there, the gold catching the light immediately, every movement sending a shimmer across the surface. The halter neckline draws the eye upward, clean and strong, while the deep cut adds just enough edge to make it impossible to ignore. The beading is intricate, precise, laid across the fabric in a way that makes the entire dress feel alive under the lights, hugging your body through your waist and hips before falling straight down in a sleek line that elongates you completely.
And then the black feather wrap.
It drapes over your arms, soft but dramatic, the contrast against the gold sharp enough to shift the entire look. It isn't just an accessory; it changes the energy of the dress entirely, adding something darker, something more controlled, something that feels less like softness and more like armor.
Your hair, long and flowing down your back, looks glossy under the lights, shining in a way that's hard to miss, and parted in the middle, the way you like it.
You looked hot, and you knew you looked hot, and you knew Michael would know it too.
Within the hour, you were pulling up to the red carpet, the city alive outside your window in a way that felt almost electric, flashes already visible in the distance before the car had even fully come to a stop. Amelia would be meeting you inside, but for now, it was just you, the quiet interior of the car, and the weight of everything waiting on the other side of that door. She looks at you as the car stops, her eyes scanning over you one last time, not for the dress or the makeup, but for you—for whatever you were holding beneath it all—and you take a slow, steady breath, letting it fill your chest before releasing it carefully.
"You ready?" she asks, and you nod.
There's no hesitation in the motion, even if there's something tighter sitting underneath it, something you don't let surface, something you keep tucked behind the composure you've been holding onto all day.
"I'll see you on the other side," you say as the door opens for you and your driver helps you out.
The second your heel hits the pavement, the world shifts.
Flashes explode around you instantly, rapid and blinding, cameras going off in waves as voices rise over each other, your name being called from every direction. The energy hits all at once, loud and overwhelming, but familiar, something your body knows how to step into without thinking, even when your mind is somewhere else entirely.
You don't rush. You never do. You move with intention, every step measured, your expression perfectly set as you turn just enough for the cameras, giving them angles, giving them exactly what they came for without giving anything else away.
A few questions from the press do catch your ear.
"Why didn't you walk the carpet with your husband, Michael?"
"Are you and Michael having issues?! You've both been spotted separately for weeks."
"Have you seen Michael yet? Seems like you both wanted to be the hottest in the room."
The words reach you, clear enough to register, sharp enough to land, but you don't react to them. You ignore them and smile as they take their pictures, the expression effortless, practiced, the same one you've worn a hundred times before. To them, to the cameras, to the press, nothing is different. Your smile is bright, your movements fluid, your presence commanding in a way that looks completely natural, completely untouched by anything happening beneath the surface.
They don't see the control it takes. They don't see the way you're holding everything in place.
After you walk the carpet and they get the pictures they need, you're escorted inside and to your seat, the noise of the outside world fading behind you as the atmosphere shifts into something more contained, more focused. The lights are lower, the energy still buzzing but quieter, concentrated.
Now you start to feel it: the nerves, because you know you'll be seated next to Michael.
The thought settles in your chest, heavy and unavoidable, but you don't let it show. Not in your face, not in your posture, not in the way you carry yourself as Amelia meets you in the aisle. You gently grab onto her arm as you two are led to the front row, your touch light but grounding, something to anchor yourself to as you walk forward.
Because when Michael is at award shows, he's always given a seat in the front row. There's no avoiding him tonight.
You thank the usher who brought you to your seat, your voice soft but polite, and you let out a quiet breath when you see that Michael isn't there yet. The space beside you sits empty, untouched, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something you don't quite let yourself name: relief, maybe, or just the absence of immediate tension.
You take a seat, smoothing your dress slightly as you settle, the gold fabric pooling perfectly around you, catching the light even in stillness. Amelia takes a seat in the row behind you, where her reserved seat is, close enough to feel like support, but far enough that you're still on your own in this.
The seats soon start to fill up, people moving around you, voices blending in low conversation, but Michael's remains empty. You hear others talking around you, their voices casual, unaware of how closely you're listening. They say that Michael is opening the show with his performance.
And soon it was starting.
Once all the seats were filled, the lights went down, the room dimming until the stage became the center of everything, and Michael came on stage.
And just like that, your breath catches.
You hated how even when you were angry, he managed to take your breath away, how it wasn't something you could control, something your body did before your mind could catch up and remind you why you were pissed in the first place.
He had cut his hair; it was short, his curls defined and framing his face, softer in a way that made him look almost unreal under the stage lights. He looked angelic, and it pissed you off even more, because it didn't match what he had done, didn't match the frustration you had been sitting with for six weeks.
The opening notes of Don't Stop Til You Get Enough start, and Michael is immediately in it, his energy snapping into place like it always does, effortless and consuming, and so is the crowd, the reaction instant, loud, completely drawn into him.
But his eyes find yours. Out of everything, out of everyone in the room, they land on you like it was inevitable. You don't give anything away. Not in your expression, not in the way you sit, not in the way you hold his gaze for just a second before letting it go.
And neither does he.
However, seeing that you did take his breath away a little, he almost stumbled over the lyrics. It's subtle, something most people wouldn't catch, something that blends into the performance so easily it could be dismissed, but you see it. You recognize it. Because you know him.
Seeing you in that dress, your hair glossy under the lights, you looked breathtaking in the most devastating way because he knew you were pissed.
Your face was controlled, composed in a way that gave nothing away to anyone else, but Michael knows you better than anyone, and he knows your body language. He knows the difference between calm and contained, knows the way your shoulders hold just a fraction tighter, the way your stillness isn't ease but restraint.
He knows you have every right to be pissed, but he also feels validated in his feelings. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, something unspoken passes between you, something that doesn't resolve anything, doesn't soften anything, just exists.
But he knew he shouldn't have ignored you for six weeks; that was too far.
Michael performs Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough, The Way You Make Me Feel, Scream, Beat It, Black or White, Billie Jean, and Dangerous, moving through each song like he always does, completely immersed, completely lost in it, like nothing else exists once the music starts.
And you sit there and watch him the entire time. You hate how it affects you. You hate how flustered it's making you feel, because you're pissed and you want to stay pissed, you want to hold onto that anger, that clarity, that sense of control you've had all day.
But you can never control how your body reacts whenever Michael performs.
The way he loses himself in the music, giving himself over to it completely, it's always been one of your weak points, something that has never changed, no matter how much time passes, no matter what's happening between you. There's something about the way he moves, the way he exists in that space, that pulls at something deeper than logic, deeper than anger.
It's always turned you on. It's always made you want him badly. And you didn't want to feel any of those things right now, not when you were still carrying everything he had done, not when you hadn't even spoken to him yet.
But your body was reacting to what was familiar without your permission, responding to him in a way that had been built over years, something instinctive, something ingrained.
And you couldn't do anything to stop it.
The opening notes of You Are Not Alone start, and your breath hitches, the reaction immediate and completely out of your control as the sound settles into the room. It's familiar in a way that feels too close, too personal, because this isn't just another song to you. It never has been. Michael had always told you, since he started recording this song, that it was for you, and that truth sits heavy beneath every note, threading itself through your chest in a way that makes it harder to separate the performance from what it actually means.
He had asked you to be in the music video with him, and the memory comes back without effort, warm and vivid, the kind that still feels real when you think about it: the laughter between takes, the way he stayed close to you even when the cameras weren't rolling, the ease of it, the way nothing felt complicated back then. And you know he's performing it because it's a big hit right now, you can't turn on any R&B station without hearing it every hour, the song everywhere, constant, unavoidable in the same way he is.
Towards the end of it, a choir comes out to sing the chorus while Michael sings over them, their voices rising together and filling the space in a way that almost feels overwhelming, layered and powerful, pressing into you from all sides. He walks to the edge of the stage as the choir is singing, "I am here with you," they sing, and Michael sings the line as well, his voice slipping through theirs, distinct enough that you feel it more than hear it, like it's meant to land somewhere specific.
"I'm here with you," Michael sings, and then he does it; he points directly at you, and then he winks... well, attempts to wink. Michael has never been able to wink, and the second it happens, something in you shuts down just as quickly as it had opened. The softness that had been building, quiet and dangerous in the way it threatened to undo everything you've been holding onto, disappears completely, like it was never there at all, leaving nothing behind but the sharp, familiar edge of your anger snapping back into place.
How dare he?
The thought hits hard enough to settle into your body, because it isn't just the gesture, it's everything behind it that makes it feel wrong. He disappears and ignores you for six weeks and then shows up to this award show, has his team tell you that he wants you to be there, and something about him pointing to you during this performance made you even more mad, because it isn't private, it isn't real in the way it should be. It's something he's doing in front of everyone, something that looks like closeness without actually being it, and that contrast sits wrong in a way you can't ignore.
When Michael finished his performance, you stood up with everyone else and clapped, your hands moving in rhythm with the rest of the room while your expression stayed exactly where you wanted it: neutral, composed, completely unreadable. You don't give anything away, even though you knew the camera would be on you since you are his wife and he had just done a 15-minute opener, and you can feel that awareness sitting just beneath your skin, keeping everything in place.
When Michael comes back to his seat, right next to you, he's in all black, sunglasses on, in place, and he sits down in his seat. The space beside you shifts the second he's there, his presence immediate, impossible to ignore even without looking at him. You don't turn to him, you keep your focus forward, but you can feel his eyes on you, steady and waiting, like he's trying to catch something you're refusing to give.
The camera pans past you guys, and when it gets to him, he points and smiles, slipping back into that ease effortlessly, giving them exactly what they expect from him, and as soon as it passes, as soon as the attention moves on, he turns back to you.
Just as he opens his mouth to say something, one of the stagehands comes to your seat and tells you that it's time for you to go backstage to get ready to present the award for Best Dance Video. The interruption cuts through the moment cleanly, stopping whatever he was about to say before it can reach you. You nod and rise from your seat without turning to Michael, your movements smooth, controlled, like none of it affected you at all, and follow the stagehand backstage to wait for your cue.
The distance between you resets the second you step away, but the tension doesn't leave with it.
You were presenting the award with Notorious B.I.G., and you were a fan of his. When the two of you were announced, he offered you his arm, and you smiled, taking it and letting him lead you out to the podium. The contact is brief, simple, but grounding in a way that steadies your step as you walk back into the lights, the room opening up in front of you again.
The first thing you did was look at Michael, and you see how his jaw clenches when he sees you with your arm looped through Biggie's, the reaction quick but unmistakable, tension flashing across his face before it settles again. It's subtle, easy to miss if you didn't know him as well as you do, but you catch it instantly.
You let go of his arm when you two reach the podium, the movement easy, deliberate, and he goes to the microphone first.
"Yeah, uh, we up here to present the award for the Best Dance Video," he says, and you smile.
"And those of you at home are probably wondering, how do you find the best dance video? Personally, I think it should just be whichever one I like the most... but then again, given who the nominees are, you all might call me biased," you say, and that sends a laugh throughout the room because everyone knows that Scream is nominated.
"I mean, I'd say the same thing. I should give it to whoever I want to give it to, and I think we might want to give it to the same video," he says, and you turn to him with a smirk.
"This is how we do it?" you tease, and the crowd laughs again, and so does Biggie.
"Damn, you're cold, Ma," Biggie teases you, and you laugh while shaking your head, the sound coming easier than you expect, light and effortless in a way that contrasts sharply with everything sitting underneath your skin. You glance at Michael again, instinctively, and the reaction is immediate, the second your eyes land on him.
His hand is tight around the arm of his seat, knuckles tense, the grip controlled but unmistakable. He doesn't like this. It's written all over him in the way his posture stiffens, in the way his jaw sets just slightly, in the way his attention doesn't leave you for even a second.
He doesn't like how close Biggie is to you, doesn't like the ease of it, the casual way you fit into that space beside someone else. He doesn't like how Biggie is making you laugh, how that sound comes from you without hesitation. And he definitely doesn't like how you're playing into it, how you're letting it happen without pulling back, without softening it for him.
"Here are the nominees for Best Dance Video," you say with a smile as the video montage plays of all the music videos that are nominated for the category, your voice steady, smooth, slipping back into that practiced rhythm as the screen lights up behind you.
The room shifts its attention forward, but you can still feel it, that awareness of him sitting out there, watching, taking everything in, whether he wants to or not. When the montage ends, you turn to Biggie. "Do you want to read the results?" you ask as you hold out the envelope to him.
"By all means, it's all you, Mrs. Jackson," he says, and you give him a look while everyone laughs, the title landing with a weight that feels deliberate tonight, something that sits differently now than it usually does. You turn to the crowd and smile, letting the moment pass without lingering on it.
"And the winner is..." You trail off as you open the envelope, the paper sliding smoothly beneath your fingers, and when you read the name, something soft flickers across your face before you can stop it. "Michael and Janet Jackson, Scream," you announce. Everyone stands to applaud, the room rising in a wave of sound and movement while Michael and Janet get up from their seats. You were actually surprised Janet was seated on the opposite side of the room from you and Michael, the distance between all of you something you hadn't noticed until now, something that feels oddly intentional in hindsight.
Michael comes to the stage first, accepting the award from Biggie, shaking his hand with that same composed ease he carries everywhere, and when he steps toward you, you let him hug you. It's automatic, expected, and necessary. You know the press is going to talk about it if you don't, know that every movement is being watched, interpreted, dissected, and you're not giving them anything they can twist into something bigger than it needs to be. The contact is brief, controlled, nothing like what it used to be, but it's enough to satisfy what's expected.
Then Janet joins you all on stage shortly after, her presence warmer, more familiar in a way that feels grounding. She and Michael hug, and then she hugs you tightly, her arms wrapping around you in a way that feels genuine, not performative, like she's holding onto you for just a second longer than necessary. It settles something in you, just slightly.
You take a step back to allow Janet and Michael to take the podium, shifting your weight subtly, giving them the space that belongs to them in this moment, and once they are done giving their speeches, all of you are escorted backstage, the noise of the crowd fading behind you as the energy changes again. You loop your arm through Janet's, the movement easy, familiar, and the two of you fall into step together, smiling and giggling as you make your way backstage, the lightness between you real in a way that feels almost like relief after everything sitting heavy in your chest.
"I knew you guys were going to win," you say to her, and Janet smiles at you, her expression soft, knowing, before she silently gestures to Michael. It's subtle, just a small movement of her eyes, but you know exactly what she's asking without her needing to say it out loud. Have you talked?
You shake your head and roll your eyes, the motion small but telling, and she laughs, a quiet, understanding sound that carries just enough sympathy without pushing you to say more than you want to. Biggie congratulates them both again before he leaves the three of you alone, his presence fading out of the space as the moment shifts again.
Michael turns to look at you, taking his glasses off, the movement slower than usual, like he's giving himself a second before fully stepping into whatever this is about to be. Janet clears her throat, the sound light but purposeful, and excuses herself, leaving just the two of you standing there.
Now you and Michael are alone.
The space changes immediately, the air between you heavier, quieter, everything that had been held back now sitting right there, waiting. You don't speak. You've already endured six weeks of silence; what's a few more minutes? The quiet doesn't feel unfamiliar to you anymore, but it doesn't feel comfortable either. It just exists, stretching between you.
Michael isn't really sure what to say, and it shows in the way he hesitates, in the way his eyes move over you instead, taking you in like he's trying to understand something without words. Your dress catches his attention again, the gold shimmering under the backstage lights, reflecting softly against your skin, and he can't look away from it.
He knows every single curve of your body, every line, every detail, and he notices immediately how the dress accentuates all of it, how it sharpens everything, how it makes you look just out of reach even when you're standing right in front of him.
"Hi," Michael says, and you scoff, the sound sharp, immediate, your anger rising so quickly it almost feels like it's been waiting for that exact word.
"That's all you have to say to me?" You ask, and Michael shakes his head, the movement small but certain.
"No... but I can tell you're not in the mood to listen," he says, and you nod as you laugh a little, the sound lacking any real amusement.
"I was ready to listen six weeks ago, Michael... but you never came back home," You slightly snap, the words slipping out with more edge than you try to control, because they've been sitting there for too long. Michael sighs as he rubs behind his neck, the gesture familiar, almost automatic, and takes a deep breath like he's trying to steady himself before speaking.
"I know... I'm sorry, I just—" you cut him off.
"I'm not in the mood for your excuses. If you had something to say, you should've picked up the phone and called, not had your team call our home... or better yet, you should've just come home," you snap while rolling your eyes, the frustration breaking through more clearly now as you move to walk past him.
Michael catches your arm and turns you around, the contact quick, instinctive, but you react just as fast, pulling back from him like the touch itself is something you don't want.
"You don't get to touch me," You say.
"Baby, please," he says, the word slipping out rougher than he intends, his voice dropping as he stops himself from reaching for you again, his hand falling back at his side as he takes a breath that doesn't quite steady him.
"No," You respond, the word firm, leaving no space for negotiation, and Michael takes another breath, deeper this time, slower, like he's trying to keep himself grounded.
He knew this wasn't going to be easy. He knew you were going to be pissed, and he was going to have to work extra hard and give more than verbal apologies to get your forgiveness.
"Just tell me what I need to do, I'll do anything," Michael says, and you nearly roll your eyes, the reaction instinctive, but you stop yourself before it fully shows, holding onto that control even now.
"You should've come home... weeks ago," you say before walking off, your voice quieter this time but heavier, the weight of it landing differently than the anger did.
And this time, Michael doesn't try to stop you, because he can hear it, the other part that's lying underneath the anger, the part that doesn't need to be said out loud for him to understand. He hurt you.
And he knows he hurt you deeply, and there's not going to be an easy fix to it.
♡
After the award show is over, you don't feel like going to the after party, the thought of more cameras, more people, more pretending sitting wrong in your chest in a way you don't have the energy to push through. You want to go back to the hotel, somewhere quieter, somewhere you don't have to perform.
You're sitting in the car, Bill in the front, as you're both waiting for Michael, the interior dim, insulated from the noise outside. You're looking out of the tinted window at the night sky, the city lights blurring past in reflection, when you hear the door open, and you feel Michael's presence in the backseat before you even register the shift in weight beside you. Bill pulls off a few moments later, smooth and practiced, and you don't turn to him.
During the rest of the show, you and Michael sat next to each other, but didn't speak. The silence hadn't been accidental; it had been held, deliberate on both sides, stretched thin between you with everything that hadn't been said. You didn't even smile for the camera, not once, even when you could feel it lingering on you, waiting for something to soften. You knew the press was going to run stories tomorrow, speculating about what was going on between you and Michael, but you didn't care. Let them. None of it came close to what it actually felt like to sit next to him after six weeks of nothing.
You were angry, and your anger was giving way to the hurt you felt underneath it, something heavier, something that didn't flare as sharply but lingered longer.
You were hurt for every night that you cried yourself to sleep because Michael wouldn't call or come home. The memory sits too close, too easy to reach, your chest tightening slightly at the thought before you push it back.
Every time you tried to call him, a member of his team made up an excuse as to why he couldn't come to the phone; their voices polite, rehearsed, always just enough to end the conversation without giving you anything real, until eventually you stopped calling, because there were only so many times you could hear the same distance repeated back to you before it stopped being worth it.
You think about how you spent a short period of time feeling guilty for going on Fresh Prince, even though you knew you didn't do anything wrong, the doubt settling in quietly before you forced yourself out of it, because you refused to let his silence rewrite something you had every right to do.
Because you hated how Michael was using his silence to punish you.
And now Michael wanted to make it up to you, but you wanted to punish him. The thought doesn't come with hesitation; it settles in cleanly, sharp, and certain in a way that feels almost grounding after weeks of feeling like everything has been out of your control.
And you had an idea of how you were going to do it.
The car ride was silent; you didn't speak to Michael, and he didn't try to push you into conversation either. The quiet between you feels different now, heavier, aware, like both of you are sitting in it on purpose. He knew how badly he had messed up. It shows in the way he stays still, in the way he doesn't interrupt, doesn't push, doesn't try to force anything out of you before you're ready. He just wanted the chance to explain and apologize to you, because he knows he shouldn't have stayed away as long as he did.
Bill parks in the back and leads you and Michael through the hotel's private back entrance, the transition from the car to the quiet interior quick and controlled, away from the crowd, away from the noise. He takes you both straight to the elevator and presses the button for the penthouse floor. The elevator ride also passes in silence, the soft hum of movement the only thing filling the space as the numbers climb, the reflection of the three of you faintly visible in the mirrored walls.
When you finally make it to the top and the doors open, the men let you step out first, then Michael, and then Bill. The hallway is quiet and empty, like the rest of the world has been shut out completely.
You turn to Bill with a smile. "Goodnight, Bill," you say, and he smiles back at you, giving you a nod.
You use the keycard you were given upon arrival to unlock the door, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the quiet, and you and Michael walk inside. The room is dimly lit, still, untouched, and you move through it without hesitation, going straight to the bed and sitting down, the edge dipping slightly beneath your weight as you start to take off your heels.
Michael walks over before kneeling in front of you, the movement immediate, instinctive, like he doesn't want the distance between you to stretch any further now that you're finally alone.
"Baby... please, let's talk about this," Michael says, and you scoff, the sound sharp, cutting through whatever softness he's trying to bring into the moment.
"Oh, now you're ready to talk? Are you sure you don't need to get your representatives in here to do the talking for you?" You ask as you toss one of your heels to the side before unfastening the other, the small action giving your hands something to do, something to focus on that isn't him.
"I know I should have called you myself... I'm so sorry that I didn't," he says, and you nod, not because you accept it, but because you already knew that.
You toss your other heel to where the first one was, the soft thud barely registering, and only then do you look down at Michael, kneeling in front of you. The pleading was behind his eyes, clear in a way he isn't trying to hide, something open and vulnerable that you haven't seen from him in weeks. He wanted to do whatever he could to fix this, and you could tell.
"Okay," you say, the word coming out easier than it should, because you don't want to talk about this, not right now. Not when your head is still filled with everything from tonight, everything he stirred up without even trying.
Right now, you couldn't get how crazy he was driving you all night out of your head.
From his shorter curls to his performance, the way the stage lights caught every movement, the suit, his outfit change, the way he looked in his glasses, the way he carried himself with that quiet, effortless confidence, it lingers in your mind in pieces, replaying whether you want it to or not. It pulls at something familiar, something instinctive, something that doesn't care that you're still pissed at him.
You were losing yourself in your desire for him, despite being pissed at him.
Michael wraps his arms around your legs, the movement sudden but not forceful, grounding himself there like it's the only place he knows to go. He lowers himself, resting his head against your lap, the weight of him settling in a way that feels familiar, too familiar for how much distance has been between you.
"Please, mama... just tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. I'll do whatever you want," he whispers as he presses kisses against you over the fabric of your dress.
The nickname hits first.
It lands deeper than anything else he's said tonight, slipping past your defenses in a way you weren't prepared for, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep your reaction contained. His lips follow, soft and insistent even through the fabric, and it takes more effort than you want to admit not to respond, not to let your body lean into something it recognizes so easily.
"I can't stand you ignoring me, especially when you look this good," he whispers.
There's something raw in the way he says it, something honest and stripped down that doesn't feel practiced, doesn't feel controlled, and it makes it harder to hold your ground, harder to stay exactly where you've decided to be.
"So now you know how it feels to be ignored... try again in 5 more weeks," you say, your voice unsteady despite the words themselves being sharp.
Michael's hand moves along your leg, slow, absent-minded at first, like he's not even thinking about it, just following instinct, and the sensation pulls at you immediately, familiar and dangerous all at once.
"Stop," you say. His hand stills the second the word leaves your mouth, no hesitation or pushback. He lifts his head from your lap, the shift immediate, his attention snapping fully to you as he searches your face. "You think you can ignore me for six weeks and get to touch me?" You ask.
The question lands heavier than your tone, and you see it register in him instantly, his eyes widening slightly as the reality of it settles in. His arms loosen around your legs, and he lets go, pulling back without being told again.
"Baby..." he says, quieter this time. You don't let him finish. You point to the cushioned chair across from the bed.
"Go sit over there," you say.
Michael's eyes are still wide, and when he stands up, you can see the bulge pressing against his pants. Sitting in front of your lap, touching you, and kissing you has already made him hard. When he gets to the chair, your voice calls out again before he sits down. "Take off your pants and boxers," you say.
Michael's hands are already on his belt, unbuckling it, and he tosses it to the side before pulling his pants and then his boxers down. He had already taken his shoes off as soon as you two walked into the room. You resist the urge to bite your lip when you see Michael's length lightly slap against his stomach when he frees it. "Now sit down," you say.
Michael does what you say, sitting down in the chair, and you stand up from the bed. "Touch yourself," you say, and he sputters over his words as he speaks.
"W-What?" he asks, and you tilt your head to the side.
"You heard me... You don't get to touch me yet... so touch yourself," you say. Michael swallows, as he feels himself get harder, his dick pulsing almost uncomfortably at your commands. He grabs himself, slightly hissing under his breath as he does, at how sensitive he is to the touch. "Start slow," you say.
Michael nods as his hand slowly starts to move along his length. You watch his hand, slowly sliding the straps of your dress off your shoulders before reaching behind your back and unzipping your dress. You let it pool at your feet and step out of it. Michael, watching you the whole time, stills his hand, and you turn to him.
"Did I tell you to stop?" You ask. Michael swallows again and resumes his movements, his hand slowly stroking himself as his eyes are glued to you. You reach behind your back and unhook your bra, letting your breasts spill out, and your bra falls to the floor. Michael bites his lip as his grip on himself tightens, and his entire body is pulsing.
You reach for the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs before you step out of them. Your movements are slow and deliberate, drawing it out because you know Michael is watching. "A little faster now," you say. Michael nods, increasing the speed of his hand down against himself, and you hear him whimper.
You stand fully bare in front of him, and then you move to the bed. You adjust the pillows before propping yourself up on them. Michael swallows as your legs slowly spread, your glistening folds exposed to him, and you won't permit him to come to you. You place two of your fingers in your mouth, coating them before reaching down and rubbing your clit, keeping your pace the same as Michael's.
His breath hitches when he sees you touch yourself, his hand almost stilling, but he doesn't. Instead, he whimpers again, desperate to join you on the bed, desperate to touch you. You shiver at the sensitivity of your clit, but you keep rubbing, running your fingers along your folds to slick them in your wetness, a soft moan slipping out of you.
"Faster, Michael," you say as you look at his hand again, moving against his length. Michael swallows, speeding up his hand, and you match his pace, speeding up the pace of your fingers against your clit. You close your eyes and moan louder this time, and Michael feels himself twitching. He's aching to touch you. He keeps stroking himself, his movements getting faster as he watches you pleasure yourself.
"Mama, please," Michael whimpers, and you look at him, your fingers speeding up against your clit when you see his hand moving faster. You're both watching each other, feeding off of each other. When your movements against your clit slow down, Michael's movements speed up. Every time you moan, he squeezes his dick, trying to keep himself under control, and every time he whimpers, you move your fingers faster, letting the sounds of him bring you closer to the edge.
Your hips buck as your back arches, and you move your fingers faster. Michael whimpers as he watches you, moaning and writhing on the bed, knowing that it should be him making you fall apart like that, but he doesn't get that he is making you fall apart like that. Watching him jerk himself off was wildly turning you on.
"A little more, Michael," you say, and Michael goes faster; he feels his release coming, and he wishes that he were spilling himself inside of you, and you also feel your orgasm building. "I'm so close," you moan out, and Michael is aching to have his mouth on you to help you finish. "Faster," you moan, and Michael obeys, stroking himself faster, his whimpers and moans coming quickly.
The orgasm hits you fast, your body convulsing against the bed as a moan pours out of you. Michael can't stand it, seeing an orgasm hit, and he's not connected to you to feel it. He loves the way you feel when you fall apart as your orgasm hits. He loves to feel your legs shaking around him, how tightly you grip him, how his name falls from your lips in a sob because of the pleasure.
You sink back against the pillows, your breath still quick and shallow as you try to regain it. You look at Michael, he's still stroking himself, his whimpering filling the room, and you can feel his desperation. "Come here," you say. Michael is up immediately. He walks over to the bed and stands over you at the side, waiting for you to tell him what to do next.
You slowly sit up, turning over until you're on your hands and knees. "Sit down... watch," you say. You don't have to turn around; you feel the weight of the bed dip as Michael sits down behind you. He swallows as he licks over his lips, seeing your glistening pussy in his face, still dripping with your release.
You reach behind yourself, pressing your fingers into your release and spreading it around your folds. Michael bites his lip as he watches. He whimpers again, trying desperately to control the urge he has to grab your hips and fuck you senseless until you speak to him again. You sink deeper onto your knees, spreading yourself more, and Michael whimpers again as more of you is exposed.
You rub your clit again, rolling your hips in the air. You can almost feel Michael inside of you, and you want him badly... but you also need him to feel the way you've felt for weeks. Your fingers rub your clit faster, and Michael bites down on his lip. Watching you play with yourself is making his dick twitch. He's so hard it's almost uncomfortable.
More of your cum from your first orgasm slips out of your hole, and Michael desperately wants to lap it up. "Mama..." he whimpers.
"Be quiet, Michael," you respond as you rub yourself harder, a louder moan coming from you as your legs shake. Michael watches intently, wanting nothing more than to press his face against you and fuck you with his tongue until you're shaking against him.
You slip one of your fingers inside of yourself, and Michael groans. You slip it back out, feeling it coated in your own cum, and you rub alongside your folds, purposely parting them, and you hear Michael swallow. He grabs his length again. He needs to feel the relief, the release of everything that's pent up inside of him. When you moan again, he squeezes himself, hissing under his breath.
You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes are locked on you. He's waiting for your permission to move. "Get behind me," you say. Michael gets on his knees behind you immediately. "You can touch me to line me up, and then you do nothing," you say. Michael swallows again as he nods, gently grabbing your hips to line your entrance up with him, and when you feel him let you go, you press back, feeling yourself sink against him as he fills you.
You moan on contact, and Michael stiffens as you continue to press back until he's filled you. You start to move, rocking yourself back and forth, feeling Michael moving in and out of you. You feel Michael's hand go to your hip, and you slap it away, shaking your head as you continue to move against him. Michael throws his head back. He hates that you won't let him touch you, but he will let you use him to take your pleasure.
You spread more, pressing your upper body more into the bed as you continue to move against him. Your ass slapping against Michael every time you move back, and he whimpers. Feeling your heat wrapped around him, sliding in and out, he's fighting the urge to hold you down and thrust into you until you can't remember why you're mad in the first place.
Your movements suddenly stop, but you keep Michael inside of you. Without turning to look at him, you speak. "Fuck me," you say.
Michael doesn't hesitate.
He grabs your hips and pushes you more into the bed. He pulls fully out of you before slamming back into you with one powerful stroke, making you cry out, and he groans. He keeps both hands on your hips as he fucks you, fast and relentless. Both of you are taking out your pent-up anger on each other. You reach down and rub your clit as Michael's movements get faster. Tears prick your eyes as you feel him deep inside of you, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach.
Wet sounds of skin slapping together, squelching sounds of Michael's thrusts inside of your slickness fill the room. "Just like that, mama... You take it so good," Michael says as he squeezes your hips, fucking you harder. You cry out, gripping the pillows tightly as your legs start to shake.
Michael lifts one of your legs, holding it so he can fuck you deeper, his body trembling against yours as he moves. "Come on.... come on," he practically growls as he fully pulls out and slams back into you again, rocking you forward.
His name spills from your lips in a choked sob as your orgasm hits you hard. Your body is shaking hard against his, and Michael doesn't slow down his thrusts to bring you through it. He keeps going at a relentless pace. His balls slapping against your swollen clit when he buries himself fully inside of you. Your vision blurs from the tears of pleasure as a second orgasm rips through you, your body still sensitive from the first one.
Michael's name spills from your lips as a scream. Michael leans down, pressing kisses against your back as he keeps fucking you. He doesn't want to stop; he can't stop. His arms wrap fully around you as he continues to move inside of you.
"M–Michael... I can't take another one... I–I can't," you whimper as he pulls you upright, your back against his chest as he keeps thrusting into you.
"You can take it, mama... keep going," Michael growls into your ear, his thrusts getting more erratic as he gets closer to his release. You're shaking, your full body is shaking against him, as a third orgasm hits you hard. The sheets beneath you are soaked as Michael's thrusts push through your juices, making them spill all over. "Look at the mess you're making," Michael says as he reaches in front of you to rub your swollen clit.
You twitch against him, your eyes falling closed as your head falls against his shoulder, the pleasure and ecstasy feeling like too much, and you genuinely think you're going to pass out. Your body twitches again as Michael keeps fucking you, every thrust pushing deeper, every stroke drawn out so you can feel it. Michael whimpers in your ear as his dick twitches inside of you.
You feel the warmth as it hits you, and your body twitches again, Michael still rubbing your clit as he fucks you through his orgasm. His cum mixes with yours, squelching out of you and dripping more onto the sheets. You cry out as a fourth orgasm hits, your body completely spent as you shake against Michael.
He slows his thrusts and slows his fingers against your clit, bringing you through the orgasm. He pulls out, pressing you back down into the bed, keeping you on your knees. He spreads your folds apart, watching as your combined orgasms spill from your spent hole.
Michael attaches his lips there, licking and sucking the release, and you start shaking again. You know you can't take another orgasm, and you feel on the verge of passing out from the overwhelming pleasure. Michael lightly slaps your pussy, making you shake again, before he attaches his lips back to your folds, licking up your full release before he pulls back. He turns you around and lays you back on the bed, his breathing heavy and erratic as he looks at you.
"Don't you ever do that to me again, Michael," You say as you look at him, and he knows what you mean, not just from the words but from the way you're holding his gaze, from everything still sitting underneath them. Don't ever leave you like that for that long ever again. He nods, the movement immediate, serious, before he leans down and kisses you, slower this time, like he's making sure you feel it. You taste yourself on his lips as you kiss him back, and it pulls something deeper out of you, something softer than the anger you were holding onto before. You missed him, you ached for him, you needed him, and now that he's here, that absence feels almost unbearable in hindsight.
You're the first to pull back, needing the space for just a second, and Michael leans his forehead against yours, keeping close anyway, like he's not ready to let any distance settle back in. "I promise I won't. I'm so sorry... I love you so much," he says, and there's nothing guarded in it, nothing held back, and you nod, taking it in even if you're not fully ready to let it settle.
"You have six weeks' worth of making it up to me to prove it," you say, and Michael laughs, the sound softer than usual, like the tension is finally easing out of him.
"Mama, I just made you cum four times," he says, and you shrug, your expression shifting just enough to let him know you're not letting him off that easy.
"That only covers one day. You still have 41 more to make up for," you say. Michael laughs again, more relaxed this time, and he leans in to kiss you again, the contact lighter, easier, like something has shifted between you. Your chest loosens for the first time tonight, the tightness that's been sitting there finally easing just enough to breathe through it without effort. You knew that this didn't fix everything, but you were willing to work through it with him, willing to meet him somewhere in the middle now that he was actually here.
You pull back and lay your hand on his jaw, your thumb gently rubbing across his skin, the gesture slow, absent-minded, something that comes naturally after all these years.
"I love you, too," you whisper.
Michael lies down next to you, pulling you into his arms, your back settling against his chest as he fits around you like he always has, like nothing about that part has changed. He buries his head in the nape of your neck, kissing the soft skin there, slower now, softer, and you feel him let out a deep breath, like he's been holding it in for weeks. The tension that had been sitting between you all night fades into something quieter, something steadier, and the two of you lie there, wrapped up in each other, until you fall asleep.
MOONWALKERS, time to pull through! Netflix is trying to release a documentary on Michael called 'Michael Jackson: The Verdict', right after the release of the Michael movie. It's clear they're trying to defame and make Michael look bad after the release of the Michael movie and as he's hitting another peak, even in the afterlife. He's already been proven innocent multiple times, including in the law, why release this when we already know the truth?
Sign this petition, share with others, donate if you can or want to, to get them to take down the documentary!
hi viennaaa, sorryyy I'm a day late and not even entirely sure I'm correct but I have a vague memory from last year that it was your birthday yesterday may 17th? if not ignore this but if so I hope you had a lovely birthday <3 I always admired your writing so much and I was actually giggling when we became moots
HI OMGGGG my birthday was the 16th!! thank you so so very much!! i love being moots even if i have periods of inactivity thank you so much again 💕💕
description: you’re not supposed to get involved with the people you interview. it’s a rule you’ve never had a problem keeping, until Eddie Munson, frontman of Corroded Coffin walks into the room like a challenge you can’t ignore. he’s chaos wrapped in leather and sharp edges, used to being the one in control. you’re the journalist who sees right through him. the problem? neither of you likes losing.
pairing: eddie x you (fem! reader)
tags: rockstar!eddie munson, journalist!reader, no y/n, one shot (?), famous x not impressed, angsty smut, eddie is DOWN BAD, he likes it when you're mean to him, interview tension, bar scene, making him jealous on purpose, 90s rock vibes, messy attraction, power play, dom (ish) reader
TW: NSFW (18+) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, PiV, unprotected, alcohol use
WC: 10.5k
A/N: this one is....kind of everything to me. i've been thinking about making a story like this for a while. while i love making series, i left this one off as a one-shot in case i never got around to it. buuut, if you do like a more toxic reader x eddie fic series thennnnn.... reblogs are always appreciated. enjoy <3
You’ve interviewed legends.
Not the kind of bands people think are big, not the ones that trend for a month and disappear just as quickly, but the kind that leave dents in history, the kind that redefine what music is supposed to sound like.
You’ve sat across from Black Sabbath while they spoke like they were half myth, half memory, watched Mötley Crüe tear through a press room like it owed them something, listened to Metallica answer your questions with that controlled, coiled intensity that always feels like it could snap if pushed just a little too far.
And you never flinched.
That’s what people know you for, what your editor at Rolling Stone likes to brag about when your name comes up in meetings. The way you don’t soften your questions, the way you lean in instead of back, the way you can pull something real out of men who have spent years perfecting the art of giving nothing away.
Misty Meadows, they call you.
It sticks better than your real name ever did.
So when your manager steps into your office without knocking, already holding a folder like it’s something he expects you to take without question. You don’t even look up at first, just finish scribbling the last line of your notes before you speak, voice even, unimpressed.
“Unless they’ve come back from the dead,” you say, flipping your pen between your fingers, “I’m not interested in another reunion piece.”
There’s a pause. The kind that tells you this isn’t routine.
“You’re going to want this one,” he says, and when you finally glance up, he’s already sliding the folder across your desk, the name printed across the front in bold, black lettering.
Corroded Coffin. You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to. Not confusion, but recognition.
Your jaw tightens, just slightly, just enough that someone who doesn’t know you wouldn’t catch it, but your manager does, because he’s been watching you work long enough to recognize when something actually gets under your skin.
“No,” you say flatly, pushing the folder back toward him without opening it. “Give it to someone else.”
He doesn’t take it. “I insist.”
That makes you laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just disbelief, sharp and quick. “Insist all you want, I’m not doing it.”
“Misty—”
“No,” you repeat, firmer this time, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you’ve already closed the conversation.
“I know who they are. I know who he is. And I’m not babysitting some up-and-coming frontman with an attitude problem just because he thinks being difficult makes him interesting.”
Your manager exhales through his nose, slow, measured, like he expected this, like he was already prepared for the pushback.
“He’s not up-and-coming,” he says. “Not anymore.”
You don’t respond, but he doesn’t need you to.
“They’ve blown up,” he continues, tapping the folder lightly against your desk. “Sold-out tours, charting records, the whole thing. And every single interviewer we’ve sent in there walks out with nothing usable because he won’t play nice. Dodges questions, turns it into a joke, or just shuts down entirely.”
Your eyes flicker back to the name. Corroded Coffin. Eddie Munson.
“Sounds like a them problem,” you mutter.
“It’s a you solution,” he counters immediately. “You’re the only one who can handle him.”
That gets your attention. Not because you agree, but because you hate that a part of you might.
Your gaze lingers on the folder for a moment longer before you finally reach for it, flipping it open with a kind of reluctant precision, scanning headlines, photos, snippets of interviews that say everything and nothing all at once.
Rough around the edges. Unpredictable. Difficult. Your lips press into something almost like a smirk.
“Fine,” you say, closing the folder with a soft snap. “But if he wastes my time, I’m walking.”
Your manager’s shoulders loosen just slightly, victory settling in before you even fully commit to it.
“He won’t,” he says. You don’t answer that.
By the time you step out of your office later that afternoon, you already look the part, not that you ever really turn it off.
Your hair falls in dark waves past your shoulders, black as ink, broken up only by chunky highlights of platinum that catch the light every time you move, sharp and deliberate. Like they were put there to make sure no one forgets what you look like after you leave the room.
Your tattoos aren’t hidden, not completely. They trail down your arms and neck in a mix of fine lines and heavier ink, some delicate, some bold, disappearing beneath the sleeves of your jacket, reappearing at your wrists, at the edge of your collarbone, like glimpses of a story people don’t get to fully read.
Everything about you is intentional.
The way you dress, the way you walk, the way your gaze lingers just long enough to make people second-guess themselves before you look away, as if they were never worth your time to begin with.
Misty Meadows isn’t just a name. It’s a reputation. One you’ve built carefully, piece by piece, interview by interview, until it became something people either respect or fear, depending on how much they have to hide.
And as you tuck the Corroded Coffin file under your arm, heading out the door with that same steady confidence, there’s only one thought sitting at the back of your mind, quieter than the rest, but persistent.
You already know exactly what kind of man Eddie Munson is. The question is whether he has any idea what kind of woman he’s about to sit across from.
The door to the dressing room is already half-open when you get there, music bleeding out into the hallway in low, distorted waves, something loud and fast and a little unpolished, like it hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be yet.
You pause just long enough to take a breath, not out of nerves, but habit, the kind you’ve built from years of walking into rooms where everyone thinks they have the upper hand until you prove otherwise.
Then you push it open.
The room smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne layered over something metallic, amps humming softly in the corner, guitars propped against walls like they’ve been abandoned mid-thought, and the band scattered around in various states of half-prep and half-chaos, conversation cutting off just slightly when you step inside, not completely, but enough that they’ve clocked you.
Good.
You let the door fall shut behind you, unbothered, unhurried, your gaze sweeping the room once, taking everything in before it lands exactly where you expect it to.
Eddie Munson.
He’s slouched back on a worn couch like he owns the place, one arm thrown over the back, rings catching the dim light, dark curls pushed out of his face just enough to reveal eyes that are already on you, sharp, assessing, a little amused, like he’s been waiting for something interesting to happen.
You cross the room like it belongs to you, extending a hand just enough to be polite, not enough to feel like you need him to take it.
“Misty Meadows,” you say, voice smooth, practiced, just the right amount of detached. “I’ll be doing the interview.”
His gaze flicks to your hand, then back up to your face, dragging just a second too long to be accidental, taking in the highlights threaded through your hair, the ink along your arms, the way you’re standing like you couldn’t care less whether he cooperates or not.
He doesn’t take your hand. Instead, his mouth curls, slow and crooked, something lazy but intentional.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough around the edges in a way that feels almost curated, like he knows exactly how it sounds. “Figured it was you.”
You don’t pull your hand back immediately, just let the silence stretch a fraction longer before dropping it on your own terms, like it never mattered in the first place.
“Good,” you reply lightly. “Then we can skip the part where you pretend you don’t know who I am.”
A couple of the guys in the room snort under their breath, shifting, suddenly a little more interested, but your attention doesn’t leave him.
Eddie leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees now, like you’ve earned a closer look, like he’s recalibrating in real time.
“You always this friendly,” he asks, head tilting just slightly, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to place something he hasn’t quite figured out yet, “or am I just special?”
There it is. You don’t answer right away.
Instead, you let the silence stretch, just a second too long to be accidental, your gaze flicking over him in return, not shy about it, not apologetic, taking him in the same way he just took you in, like you’re assessing, filing things away for later.
Then, slowly, something like a smile curves at the corner of your mouth, quieter this time, less sharp, more knowing.
“Still deciding,” you say, stepping past him, close enough that the space between you feels intentional, like you’re aware of it, like you chose it, your attention already shifting as you set your bag down on the cluttered table, pulling out your recorder with practiced ease.
Behind you, there’s a soft exhale of a laugh, but Eddie doesn’t move right away. You can feel it. The way he watches you.
“I don’t usually get interviewers that hesitate,” he says after a beat, voice lower now, less performative, like he’s speaking more to you than the room. “Thought you’d have me figured out by now.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder, one brow lifting slightly, like the assumption almost amuses you.
“If I figured you out that quickly,” you reply, tone even, but lighter, “this would be a very short interview.”
That does it. Something shifts in his expression, not disappearing, not softening, but sharpening in a different way, like you’ve given him something to work with instead of something to push against.
“I could make it easy for you,” he offers, leaning forward just a little, forearms resting on his knees now, attention locked in. “Answer all your questions, behave, be real helpful.”
You turn fully this time, meeting his gaze without rushing it, without breaking first.
“But you won’t,” you say.
Not a question. He smiles, slower now, like you got it right.
“No,” he agrees.
Challenge accepted.
The red light on your recorder glows steadily between you, small but authoritative, a quiet reminder that whatever this is, whatever this turns into, it’s being captured, documented, turned into something the rest of the world will eventually consume.
You settle back into your chair like you’ve done this a thousand times, pen poised, notebook open, gaze lifting to the band for just a moment before landing, inevitably, right back on him.
“Alright,” you say, voice even, professional without losing that undercurrent of something sharper.
“Corroded Coffin. You’ve gone from playing small venues to selling out entire tours in what feels like no time at all. What changed?”
It’s an easy opener, intentional. Eddie notices.
You can tell by the way his mouth curves, like he recognizes the setup, like he knows you’re giving him room to either play along or ruin it.
“People finally got good taste,” he says, leaning back into the couch, one arm draped over the back again, casual, effortless.
A couple of the guys laugh, chiming in with half-serious agreement, but you don’t write it down right away. Instead, you watch him for a second.
“Is that the official answer,” you ask, “or the one you give when you don’t feel like thinking too hard?”
There’s a quiet shift in the room. Eddie’s eyes flicker, something amused sparking there, but he doesn’t deflect this time.
“Depends,” he says, gaze holding yours, “you gonna make me think?”
You don’t look away. “I can,” you reply simply.
Then he exhales, something almost like a laugh slipping out under his breath as he leans forward, elbows on his knees again, posture changing just enough to signal he’s playing differently now.
“Alright,” he says. “We stopped trying to sound like anyone else.”
That, you write down. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he continues, glancing briefly at the rest of the band before looking back at you, “we used to chase what we thought people wanted to hear. Bigger bands, bigger sounds, whatever was working at the time. And then we kinda just… stopped.”
Your pen moves more slowly now, more deliberate. “And that worked.”
“It worked because it was real,” he corrects, not defensive, just certain. “Turns out people can tell when you’re faking it.”
Your lips press together slightly, not quite a smile, but close.
“Careful,” you murmur as you jot that down. “That almost sounded sincere.”
There’s a low chuckle from the room, but Eddie’s focus doesn’t break.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says.
“I won’t.”
You flip the page in your notebook, shifting gears smoothly.
“Your lyrics,” you continue, “they’re darker than what’s charting right now. Less polished, more personal. Where does that come from?”
This time, he doesn’t answer right away. You don’t fill the silence. You let it sit, let it stretch, because that’s where the real answers tend to live.
Eddie’s gaze drops for half a second, fingers tapping once against his knee before stilling, like he’s deciding how much to give you.
“Life’s not exactly clean,” he says finally. “Didn’t really make sense to write it like it is.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him, not pushing yet, but not letting it go either.
“Most artists still dress it up,” you say. “Make it easier to swallow.”
“Yeah,” he nods once. “That’s boring.” That earns him a small, genuine smile this time, quick but there.
“I’ll make sure to quote you on that.”
“Please do.”
There’s a moment where neither of you speaks, something quieter settling in under the surface of the conversation, something that feels less like an interview and more like something else.
You clear it before it lingers too long.
“Your fans,” you say, glancing briefly at your notes before looking back up, “are very… invested. There’s a kind of intensity there you don’t see with every band. Why do you think that is?”
He huffs out a soft laugh, leaning back again, but it’s different now, less dismissive, more thoughtful.
“They see themselves in it,” he says. “In the music, in us. We’re not exactly polished.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He grins at that, just slightly. “You disagree?”
“I think,” you say, tapping your pen once against the page, eyes never leaving his, “you know exactly what you’re doing.”
That lands heavier than anything else you’ve said. You can tell by the way his expression stills, just for a second, like you’ve stepped a little closer to something he didn’t expect you to reach.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
You don’t elaborate, you don’t need to. Eddie leans forward again, slower this time, like he’s choosing it.
“And what do you think I’m doing?” he asks.
Your thumb brushes lightly over the side of your recorder, grounding, steady. Then you meet his gaze fully, unflinching.
“Keeping people at just enough of a distance,” you say, voice calm, measured, “that they want to get closer.”
His mouth curves, not wide, not performative, something smaller, something more real.
“Sounds like someone I’m talkin’ to right now.”
You don’t react right away. Just hold his gaze, steady, unwavering, before finally glancing down at your notes, breaking it on your terms.
“Maybe,” you say lightly, turning the page like nothing just happened. “But I’m not the one being interviewed.”
“Not yet,” he murmurs.
You hear it. Your lips twitch, just barely, before you press on, voice smooth, composed, like you didn’t feel the shift at all.
“Last question,” you say. “Where does Corroded Coffin go from here?”
He watches you for a second longer before answering, like he’s deciding whether to say something else instead.
Then, “Wherever we want,” he says. “We’re not really the type to sit still.”
You nod once, clicking your pen shut. “That much is clear.”
You reach forward, stopping the recorder, the soft click louder this time, more final. The room exhales around you, conversation starting to pick back up, movement returning, but for a second longer, neither of you moves.
Eddie’s still watching you. And this time, there’s no performance in it at all.
“Not bad, Meadows,” he says, voice quieter now, meant just for you. “You might actually be worth the hype.”
You gather your things with practiced ease, slipping the recorder back into your bag before finally looking at him again, expression unreadable, but not cold.
“Careful,” you echo softly. “You’re starting to sound impressed.”
He smiles at that. Slow. Certain. “I am.”
You don’t answer. You just sling your bag over your shoulder, turning toward the door like you’ve already decided this is over, like you’re done here. But just before you step out, you pause, glancing back at him one last time.
“Next time,” you say, almost offhand, like it doesn’t matter, “try not to hold back so much.”
And then you’re gone. Leaving him with just enough to want more.
The bar is dim in the way you like, not trying too hard to be atmospheric, just naturally worn in, low lights casting everything in amber and shadow, the kind of place where no one asks too many questions and no one cares if you sit alone for hours with a drink you barely touch.
You come here because of that.
Because after a day of being Misty Meadows, of being sharp and composed and just a little untouchable, it’s one of the few places where you can slip out of it without anyone noticing the difference.
Or at least, that’s the idea.
You slide onto your usual stool, ordering without looking at the menu, something simple, something you don’t have to think about, fingers tapping lightly against the bar as you wait, your gaze drifting out over the room more out of habit than interest, and then it lands on him.
Eddie’s across the bar, half-turned toward one of his bandmates, something animated in the way he’s talking, hands moving, head tipped back slightly as he laughs at something you can’t hear from here. He looks different outside the dressing room, less contained somehow, like the energy he kept just under the surface earlier has nowhere to go but out now.
For a second, you consider leaving. Not because you’re avoiding him. Just because you don’t need this to turn into something.
But then your drink is set in front of you, condensation already forming against the glass, and you take a slow sip instead, eyes flicking away like you never noticed him at all.
It’s easy enough to pretend. You’ve done it before.
You angle your body slightly toward the bar, back half-turned to the room, attention dropping to the faint ring your glass leaves against the wood as you set it down again, letting the noise of the place blur into something distant.
A few minutes pass. Maybe more. And then—
“Didn’t think you were the type to stick around after the job’s done.”
His voice is closer than you expect. Right behind you. You don’t turn right away.
Instead, you take another sip, slow, deliberate, setting the glass down before finally glancing over your shoulder, just enough to catch him standing there, hands shoved loosely into his pockets, expression somewhere between curious and amused.
“Didn’t think you were the type to follow your interviewers,” you reply, tone easy, like this is nothing, like you didn’t clock him the second you walked in.
His mouth quirks at that, but he doesn’t rise to it the way he did earlier.
“Didn’t follow you,” he says. “Been here.” You hum softly, turning back to face the bar, but you don’t dismiss him.
Then the stool beside you shifts, the faint scrape of it against the floor as he takes the seat without asking, close enough that you’re aware of him, not close enough to crowd.
“Hi, Meadows,” he says, a little quieter now, like it’s meant just for you.
You let out a small breath that almost passes for a laugh, finally turning your head to look at him properly, something lighter in your expression this time, less guarded.
“That’s not my real name,” you say, matter-of-fact, like you’re stating something obvious. “Just my pornstar name.”
He blinks, his body going completely still.
And then you break, a soft chuckle slipping out as you shake your head slightly, like you couldn’t even keep a straight face through it.
“Relax,” you add, glancing back at your drink before lifting it again. “I’m kidding.”
Eddie’s watching you in a way that feels different now, less like he’s trying to figure you out and more like he’s just taking you in.
“Yeah?” he says, a hint of a grin pulling at his mouth. “Had me convinced.”
“I get that a lot,” you reply easily.
Another small pause settles between you, but it’s not awkward.
You tap your fingers once against the side of your glass before finally offering, a little more genuine this time, a little less Misty.
“It’s—” you start, then give your real name, letting it sit there between you without dressing it up, without turning it into something performative.
He repeats it under his breath, like he’s testing the way it sounds, like he’s committing it to memory.
“Better than Misty Meadows,” he decides.
You glance at him, one brow lifting slightly.
“Careful,” you murmur. “That name pays my bills.”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning back slightly in his seat, eyes still on you. “But this one sounds like you.”
That catches you off guard. Not enough to show it, but enough that you don’t answer right away.
Instead, you take another sip of your drink, gaze drifting forward again, a faint smile lingering at the edge of your lips like you’re deciding what to do with that.
“Don’t get used to it,” you say finally, softer now, but not pulling away. “You don’t get the off-the-record version of me that easily.”
Eddie huffs a quiet laugh beside you, something warm threaded through it.
“Funny,” he says, turning slightly toward you, elbow resting against the bar. “Could say the same thing.”
You glance at him again, slower this time. “Good,” you reply. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
And just like that, the game begins.
Then, from across the bar—“Eddie!”
One of his bandmates, loud, half-laughing, waving him over like whatever’s happening over there is more chaotic, more immediate, more them.
Eddie doesn’t look away from you right away. His eyes linger, like he’s weighing something, like he’s deciding whether to ignore it, like he’s not quite ready to let this moment go just yet.
“C’mon, man!” the voice calls again. “You’re missin’ it!”
You tilt your head slightly, glancing past him toward the group before looking back at him, expression unreadable but just amused enough to push.
“Go,” you say lightly, lifting your glass to your lips. “Wouldn’t want to keep your audience waiting.”
His mouth twitches, something reluctant in it now, something that wasn’t there before.
“Try not to disappear,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s not entirely joking.
You don’t promise anything. Just hum softly, like you might, like you might not. It’s enough.
He pushes off the stool, dragging his gaze off you with a kind of effort that doesn’t go unnoticed, stepping back toward his band, the noise swallowing him up almost immediately, laughter and voices and movement pulling him right back into it.
And just like that, you’re alone again. Or, at least, you look like you are. You take another sip of your drink, slower this time, eyes fixed forward, but your awareness doesn’t dull, not completely. It never does.
You can feel it again, the shift. The attention that comes when someone new takes notice. It doesn’t take long.
“Mind if I sit?”
The voice is unfamiliar, a little too confident, a little too practiced, and when you glance to the side, there’s a man standing there, already halfway into the motion of pulling out the stool like he expects you to say yes.
You consider him for a second. Then—“Depends,” you say, turning slightly toward him, letting your gaze linger just long enough to feel intentional. “Are you interesting?”
He laughs, a little surprised, but not put off.
“I can be,” he says, settling into the seat beside you anyway. “Guess that’s up to you to decide.”
You hum, tilting your glass gently, watching the way the light catches against it before looking back at him, something softer in your expression now, something easier.
“Alright,” you concede, like you’re granting him something. “You’ve got five minutes to convince me.”
Across the bar, Eddie hears it. He doesn’t mean to, but he does. And when he glances over, you’re turned toward someone else. Closer than you were with him.
Your posture is open, relaxed in a way that feels different. The guy says something you don’t catch, but you laugh, quiet and genuine, your hand brushing briefly against his arm like it’s nothing, like it’s instinct.
Eddie stills. Not obvious. Not enough for anyone else to call him on it. But his attention locks in.
Back at the bar, you lean just slightly closer to the man beside you, lowering your voice like you’re letting him in on something, your smile curving in a way that feels a little more deliberate now, a little more crafted.
“And what do you do,” you ask, fingers idly tracing the rim of your glass, “when you’re not trying to impress strangers at bars?”
He grins, leaning in to match your energy. “Who says I’m trying to impress you?”
You glance at him, slow, measured, like you’re considering that. Then, “Because you’re still here,” you say simply.
He laughs again, a little louder this time, a little more hooked.
Across the room, Eddie exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, gaze flicking away for half a second before snapping right back, like he can’t help it.
He watches the way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your smile shifts depending on what you’re given, the way you let the guy think he’s doing well, like he’s keeping up.
But Eddie knows better. He’s seen the version of you that doesn’t give anything away. And this—This isn’t that. This is intentional. Controlled. A performance. Your performance.
Back at the bar, your eyes flicker, just briefly, just enough to catch him looking. You don’t turn your head. You don’t break your conversation. But your lips curve, just slightly, into your glass as you take another sip. Like you know exactly what you’re doing. And exactly who you’re doing it for.
The conversation lingers just long enough to feel believable.
He’s talking more now, a little too comfortable, a little too confident in the way people get when they think they’ve figured you out, when they mistake your attention for interest instead of something far more temporary.
You let him. For a minute, maybe two. Long enough for it to matter.
“So what, you just go around interviewing rockstars all day?” he’s saying, leaning closer, voice dipping like he thinks it makes him sound more interesting. “That’s gotta get old.”
You tilt your head slightly, considering him, letting your gaze soften just enough to keep him talking.
“Sometimes,” you murmur, fingers tapping lightly against your glass. “Depends on the rockstar.”
He grins at that, like he’s in on the joke, like he’s earned it. “Yeah? Bet most of them aren’t as fun as me.”
His hand slides over your arm then, casual in the way men think passes for smooth, fingers brushing your skin like it’s an afterthought, like you won’t notice, or worse, like you won’t mind.
You do, but you don’t pull away. Not immediately.
Instead, your gaze drops to where his hand rests, slow, deliberate, giving him just enough time to realize what he’s done, just enough time for the moment to stretch. Then you move.
Your hand comes up, light but precise, wrapping around his wrist, not tight, not aggressive, just controlled. You lift his hand off your arm like it weighs nothing. Plop it back onto the bar between you. Your touch lingers for half a second longer than necessary.
Then you look back at him, expression calm, almost pleasant.
“Time's up. You’re not that interesting,” you say lightly.
The smile on his face falters, just slightly, confusion flickering in where confidence used to sit, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.
You don’t give him the answer. And before he can recover—“Hey, babe.”
The voice cuts in from your other side, familiar, rougher now, edged with something that wasn’t there before. Eddie.
He doesn’t wait to be acknowledged, stepping in close enough that the space shifts immediately, presence taking up more room than it should, like he’s claiming it without asking.
Your gaze lifts to him slowly, measured, taking him in the same way you did earlier, but there’s something new in it now, something more aware.
“Thought I lost you,” he continues, tone easy on the surface, but there’s an undercurrent there, something tighter, something that doesn’t quite bother to hide itself.
“C’mon, we’ve got a table open.”
You glance past him briefly, toward the pool tables in the back, then back at him again, one brow arching slightly. “Do we?” you ask.
His mouth tilts, not quite a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “We do.”
You let it hang, just long enough to make it clear you’re choosing, not being pulled.
Then you turn back to the guy beside you, offering him a small, almost apologetic shrug that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Duty calls,” you say, like it’s unfortunate, like you might have stayed if things were different.
He blinks, still a little thrown, still trying to catch up.
“Right,” he mutters. “Yeah, sure.”
You’re already standing before he finishes, sliding off the stool with practiced ease, grabbing your drink, and downing the last of it in one smooth motion before setting the empty glass back on the bar.
Then you turn to Eddie. Close now, closer than before.
Your head tilts just slightly as you look at him, something amused flickering there, something that says you noticed everything.
“Babe?” you echo, soft, almost teasing.
He doesn’t back off. Doesn’t correct it.
“Seemed like it worked,” he says simply.
Your lips curve, slow and deliberate.
“Aw,” you murmur, stepping past him toward the back, not waiting to see if he follows, because of course he will. “Did someone get jealous?”
Behind you, there’s a quiet, low laugh. “Wouldn’t go that far,” he calls after you. But he’s already moving to catch up.
And neither of you believes that for a second.
By the time you reach the pool tables, the air shifts again, thicker back here, louder in a different way, the crack of balls against each other cutting through the music, laughter bouncing off the walls, neon lights catching on glass and metal and movement. Eddie’s right behind you.
“Oi, Munson,” one of the guys calls out, cue already in hand, grin sharp. “You finally done brooding or what?”
Eddie scoffs lightly, brushing past him, but there’s no bite in it, just familiarity. “Shut up.”
Then, with a tilt of his head toward you, “you guys remember—” he pauses, glancing at you like he’s giving you the choice.
You give your real name again. Not Misty. Not here.
“—and she’s with me,” he finishes, like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t need explaining.
“Gareth,” the same guy says, offering you a quick nod, eyes already curious, already clocking you in a way that feels more open than Eddie’s measured stare. “And that’s Jeff.”
Jeff gives you a small wave, more relaxed, but just as observant.
You return it easily, already picking up on the dynamic, the way Gareth leans loud and teasing, the way Jeff hangs back just enough to watch before he speaks.
“Teams?” Gareth asks, twirling his cue. “Or are you just here for moral support?”
Eddie glances at you, something almost challenging flickering there. “You play?”
You don’t answer right away. Just reach for a cue, spinning it once in your hand like you’ve done it a hundred times, like it’s muscle memory, not something you have to think about.
“I get by,” you say lightly. That’s all the confirmation he needs.
“Alright,” Gareth claps once, already moving to rack the balls. “Munson and—” he repeats your name, testing it, “against me and Jeff.”
“Hope you don’t suck,” Jeff adds, not unkindly.
You glance at him, a faint smile pulling at your mouth. “I won’t.”
The game starts.
Eddie breaks first, the crack loud and clean, balls scattering across the table in a messy spread, and for a second, it looks like any other casual game, like nothing’s riding on it, like it doesn’t matter who wins.
Then it’s your turn. You step forward without hesitation, leaning over the table, lining up your shot with a kind of quiet precision that doesn’t match the casual way you’ve been carrying yourself all night.
There’s a brief pause. Then, you sink it. Clean. No bounce, no hesitation, just a smooth, controlled shot that drops exactly where you want it.
Gareth straightens slightly.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Beginner’s luck.”
You don’t respond. Just circle the table, lining up the next one. And the next. And the next. Each shot is deliberate, calculated, effortless in a way that stops feeling like luck about halfway through your turn. By the time you finally step back, handing the table over, the energy has shifted completely.
Jeff lets out a low whistle.
“Alright,” he says, glancing between you and Eddie. “What the hell was that?”
Eddie’s not even trying to hide it now. The way he’s looking at you, it’s not surprise. It’s something way closer to impressed.
“Yeah,” Gareth adds, narrowing his eyes slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together. “Where’d you learn that?”
You twirl the cue lightly in your hand, shrugging one shoulder like it’s nothing.
“Playing pool with Mötley Crüe will do that,” you say, casual as anything.
“No way,” Gareth blurts, stepping closer like he needs to hear it again. “You’re serious?”
You glance at him, amused now. “Why would I lie about that?”
Jeff’s already leaning in, interest fully piqued.
“Wait, wait—okay, hold on,” he says, pointing at you like you might disappear if he doesn’t anchor the moment. “You’ve actually met them?”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I’ve interviewed them.”
That does it. “Jesus,” Gareth breathes, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, that’s—okay, that’s insane.”
“What are they like?” Jeff cuts in immediately. “Like, actually? Are they as wild as people say?”
“And Sabbath?” Gareth adds quickly. “You’ve done them too, right? What’s Ozzy like in person? Is he—”
“Do they remember your name?” Jeff interrupts. “Or is it like in and out, next person?”
“Have you ever had one go completely off the rails?” Gareth piles on. “Like mid-interview, just—gone?”
The questions start stacking, overlapping, rapid-fire, both of them talking over each other now, completely locked in, like they forgot the game entirely.
You laugh, real this time, holding a hand up slightly like you might try to slow them down, but not actually stopping them, not when it’s so easy, so natural to slip into this version of yourself.
Across from you, Eddie watches it all unfold. Quiet. Observing.
The way you answer without hesitation, the way you pick and choose what to give them, what to hold back, the way you shift between stories and half-truths and teasing deflections like it’s second nature.
Like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like you belong in those rooms. And for the first time tonight, he’s not trying to match you. He’s just taking it in.
“You always this popular?” he mutters finally, just loud enough for you to hear over the noise.
You glance at him, a slow smile pulling at your lips. “Only when I’m winning,” you reply.
By the time the game dissolves into something less structured, less competitive, and more just hanging around, the drinks have stacked up enough that the sharp edges of the night start to blur.
Gareth’s gotten louder, Jeff’s leaning into stories that take too long to land, and Eddie—
Eddie’s still close. Not hovering, but never far. You feel it in the way he keeps drifting back toward you, in the way his attention snaps back every time you speak, even when someone else is mid-sentence.
At some point, your glass is empty again. You don’t remember finishing it. You set it down anyway.
“I should go,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else, but Eddie hears it.
“Yeah?” he asks, straightening slightly, like the word 'go' pulled him back into focus.
You nod, pushing yourself off the edge of the table, smoothing your hands over your jacket like it’s a habit, like you need something to ground you for a second.
“Early morning,” you lie easily.
He huffs a quiet laugh at that, not calling it out, but not believing it either. “Right.”
There’s a pause, then he’s grabbing his jacket. “I’ll walk you.”
You glance at him, one brow lifting slightly, a hint of amusement cutting through the haze.
“Wow,” you murmur as you start toward the exit, not waiting to see if he follows. “Didn’t peg you for a gentleman.”
“Don’t spread it around,” he replies easily, falling into step beside you. “Ruins my reputation.”
You hum softly, pushing the door open, cool night air hitting your skin just enough to clear your head a little, the noise of the bar fading behind you as you step out onto the street.
For a while, you walk in silence. The kind that doesn’t need filling.
Your shoulder brushes his once, twice, not quite accidental, not quite intentional either, and neither of you comment on it.
“So,” he says eventually, glancing down at you, hands shoved into his pockets. “This your usual post-interview routine? Bars and mysterious exits?”
You glance up at him, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Only for the ones that keep things interesting.”
He huffs, shaking his head slightly. “Good to know I made the cut.”
You don’t answer that.
Just let it sit between you as you turn down your street, the buildings quieter here, lights lower, everything settling into that late-night stillness.
When you stop in front of your building, it feels abrupt. Like something’s being cut off before it’s ready. You turn to face him, shifting your weight slightly, keys already in your hand.
“Well,” you say lightly, gesturing toward the door. “This is me.”
Eddie nods once, slower now, like he’s taking it in, committing it somewhere. “Yeah.”
“Thanks,” you add, a little quieter. “For the walk.”
“Anytime.”
You turn then, stepping up to the door, unlocking it with a soft click before pushing it open, slipping inside without looking back right away. Because you don’t need to. You already know he’s still there. You can feel it.
And sure enough, when you glance over your shoulder—He’s turned slightly, like he’s about to head back the way you came, like he’s already made the decision to leave.
Something in your chest tightens, just enough.
“Hey.”
It stops him. He looks back.
You hesitate for half a second, fingers tightening slightly around your keys before you tilt your head toward the open doorway.
“You can come up,” you say, like it’s nothing, like it’s an afterthought. “If you want.”
There’s a pause. Not long, but enough for it to matter. Eddie studies you for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles into something quieter, something more certain.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You shrug lightly, stepping back just enough to make space for him to follow. “Yeah.”
That’s all it takes. He steps forward, closing the distance between you, the door falling shut behind him with a soft click that echoes just a little too loudly in the quiet.
The hallway up to your apartment is dim, the kind of building that’s seen better years but doesn’t bother pretending otherwise, worn carpet, flickering light at the far end, the faint echo of someone’s music bleeding through the walls. You don’t comment on it.
Just lead him up like it’s routine, like you’ve done this a hundred times, keys already in your hand by the time you reach your door. There’s a small pause as you unlock it. Then you push it open.
Eddie steps in behind you, and for the first time all night, he actually goes quiet.
Your place isn’t polished. Not in the way people expect from someone with your job.
It’s dimly lit, warm, the kind of space that feels lived-in rather than staged.
Black and deep red tones everywhere, a worn leather couch that looks like it’s seen long nights and longer conversations, records stacked in uneven piles near an old turntable, band posters peeling slightly at the corners, some framed, some not, overlapping in a way that feels intentional without trying too hard.
There’s a faint scent of incense in the air, something smoky and sweet, curling through the space, mixing with the lingering city air from a cracked window.
Your jackets are thrown over the back of a chair, boots kicked off near the door, a half-finished notebook sitting open on the coffee table like you just stepped away from it.
It’s messy, but curated. Like you.
Eddie lets out a low breath, stepping further in, eyes dragging over everything, taking it in piece by piece.
“Shit,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This is… not what I expected.”
You shut the door behind him with a soft click, already moving past him like you didn’t hear it, or like you did and just don’t feel the need to explain.
“What, you thought I lived in a hotel room?” you toss over your shoulder.
“Thought you’d be cleaner,” he admits, glancing back at you, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth.
You glance at him, unimpressed. “Disappointed?”
“Not even a little.”
That earns him a small smile, quick, gone just as fast. You move into the kitchen without asking if he wants anything, already opening the fridge, the light spilling out across the dark space.
“Beer?” you call, like it’s the only option.
“Yeah.”
You grab two, popping the caps off against the counter with practiced ease before tossing one to him without looking. He catches it easily, a soft thunk of glass against his rings.
By the time he looks back up, you’ve already taken a sip of yours, leaning back against the counter, watching him over the rim like you’re assessing something all over again. He doesn’t say anything.
Just takes a long drink, then moves further into the apartment, drawn toward the couch like it’s calling him.
He drops onto it without ceremony, limbs loose, head tipping back against the worn leather with a quiet exhale, like he’s finally letting himself settle.
“Comfortable?” you ask, tone light as you push off the counter, crossing the room.
“Dangerously,” he replies, glancing at you from where he’s sprawled out. “Might not leave.”
You huff a soft laugh, setting your bottle down on the table before lowering yourself onto the arm of the couch instead of beside him, close enough to feel his presence, not close enough to give in to it.
“Bold of you to assume you’re invited to stay that long.”
He turns his head slightly, looking up at you now, eyes a little darker in the low light, something slower settling into his expression.
“You let me in,” he points out.
You tilt your head, considering him for a second, something unreadable flickering there.
“Don’t read into it,” you say, softer now, but not pulling away.
He studies you for a beat longer, like he might push, like he might say something that tips this into something else entirely. But he doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he lifts his beer slightly in your direction.
“To not reading into things,” he says.
Your lips curve, just faintly, as you reach for your own, clinking it lightly against his.
“Sure,” you murmur. But neither of you really means it.
For a while, it’s just the quiet hum of the room. The low crackle of a record you didn’t even remember putting on, something slow and heavy, the kind of sound that settles into your bones, mixed with the occasional clink of glass when one of you sets your beer down a little too hard.
Eddie shifts on the couch, turning slightly so he’s angled more toward you, one arm draped over the back, the other loosely holding his bottle, eyes lingering on you like he’s been watching longer than he should admit.
“So,” he says finally, voice rougher now, less performative than it was earlier, something quieter threading through it. “Where’re you from?”
You glance at him, not immediately answering, like you’re deciding how much to give.
“New York,” you say after a second, simple and easy.
He hums, like that tracks, like it makes sense. “Figures.”
Your brow lifts slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs one shoulder, but his gaze doesn’t leave you, something almost amused flickering there.
“Just explains it,” he says. “The attitude. The way you walk into a room like you already own it.”
You let out a quiet breath that almost passes for a laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Or maybe I just do.”
That gets him. A small grin tugs at his mouth, slower this time, more deliberate.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe you do.”
“Family there?” he asks, like it’s casual, but it lands a little heavier than that.
You pick up your beer again, rolling the bottle lightly between your hands before answering.
“My dad,” you say. “Music production. Small stuff, nothing huge, but enough that I grew up around it.”
His attention sharpens at that. “Yeah?” he leans forward slightly, interest piquing. “That’s how you got into all this?”
You nod once, gaze drifting somewhere past him for a second, like you’re pulling from memory.
“Studio sessions, late nights, bands in and out of the house,” you explain. “I learned pretty early how to listen. How to tell when someone’s full of shit, too.”
Your eyes flick back to him at that, something pointed slipping in just for a second. He huffs a quiet laugh. “Dangerous skill.”
“Useful one.”
Eddie studies you like he’s putting the pieces together, like he’s matching this version of you to the one he saw earlier, to the one you present to everyone else.
“You’re not like the other journalists I’ve met,” he says after a moment, tone lower now, something almost thoughtful threading through it.
You glance at him, unimpressed but not dismissive. “Please don’t say that like it’s a compliment.”
He shakes his head slightly, pushing himself up just enough to sit a little closer, elbows resting on his knees, bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.
“It’s not,” he says. “Not really.”
That catches your attention. Your head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Then what is it?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you.
“Most of them,” he starts slowly, “they come in with an angle. Already know what they want you to say, already got the story half-written before you even open your mouth.”
You don’t interrupt.
“They try to get close,” he continues, voice quieter now, “but it’s fake. All of it. Just a means to an end.”
His gaze drops briefly to your hands, then back up to your face, something sharper settling in.
“You don’t do that.”
You hold his gaze, steady. “No,” you agree softly.
“And that should probably worry me,” he adds, almost to himself.
Your lips curve, slow, deliberate, something darker slipping into it now. “Maybe it should.”
He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh, but there’s no real humor in it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Problem is—” He leans back slightly, but his eyes don’t leave yours, something heavier settling into the space between you. “—I don’t think I mind.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the neck of your bottle, but your expression doesn’t shift, not in any obvious way.
“You should,” you say, voice softer now, but not lighter. “I’m very good at my job.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes at that. Interest. Challenge. Something else.
“I know,” he says.
The air between you feels thicker now, heavier, like the low hum of the record has wrapped itself around the room and pulled everything closer.
Eddie’s still leaning back on the couch, but his posture has shifted: less sprawled, more intentional. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and steady, that crooked half-smile lingering like he’s daring you to keep going.
You set your beer down on the table with a soft clink, the sound cutting through the quiet. Then you slide off the arm of the couch and onto the cushion beside him, close enough that your thigh presses against his. Not accidental. You don’t do accidental.
He doesn’t wait. His hand comes up, fingers threading into your hair, tugging you in like he’s the one who decides when this starts. The kiss is immediate: hot, open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours with that same chaotic energy he carries on stage, like he’s trying to swallow the challenge you’ve been throwing at him all night.
One of his ringed hands grips your waist, the other sliding up your back, pulling you half into his lap as if he’s already mapping out how this is going to go.
His teeth catch your bottom lip, a little rough, a little possessive, and for a second you let him—let the heat build, let him think he’s steering.
But then his hand dips lower, palming your ass like he’s about to flip you under him, and that’s when you break the kiss with a sharp inhale.
You pull back just enough to look at him, lips wet and swollen, your hand coming up to press flat against his chest, holding him there.
“You seem to be the one in control a lot, Eddie,” you say, voice low and edged with that sharp, unimpressed amusement you wear like armor. Your fingers curl into his shirt, nails digging in just enough to make him feel it.
“On stage. With the band. With every fucking person who walks into a room thinking they can handle you.”
Your gaze drags over his face—those blown pupils, the flush creeping up his neck, the way his breath has already gone ragged.
“Must get exhausting, always holding the reins like that.”
His throat works as he swallows, eyes flicking down to your mouth like he’s still chasing the kiss, but he doesn’t push. Not yet.
“Yeah?” he rasps, voice rougher than gravel. “You offering to change that?”
You don’t answer with words. You lean back in and kiss him again: deeper this time, filthier, but on your terms. Your tongue strokes against his, slow and commanding, while your hand stays planted on his chest, keeping him pinned exactly where you want him.
He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and his hands flex on your waist like he’s fighting the instinct to take over again.
You reward the restraint by shifting fully into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, grinding down once—slow, deliberate—feeling him harden instantly beneath you through his jeans.
The kiss turns messy fast. Tongues and teeth and the wet sound of mouths sliding together, his curls tangling around your fingers as you tug his head back to expose his throat.
You bite down there, hard enough to leave a mark, and he bucks up against you with a choked curse. But you don’t let him set the pace.
You roll your hips in tight, controlled circles, dragging your core along the thick line of his cock until he’s panting into the kiss, hands gripping your thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him sane.
You break away just long enough to yank your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside. The cool air hits your skin, and his eyes drop immediately—dark, hungry, locking onto the silver barbells piercing your nipples, the way they catch the low lamplight every time you breathe. A low, wrecked sound escapes him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, thumbs already brushing the undersides of your breasts like he can’t help it. “Those are— Jesus Christ.”
You catch his wrists before he can do more, pinning them to the couch on either side of his head. “Eyes up here,” you tell him, voice calm but edged.
“You don’t get to touch until I say.” Then you lean down and kiss him again, slower, filthier, rolling your nipples against his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt just to feel him shudder.
You keep him like that—trapped under you, mouth devoured by yours—while you rock against him harder, using the friction to chase your own heat.
The kiss never fully breaks; it just turns sloppy, desperate, shared breaths and bitten-off groans.
Your hands slide down his arms, nails raking lightly, before you reach between you and shove his jeans open, freeing his cock. It’s hot and heavy in your palm, already leaking, and you stroke him once, firm and slow, thumb circling the slick head until his hips jerk.
But you don’t let him have it yet. You rise up on your knees, shoving your own jeans and panties down just enough to kick them off, then sink back down—taking him in one smooth, relentless slide.
The stretch burns perfectly and fully, your pierced nipples brushing his chest as you settle. Eddie’s head falls back against the couch with a groan, but you grab his jaw, forcing his gaze back to yours.
“Look at me,” you say against his mouth. “This is for me right now.”
And then you ride him.
Not gentle. Not shared. You use him—rolling your hips in deep, grinding thrusts that hit exactly where you need, clit dragging against his pelvis on every downstroke.
Your hands stay on his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin, keeping him pinned while you fuck yourself on his cock.
The wet slap of skin fills the room, mixed with the low hum of the record and his broken curses.
Every time he tries to thrust up, you slow down, clenching around him until he’s whimpering into your next kiss, lips slack and needy.
You chase it ruthlessly—faster now, thighs burning, the barbells on your nipples tightening into hard peaks as pleasure coils sharp and bright in your belly.
When it hits, it hits hard: you come with a low, throaty moan, grinding down deep and holding there, pulsing around him, thighs clamping tight around his hips.
Your forehead drops to his shoulder for half a second, breath hot against his neck, but you don’t stop moving entirely; just slow, lazy rolls to ride it out while he stays rock-hard and trembling inside you, edged right to the brink.
You lift off him with a slick sound, ignoring the way he whines at the loss. Instead, you slide down between his spread thighs, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, and take him into your mouth in one smooth motion—deep, no teasing, throat relaxing around the thick length of him.
Eddie’s hand flies to your hair on instinct, but you slap it away, pinning his wrist to the cushion again.
“No,” you murmur around his cock, pulling off just long enough to speak. “You don’t get to guide this either.”
Then you swallow him again, tongue swirling, hollowing your cheeks, working him with filthy, wet strokes until his hips are twitching and his voice cracks on your name.
You edge him mercilessly—bringing him right to the edge, then backing off with a slow lick up the underside until he’s cursing, sweat-slick and desperate, cock throbbing against your tongue.
Only when he’s shaking, voice hoarse and pleading—“Fuck, please, I can’t— I’m right there”—do you pull off completely.
You climb back into his lap, guiding him back inside you in one slick thrust, and lean in close, lips brushing his ear.
“Your turn,” you whisper, voice husky and satisfied. “Take it. Fuck me like you’ve been dying to since the bar.”
That’s all it takes. Eddie snaps.
His hands finally move—gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, flipping you both so your back hits the couch and he’s driving into you in one brutal thrust. No more restraint.
He fucks you deep and relentlessly, hips snapping, the wet sound of it obscene as he buries himself to the hilt over and over. His mouth finds yours again—messy, biting, devouring—while one hand slides up to pinch and tug at your pierced nipples, rolling the barbells between his fingers until you arch and moan into his mouth.
“Goddamn,” he growls against your lips, voice wrecked and raw. “You’re so fucking tight— so fucking perfect like this.” He angles his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision spark, pounding harder, faster, the couch creaking under the force of it.
You let him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails raking down his back—because you’ve already come once, because you’ve already had him exactly how you wanted, and now you want to feel him lose it.
He does. With a strangled groan, he buries himself deep, hips stuttering as he comes hard, pulsing inside you, face pressed into your neck like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.
You clench around him deliberately, and he shudders through it, whispering your real name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
For a long moment, the only sound is both of you breathing hard, skin slick, bodies still locked together.
Eddie’s weight is heavy and warm on top of you, but he doesn’t collapse completely: his arms tremble as he holds himself up just enough to look at you, curls wild, eyes glassy and utterly gone.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, voice shot. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”
You smile, slow and satisfied, thumb brushing over his swollen bottom lip.
“Only if you ask nicely,” you murmur, pulling him down into a lazy, filthy kiss that tastes like both of you.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, and for the first time all night, the noise drops out completely.
Just water. Hot, steady, grounding.
You stand there longer than you need to, letting it run over your shoulders, your neck, washing away the heat of it all, the weight of his hands, the way he said your name like it meant something.
You don’t rush, you never do. But there’s a quiet awareness sitting just under your skin now, something that wasn’t there before.
When you finally step out, wrapped in one of your towels, the apartment feels different. Quieter. Softer. You pad back into the main room, running a hand through your damp hair, and stop.
Eddie’s in your bed. Not in a way that assumes anything.
He’s kicked off his boots, stretched out on top of the covers like he didn’t even think twice about it, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, staring up at your ceiling like he’s been there longer than he has.
You blink once. Then scoff, a small shake of your head as you move toward your dresser, pulling out something to throw on.
“Wow,” you mutter, voice dry. “You make yourself comfortable fast.”
He glances over at you, that same crooked, lazy grin pulling at his mouth, but it’s softer now, worn down at the edges.
“You invited me in,” he says simply. “Didn’t specify where I could and could not sit.”
You huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh, tugging on an oversized shirt, letting the towel drop, not bothering to hide the fact that you don’t particularly care if he looks. Which, of course, he does. But he doesn’t say anything, just watches.
You climb onto the bed after a second, slower than you need to be, like you’re still deciding something even as you do it, settling in beside him instead of sending him off the way you normally would anybody else.
Then he shifts, turning slightly toward you, one arm sliding around your waist like it’s natural, like it’s already been decided.
You hesitate, just for a second. Then you let yourself lean into it. Barely.
“Don’t get used to this,” you murmur, eyes fixed somewhere ahead of you.
He huffs a quiet laugh against your shoulder. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
His fingers trace absent patterns along your side, slow, not pushing, which kind of says otherwise.
“I’m in town for a couple of days,” he says after a moment, voice lower now, closer to your ear. “Couple of shows lined up.”
You hum softly, not immediately reacting, like you’re filing it away instead of responding to it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You tilt your head slightly, just enough to glance at him, something teasing slipping back into your expression.
“Guess I could consider showing up,” you say, casual, like it’s not a big deal. “If I’m bored.”
His mouth curves, eyes flicking over your face like he knows exactly what that means.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “Might end up liking it.”
“Doubt it.” But there’s no bite in it.
You shift slightly, settling more comfortably against him before you speak again, voice softer, but edged with that familiar teasing.
“Though,” you add, glancing up at him, “you’re getting a little attached, Munson.”
He raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you continue, tone almost thoughtful now, like you’re analyzing it. “Walking me home, inviting yourself into my bed? To a gig? Starting to sound a little like you’re in love with me.”
There’s a pause, a real one this time. Eddie doesn’t answer immediately.
His hand stills slightly against your side, his gaze lingering on you in a way that feels different, less playful, more deliberate.
Then, “After that?” he says quietly, a faint smirk pulling at his lips again, but it doesn’t fully cover what’s underneath. “I just might be.”
You pause, because you didn’t expect that reaction or that answer. You just watch him for a second longer than usual, like you’re trying to decide if he’s joking, if you should treat it like one.
Then you shake your head slightly, letting out a quiet breath.
“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back against him, eyes drifting closed. “That sounds like a you problem.”
He laughs softly at that, the sound low and warm against the back of your neck, his arm tightening just slightly around you.
“So,” he starts, muffled into your shoulder. “Please tell me I don’t have any famous competition.”
Your eyes snap open, scoffing as you roll to face him, forehead to forehead.
“Seriously?” you ask, but there’s no bite to it.
His eyebrows raise, somewhere between humor, interest, and something a little sharper, a little more curious than he’s letting on.
You sigh, smiling as you shake your head, like you can’t believe this is what he’s worried about.
“Nobody impressive or memorable,” you mumble, before rolling over, back pressed into his chest.
“Oh thank god,” he exhales, dramatic, his arm tightening around you. “I was getting scared I had to compete with Vince Neil.”
“He wishes,” you mumble.
Eddie laughs, low and surprised, the sound warm against the back of your neck like he wasn’t expecting that answer, like he likes it more than he should.
“Jesus,” he mutters, nudging his nose lightly against your shoulder. “You say that about everyone, or just the ones who deserve it?”
You hum, pretending to think about it. “Just the ones who try too hard.”
His hand slides a little higher along your waist at that, fingers hooking lazily at the hem of your shirt.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, closer. “Would’ve been real embarrassing if I had to follow that.”
You roll your eyes slightly, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips, even if he can’t fully see it.
“Don’t worry,” you say, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “You’re doing just fine.”
That gets him. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just a fraction, in the way his breath catches just slightly before he recovers.
“Yeah?” he asks, softer now.
Your gaze lingers on him for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering there before you turn back around, settling into him again.
“Don’t get cocky,” you add.
He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, pressing just a little closer, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.
after years of wanting a puppy, you finally come home with one. however, it seems travis was much more excited about it than you.
warnings | absolute tooth-rotting fluff, very canon travis, not proof-read
You hadn’t planned on adopting a puppy today. It wasn’t on your to-do list, or even anything you’d ever considered doing now or in the future.
Fate, however, had different plans. On the way home from work, a small adoption fare had been set up outside the local shelter you passed every day, and a specific, little puppy had caught your eye.
Her eyes were all big and brown, just like your boyfriend Travis’s. She was the smallest of the puppies there and the quietest, curled up into the corner, just observing the world from her small little lens. Everyone else was trying to get the other puppies’ attention, but she was just sitting alone in her little corner.
And if that didn’t just tug right on your heartstrings.
So, here you were, carrying this sweet little angel in your arms as you struggled to unlock your apartment door. She hadn’t squirmed or cried in your arms. In fact, she seemed quite content with just staying where she was. That just made you feel even more sure about your impulsive decision.
The front door unlocked with a small click! and you were inside, carefully slipping off your shoes to put on the shoe matt.
“Travis! You home?” you called into the apartment. Travis liked to go out during the day when you were at work. Sometimes he just got lonely, but mainly, he hated being cooped up all day long. He worked nights, so doing things during the daytime was very important to him.
From across the apartment, you faintly heard Travis’s voice call back. “Yeah, I’m here, babe!”
“I got a surprise! Come here!”
You could hear Travis’s footsteps approaching quicker than normal. Clearly he was excited about the surprise you had for him. Oh, little did he know..
The second he got into the kitchen where you were standing, his jaw dropped. You could literally see his pupils dilate as his eyes landed on the small bundle of golden fur in your arms. You knew he would be excited. He loved dogs, that was no secret. He had to stop and pet every dog on the sidewalk during your evening strolls, and he loved stopping outside of pet stores to watch the puppies inside.
“That’s a puppy,” Travis stated, still staring at the dog in your arms. “Like.. a real life puppy.”
You nodded, giggling at his surprise. “Yeah. Our puppy.”
Travis’s eyes snapped back up to your face like he couldn’t believe what you were saying. “Our puppy? Our as in you-and-me. Us. That thing is ours to keep forever.”
“Well yeah, silly. That’s sort of what adoption entails,” you chuckled, holding the puppy up for Travis to see better.
The moment they locked eyes, it was like magic. Something out of a fairytale, because Travis was hooked.
Even though you had picked out the puppy, taken the puppy home, and went and bought all of the necessary items for her, Travis acted like she was his. He carried her all around the apartment while she slept peacefully in his arms, snuggled with her on the couch while watching The Pitt, and even tried to take her to work once, which you shut down quickly.
“Baby, c’mon,” Travis whined, holding the puppy’s face next to his own. “Look at her. She wants to come to work with Daddy.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, cringing internally, “never call yourself that ever again.”
He pouted his bottom lip out at you. “But I am her Daddy. She’s my baby girl. Well, so are you, but she’s my furry baby girl. You’re my main baby girl, baby girl. Just c’mon, lemme take her to work! It’s so boring, and she can, like, socialize. I read that it's good for them at this age.”
“Travis, as much as I love the idea of socializing her, I don’t think your job is a good place for it,” you tried to explain. “She’s gonna be bored out of her mind.”
So going to work with Travis was a no.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to end up at the dog park near daily after that. Travis was dead set on socializing the little golden, and so far, it was actually going pretty well.
Until the day a boy puppy, who truly meant no harm, decided to get a little too close and personal.
“We are never going back to the dog park,” Travis declared, clutching the puppy so close to his chest that you were worried he might squeeze her to death. “That dog tried to defile our baby.”
“They’re dogs,” you chuckled. “He was just trying to smell her.”
“Too closely.”
But honestly, your favorite part of having a puppy was coming home from work to see them snuggled on the couch.
You’d drop your bag on the table, slip off your shoes, and see the two of them either asleep or half asleep, curled up together like they belonged that way. The puppy would bury herself into his chest and he would tuck his head right over her own as if he was protecting her.
Occasionally, you’d come home to find them snuggled up on her little puppy bed. Maybe she’d wanted space, or maybe they just ended up that way, but it was still just as cute, if not cuter to see Travis himself curled up into a ball.
You had a whole collection of photos just because of that.
A lot of your friends questioned if Travis was mature enough to take care of a puppy, but you knew better than to listen to them. He might be a little immature at times, but he cared, and that’s what made him a good owner.
But your favorite thing was when you’d all sit down to watch a movie every Tuesday and Thursday night. You and Travis would cuddle up together and the puppy would lay herself out over both of your laps, almost as if she was trying to get equal attention from the both of you.
If there was anything you were sure about: it was Travis and your new little puppy, the perfect start to your forever family.
thoughts on travis fics? school finally settled down and im thinking a loooot about possibilities for some oneshots! thank you @djotime for your service w this gif
hi everyone. i’ve never been an account to talk seriously like this, but this is something everyone should be aware of on this platform.
a few days ago, this account left me an ask telling me they found my account thru my joe keery fics specifically and reported my account “accidentally” and that i could dm them for more info.
this is what went down. after digging into this “samuel york,” he is not real. also, the language of their texts if off and makes a point to get me to “contact live support”. using discord and whatsapp to message a tumblr support agent is also odd.
i reached out to tumblr, and no one had reported my account, nor does a samuel york work for them. please be aware of this scam. do not call any numbers or message people through this scam.
new fics hopefully coming next week! i’m out of town for spring break and have a midterm right when i get back, so hopefully ill be able to write one of your guys’ requests soon!
do we enjoy stories with oc's? if so—would we read one i was working on? (working on steve harrington x byers!oc for context. would be cross posted here and wattpad because i put visuals on wattpad lmao. would be the whole show)
oc stories
yes!
no!
Voting ended onMar 8
i normally post “x reader” fics on here which is not going to change, but i’m trying to decide if this story should be cross-posted to here or ao3!
