I'm Madi or Sophie. Ive written under Madi for so many years that it has become second nature to be refer to by it and its also part of my username in a way (depending on how you read it).
I'm a 23 year old human who writes to escape my life. This blog will be mostly SFW since i think i prefer it but my NSFW stuff is on my AO3 but there is only two i think not sure.
I'm Asexual which is why i don't post NSFW much but i also cosplay but the only anime character i have cosplayed atm is a fem!bakugo.
ONTO THE LINKS! YAY!
MY AO3 - a mishmash of fandoms from years back to now most are Marvel and Teen Wolf but it also has my NSFW stuff on it.
Masterlists - my masterlists of stories including things not posted. Most may not have summaries but there will be warnings since a few have triggering factors involved. My Masterlists are also going to be separated into years written just so I can keep track of what year it was written.
Instagram - It's were i should post my cosplays but haven't uploaded in a while.
It all started when Bucky had accidentally walked into a gay speed dating event. He was meant to be meeting up with the Avengers crew at what he thought was this establishment. As he went to check his phone for any messages that Steve may have sent him, a host came over to him.
“Oh you're right on time,” the nicely dressed male came over to him, handing him a number, “If you could please go sit at table 9 for the first of the speed dates.”
Bucky had been too confused to argue and went to sit at the table that the host had asked him to sit at. As Bucky began to look around, the first of his ‘dates’ sat down.
Date after date he had seemed rather boring and in his head he was keeping count, 4 lawyers and a very odd acting librarian.
Next guy that came over seemed to be easy on the eyes but when he opened his mouth and began talking Bucky was just horrified at what was coming out, this guy had no respect for anyone but himself and had views that rival those of HYDRA back in the day.
The next one was really sweet and shy to the point that Bucky was straining to hear the guy speak but they hit it off talking about everything they had in common. They spent most of the time talking about heroes and if they could have any of the Avengers who would it be.
Bucky’s last date was the one that made him realise it was a set up, Steve himself sat down in front of Bucky smiling.
“Couldn’t have just asked me out could you?” Bucky let out.
“Where would the fun in that be? Plus I got to hear all about how great I am from your mouth to the last guy you had.” Steve said laughing slightly.
“The last guy wanted to end up in bed with Tony.” Bucky shook his head, “I still cant get over the fact you tricked me into coming to this event when you know perfectly well what is at home.”
Your best friend Eddie tries to explain what a hickey feels like and finds he doesn't have the words. He could show you, though, if you want? [3k]
fem!reader, shy!reader, implied inexpereinced!reader, friends-to-lovers, pining, mdni heavy petting, hickeys, lots of hickeys, marking up, neck kissing, shoulder kissing, heat of the moment confessions, eddie being flirty but also a good friend, requested here
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Eddie strokes down the length of his guitar neck almost tenderly. You're focused on his hands rather than his mouth as he recounts last night's date to you, distracted by the deft movement of his fingers, which aren't exactly small. It's an oxymoron —paradoxical, even— that his thick fingers would move with such gentle precision.
You shift around where you're sitting on his bedroom floor, criss-cross applesauce with an uncomfortable heat rising from the bottomless pit of your stomach to your tight collar. The white button up you'd worn under your sweater vest is a size too small. You're really starting to notice.
You peel out of the vest and hope it'll help you calm down.
"She wasn't exactly sweet," Eddie says, plucking a string, listening to the sound, and tuning it this way or that depending on how he liked it. "I think she wanted to get it over with, which isn't really my thing. She was in my lap before I could make it clear I wasn't interested in anything quick."
You lift your gaze from his hands. He must feel you watching his face. He looks up in tandem and smiles reassuringly. "It's fine. I kind of thought she was getting into it, she was like a vampire on me at one point, but I wasn't feeling it and it's clear she wasn't either. Drove her home. How was your night, d'you watch that tape?"
You trace the coil of a black curl down to his shoulder, and can't force yourself to meet his eyes as you ask, "A vampire?"
"What?"
"She was like a vampire at one point, you said." Eddie's arm goes still. "What did you mean by that?" you ask.
He puts his guitar down on the floor. You worry you've said something truly dull for him to place his sweetheart in such a rush, but Eddie's like that. He can tell you're embarrassed no doubt, and he's giving you the answer to your question as swiftly as he can to soothe the wound.
"Here, look," he says. He pushes his hair away from his neck on one side and tilts his head, bearing a wine-stained curve of skin to you unabashedly. "She kissed me. She gave me a hickey, used a lot of teeth. That's why it's bruised so much on the edges."
Warmth you've never felt rushes in, like your blood has superheated, and it's written on your face. Eddie's room feels suddenly a thousand times smaller than before and more intimate, his poster wallpaper curving in, the space between you inching closer.
"Sorry," he says, "I know it's kind of weird to show you."
"No, I'm sorry," you say, mortified. "I shouldn't have asked you."
"Yeah, you should. You didn't get it and now you do. I don't mind telling you."
Eddie lets his hair fall back against his neck, a kinky curtain that looks ridiculously soft in the orangey light of his lamp. There's a butter smoothness to it, and the way he moves as he does is worse, his hand open and reaching for you. He doesn't hold your hand, doesn't even try, just lets his upturned palm hang off the edge of his knee as if to say, Ask me whatever it is you want to ask me. It's cool.
"Why would she do that?" you ask, gesturing to your neck.
"It's not her fault, I was flirting with her a ton trying to make it work."
"Not like that."
Eddie's hand turns toward his knee. "Like what?"
Your hand drifts to your own neck absentmindedly. You get kissing, wanting to be kissed and wanting to give them. You understand why she kissed his neck; if you'd been in her position, alone in the car with Eddie laying his charm on thick, you might climb the console and push aside his hair too.
"I know why she kissed you. I don't see why she…" You rub your lips together, your embarrassment turning sharp. You hate how humiliating this feels. "I know what a hickey is, Eds, but why would you want one?"
His turn to fluster. The tiniest tinge of pink paints his cheeks. "Are you asking me why I enjoyed it?"
"Did you?"
You despise yourself, truly. Worse when Eddie laughs, his chest forward, hair falling in his face as he chuckles sincerely.
"Yeah," he says, smiling at you "I liked it. Before she started trying to kill me I was having a good time."
He doesn't put you through the agony of asking what you both know he wants to.
You've never had one?
"It feels warm, and it's– you know how being kissed gives you butterflies, right? It's better than that. It's hot, and all her weight is on you and you have your hand on her back trying to pull her in, and she's as close as she can be without, you know." Something flickers across Eddie's face. Not longing, but a remembered pleasure. It makes you squirm.
"I don't see how it doesn't just hurt."
The hand that hadn't been reaching for you holds a pick. He flashes it between his fingers, a party trick, a nervous tic, his eyelashes tangling together as his eyelids inch closed. He scrunches his face up for a second.
"Don't hate me if I ask you something weird," Eddie says, eyes shut tight.
You don't think you could. You watch Eddie's face, knowing he can't see your analysis, and feel a shock of pins and needles in your hands when his eyes open and immediately lock on to yours.
"Do you want me to give you one?" he asks.
Your lips feel like they've been glued shut. You're aware of your breathing, how shallow each inhale has become, but you can't do anything about it.
He has the decency to acknowledge what position his question puts you in, "I know it might be weird but I can't describe it to you if you don't know what it feels like."
You surprise him. You surprise yourself. "Uh, yeah. Okay."
"Yeah?"
"It doesn't hurt?"
"Not unless you want it to." A hint of a smirk plays on his lips, though it fades quickly. "It doesn't hurt. That's not the point. But it can feel… foreign."
You nod jerkily, wishing you knew what to do.
The atmosphere is thick enough to cut through. Neither of you like it. Eddie gives you another type of smile, a familiar one that says, I'm your best friend, I always will be, so please chill out.
"You're gonna have to sit in my lap."
You actually laugh. "Eddie," you chastise, thinking it's a bad joke.
"Sorry, sweetheart, but it's that or the bed." His teasing tone is light, but he still adds, "I mean, we can do it sitting next to each other but it's difficult. Whatever you want, though."
You climb up on your knees. You're shy, absolutely, you always will be and especially when Eddie's teasing, but he really is your best friend, and the bed isn't happening.
He doesn't scare you.
He grins and ushers you toward him. "Alright, come here." He tugs one of your thighs over his lap and your breath catches. He grabs the other and any laughter between you abruptly dies.
You settle over his lap with an expression not far from pained. Eddie's hands rest against your thigh and your hip. He has to look up at you now, and he does as he encourages your weight firmly downward. You're more than conscious of where you're positioned.
"Do me a favour?" he asks.
"Yeah." You put your hand on his chest tentatively.
"Don't suffer through it if you hate it, okay? All you have to do is say something and I'll stop, but if you feel like you can't, a good right hook would work too."
"I'm not gonna hurt you," you protest.
"Me neither," he says. His hand lifts from your thigh to your neck, and he brushes his fingertips down the curve of it ineffectually. It would feel good if you weren't choking on air. "Relax, sweetheart. Please."
"I'm really warm."
"Your shirt's too tight anyway," he says, hand at your collar. He thumbs open your top button, a second, and exposes the flat of your chest. His fingers slide across your neck as he folds back your starched collar. They're cool compared to the raging heat he finds there.
You take a deep breath.
"You could put your hands in my hair," he says. Wishful thinking has hope colouring his tone.
You put your hands on his shoulders. The very tips of your fingers partition his curls.
He raises an arm above your mess of limbs to weave a hand behind your ear. It's then that you feel his callouses, so rough against the delicate skin of your scalp. Despite their texture, you find it feels good. He tucks his hand in tight, and slowly, slowly turns your head to the side.
"Look up," he murmurs.
You lift your head and stare at the ceiling with widened eyes.
He can't know but he does, and he says, "Close your eyes." The heat of his breath kisses your neck.
You shiver at the suggestion of his lips, and again when they press to your skin. Close-lipped, Eddie kisses the skin just under your ear where on the opposite side of your head his thumb strokes quarter circles. You're quickly overwhelmed by the duelling sensations. You don't notice his lips have parted until he's kissing a sloven path downward, his spit cooling in wake.
This isn't a hickey, this is straight up kissing, and you don't know what to do with how you feel. You hide your hands in his hair.
It tugs him forward. He reads your hands for enthusiasm, and if it is or isn't he pulls you closer still and opens his mouth against your skin. His teeth are impossible to ignore.
Your hand works further into his hair, getting caught in a tangle as he sucks your skin between his lips. His lazy mouthing turns insistent but still gentle, his teeth scratching ever so slightly at your pulse as it capers beneath his ministrations. You gasp at the warmth blossoming under your ribs. You cup the back of his neck a touch too tight.
He doesn't stop kissing you, only grabs your wrist to stop you from choking him out. You make a sound you've never made with him before, a mewl, all breathless and teary as the sensation worsens. Which is to say, betters.
He breaks a particularly rough kiss to suck in breath, his nose sliding up the curve of your neck as he leans back. "You okay?" he murmurs, half-lidded eyes locking onto your flushed face.
"Why does it feel like that?" you ask.
He drops his head, his nose level with your chin. "I don't know," he says, punctuating with a kiss right there, the closest bit of skin he can find. "Want me to do it again?"
You swallow and he must see it. He says nothing, wrapping his arms around your waist as he waits for you to respond. Your stomach pushes into his, your arms braced on his shoulder so you don't collapse into his front, limp with touch.
"Sweetheart, can I do it again?" he asks.
"Yeah," you say, quiet but enthusiastic. "Please."
He's slower this time. Eddie leans into your neck and doesn't kiss you at first, his lips so close to your skin that you can feel their phantom. You skin tingles from his previous scandalising, and it doesn't beg, skin can't beg, but you can, you curl your arm behind his neck and hook his head there, crushing his hair to the crook of your arm. He doesn't take much convincing beyond that. His lips smush against your neck and you feel every millimetre as they part, heat and warmth and wet spreading like budding flowers come to bloom. You melt into him soon after, and Eddie takes your weight in stride, hand at the small of your back and pulling you in so hard you can feel his ribs.
When you think you're used to it —not used to it, but expecting what can be expected— Eddie nips you. Tiny dainty kisses broken up with a nibbling you'd couldn't describe as anything but playful. He laughs at your gasping and does it again, again, giddy hot laughter mixed with one of the strangest feelings you've ever been subjected to. You're molten. You're dizzy with it.
Eddie pulls back enough to ask, "I'm gonna undo another button, okay? Just one. Is that alright?"
"What for?"
"So I can kiss your shoulder. Just your shoulder." He sounds pleading, desperately excited in a way you've never heard him and you want to know what it'll feel like, so you let him.
This next button unveils the top of your bra and the soft hills of your breasts. He doesn't look, barely glances at his hand as he tugs your shirts down your arm, diving into the juncture of your neck like he needs it to breathe. His kisses are proper compared to some of the stuff he's been doing, but then he opens his mouth and the flat of his tongue wets your skin as he kisses kisses kisses down your shoulder. His hand is somewhere under your shirt, fingers slipped under your bra strap and pulling teasingly at the elastic as he eases you down in his arms. You're shorter than him where you'd started taller, totally compressed in his arms and at his mercy.
When he pulls back, the slimmest ribbon of spit shines between your shoulder and his lips. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes glassy, and that hand cups your face. He pretty much grabs you, but there's not a lick of cruelty in his touch. Eddie's rough. Never cruel.
"You're on fire," he says. It's objective rather than joking. "You're so hot. Do you want to stop?"
"Not– not unless you want to," you say, trying to quieten your breathing. You sound like you've run a marathon. It feels like it.
"I'm gonna give you a real one, cool?"
"I didn't know they weren't real."
"Oh, sweetheart," he says, and his eyes are damning, a loving pity in the black of his blown pupils, "I was just warming you up."
Your mind blanks.
"Make sure I can hide it," you say.
You aren't thinking straight, concerned about hiding his hickeys but not what this means for the two of you. His unexpected hunger, and your willingness to let him eat you whole.
"I don't think you can hide it anymore," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
You look down at his lips. They're rosy, swollen from the pressure.
He sees you looking.
He yanks you in by the waist and sizes you up, almost, like he's calling your bluff, not spiteful but something mean about him as he stares at your mouth in return.
Like he doesn't want you to make the mistake. Like he knows you won't.
His hand tips your chin up high and he ducks his own down. An inch and you'd be kissing. That's all it would take.
"Is that really what you want?" he asks.
"I don't know," you say. Is it what he wants?
It has to be.
"Have you wanted to, before?" He draws a line down your cheek with his marriage finger. Fast as a heavy tear. "You want me to kiss you?"
"Yeah," you whisper, trying to make sense of this, your sudden confession, a secret want pushed into the light.
Eddie turns his hand and strokes down your cheek with the back of it, pushing any dampened baby hairs away from your skin. His gaze softens.
"Was that so hard?" he asks.
"You knew?"
He kisses you. He's smiling, and he doesn't take just one. He must kiss you four or five times, your lips parted enough to know he could push it further if he wanted, but he doesn't. These kisses are unhurried, missing the ravenous passion of his hickeying but not the fondness.
"You don't know how hard it is," he says after he's broken away, his forehead tipped against yours, "how hard it is to have someone look at you like you look at me everyday, like I'm something you can't have."
"I didn't know–" you knew. You felt the same. His kissing is evidence alone. it's confessional.
"I know. Guess I thought nothing good would come of it, but– but I don't want good. I want you."
He pulls back quickly, like you've said something confessional rather than him. He surprised himself.
"I'm not good?" you ask.
"You're good. You'll ruin me, that's all."
You don't have time to ask him what he means by that. He kisses you again, kisses your cheek, draws a line of crescent moons down along your neck to the mess he's made of you. He kisses– he sucks your neck so hard, so sudden, that goosebumps erupt and you can't stop yourself from saying, "Ohh," as you cling to his shoulders.
This is the vampire thing he'd talked about, the points of his teeth stark against your skin even now. There's another layer of vulnerability unveiled here, knowing that he could really hurt you and knowing he never would. He kisses you until you're overwhelmed by him. Heat everywhere. Sweat shining on your skin. You don't want anything else but this.
You squeak as the pressure turns from pleasurable to too much. Eddie hears the pain in it and pulls away, instantly sorry and willing to prove it, his hands cradling your face.
You pant. He shushes you gently.
"Sorry, baby." He pets your cheeks.
Your head falls back, too heavy on your sore neck. You feel wiped.
Wiped, but good. Lax.
"That was nice," you say breathlessly.
Eddie sits up and drags you with him, hand behind your neck to prop you up. He's laughing again, his awful sweet laugh that you've heard a thousand times before. It never fails to make you smile.
"You're like a dead fish."
You cover an eye with your hand. "I take it the romance is over."
"You thought that was romantic? Babe, I'm only getting started."
Eddie gives you a quick peck. Where his hickey had felt like the heart of a star growing hotter with each passing second, his smaller kiss feels like the sun through blinds, a dappling of warmth.
"Are you messing with me?" you ask.
He pushes his arms over your shoulders for a hug.
"No. Not messing with you." His nose rubs against the shell of your ear. "It's about time we talked."
You let your hand drift down the dip of his back.
"Okay," you mumble. Talking. You need to talk about whatever it is that just happened.
"...Maybe I'll get you a glass of water first," he adds.
"That's a good idea."
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Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider letting me know/reblogging, it means the world to me and makes a big difference!! ♡ NOTE: Eddie def pines back if that isn't fully clear, I tried to imply it with his date where he could've hooked up with someone but didn't go through with it, it was cos he's too in lurve
Me seeing this for the 14th time in my 5 years on tumblr and seeing more notes and comments but still reblogging it since it’s literally a World Heritage Post
Me seeing this for the 14th time in my 5 years on tumblr and seeing more notes and comments but still reblogging it since it’s literally a World Heritage Post
I’ve decided to do something sort of different with this challenge, something I haven’t yet seen. It’s your usual “sentence prompt challenge,” however, the prompts are only three words long. I didn’t realize how hard it would be at first when I originally thought of this challenge, but holy hell was I wrong for it lol. Well, hope you all enjoy!
Rules are as follows;
I would just like a reblog of this post, please. It would help get more people involved.
You really don’t have to follow, but it’s always appreciated.
Send me an ask with your prompt & character preference. If I do not respond within 24 hours please message me with your prompts
Marvel Characters only, please
For this challenge, any character from marvel, mcu is allowed.
Please no underage smut.
No RPFs please
If you manage to write smut or a dark fic, tag accordingly in your authors note before the fic.
The challenge does not have a due date! So feel free to take as long as needed!
Tag properly
please use *read more* feature if fic is more than 400 words.
We didn’t get around to a Pride Month special in 2022, but we were thinking about a bingo event for Pride Month.
If you sign up, you would get a bingo card with randomized pride-themed prompts that you can fill at your own leisure during the month of June.
At the end of June, you post your filled out bingo-card (with links to your fills) and tag @writersmonth so we can signal boost and also check how much you completed!
You’ll get a personalized badge for getting a bingo, as well as for a black-out.
Please like/reblog/reply to this post to let us know if this event would be something you’re interested in!
And if you have any prompt suggestions, feel free to drop them in our inbox.
You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]
fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument
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Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.
There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie.
There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative.
You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little.
He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you.
"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?"
"I said you have good taste."
He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers.
You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of.
"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious.
He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years."
"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?"
He blinks at you. "You know the scene."
"It's my scene," you say.
You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life.
"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away."
"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.
"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you."
Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music.
"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case.
Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour.
"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–"
"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart."
—
Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.
"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"
You panic slightly. "I need a minute."
"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying."
Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya.
Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.
"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses.
"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed.
You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year.
"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks.
She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks.
She's multi-faceted.
"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to.
"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them."
And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice.
You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.
"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up.
"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now."
"That's dramatic."
Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow.
You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice.
"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick."
She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem.
"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says.
Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke.
"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late."
You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events.
"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion."
You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed.
"Do we know those guys?" you ask.
Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters."
Ananya turns off the TV.
You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone.
Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.
"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"
You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part.
Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance.
She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.
"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?"
"I don't need practice," Morgan says.
"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–"
Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks.
Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.
The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold.
—
Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away.
"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches.
Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.
"Shithead."
Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth.
"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks.
"You'll sneak out."
Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly.
But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist.
"You know this is stupid."
Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson."
"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now.
Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say.
"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded."
Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light.
"What are you losers doing?"
"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole."
"You're disgusting," Eddie says.
"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy."
Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image.
He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar.
Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles.
"I can't shower, I'm watching him."
"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot.
Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters
"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space.
"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats.
There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside.
"Jame," he protests.
"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?"
"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move."
"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly.
Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?"
"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?"
Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears.
—
So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this.
“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs.
She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.
Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.
“Whose house are we in?” you ask.
“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else.
She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back.
You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her.
I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody.
The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card.
I need to get paid.
The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate.
“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn.
She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose.
You blow it away from her.
“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers.
“The floor’s fine.”
You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession.
“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her.
“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.
“Bored already?”
“I have to be bored?”
To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.
You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly.
You find you aren’t asking Morgan.
In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty.
"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart."
Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun.
He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from.
"I saw you on TV."
"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?"
"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?"
His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.
"You look familiar," he says.
You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?"
He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you.
Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame.
"Nice to meet you," he says slowly.
You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot.
You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain?
You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here.
He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.
You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe.
The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in.
He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone.
You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection.
Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks
The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance.
Joan, you could hit him.
"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"
Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at.
"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…"
"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that."
You lick your lips. "'Bout what?"
"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?"
"No, that one passed me by."
"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand.
You take it. You tell him your name.
—
Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets.
"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks.
The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so.
You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation.
If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it.
"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.
You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here."
"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics.
It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever.
But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it.
Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room.
"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up.
Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home."
"Why's she so upset?" you ask.
Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing.
"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably.
You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing.
You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it.
If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough.
They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go.
They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me.
The subtext isn't important.
You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions.
Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone.
"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing.
You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target.
"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks.
Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you.
"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?"
You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day.
"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me."
You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night.
"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things.
She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short.
"This tastes awful."
You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie.
You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable.
Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue.
"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin."
You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?"
"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist."
"The loud one."
"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him."
"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible."
"Can you get me something from the minibar?"
You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems.
"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse."
"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine.
She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing.
An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones.
"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles.
"Sorry, love, that's all we've got."
The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes.
There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight.
After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume.
A familiar scent pricks your attention.
You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown.
He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way.
He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters.
It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time.
"Have we met before?" you ask.
He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle.
Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick.
Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?"
"You look exactly the same," you say.
It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.
This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you.
You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment.
The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front.
"You'll catch flies."
You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend.
There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek.
"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror.
His lightness fades. "Nice."
"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it."
He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually.
You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow.
"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh.
Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily.
He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments.
Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise.
Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet.
After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go.
He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch.
"Can I help you?" he whispers.
You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you.
"Fucking move," she says.
His expression flickers.
"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy.
You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.
—
Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle.
You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day.
Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh.
"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs.
Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good.
"She's hot," he furthers.
"Jesus, Gareth."
"What? She's fucking hot."
He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time.
The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything.
The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin.
He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot.
"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?"
Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser."
"I was just asking."
You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about.
He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline.
You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.
"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?"
"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange.
Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given."
"I did."
"And only that."
Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds.
"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that."
Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise.
You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.
Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence.
"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say.
Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green.
He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you.
Fuck it, he thinks.
What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder.
Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.
You appear and blitz past him.
"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"
You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory.
Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure.
"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired.
He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers.
He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks."
"Yeah."
He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice.
"She's a piece of work."
You shift uneasily.
"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.
"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart."
He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?"
You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that.
It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks.
"You always let her treat you like that?"
"Like what?"
He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog."
"Fuck you, I do not."
He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue.
"What would you know?" you ask.
"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit."
Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve.
"I must like it," you quote, strained.
"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?"
He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too.
"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options."
That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk.
"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out.
"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start."
He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it.
"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift."
"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.
"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."
"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.
The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe.
He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you.
"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen."
Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast.
"You don't know anything," you murmur.
"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."
Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else.
He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.
"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel.
—
Donington Park, England, August 1990
"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all."
"They're hardly desperate."
"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares."
Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now.
"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile.
"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads.
He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless.
"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"
"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?"
Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?"
"It doesn't."
He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him.
"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone."
"You have it?" Eddie asks.
Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up.
"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath.
"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon."
Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column.
"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."
There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.
He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows:
Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see?
Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror.
Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off?
Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad.
"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."
"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him.
"And Cindy."
"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously."
"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs."
"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks.
"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave."
"Do I know that?" Eddie asks.
He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up.
He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet.
"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks.
"Because she was jealous of my success."
Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out."
"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands.
"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy.
What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious.
He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue.
He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right?
Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and—
Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely.
Don't be a bitch, he tells himself.
Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room.
Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it.
You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch.
You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly.
He can feel your gaze on the side of his face.
He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted.
He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end.
It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes.
"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly.
"Sorry."
"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?"
The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID."
You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips.
"You're American?" the cashier asks.
"I'm visiting for the festival," you say.
Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card.
"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie.
Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together."
"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.
You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now."
There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that.
"I thought you didn't know who I was?"
"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said."
He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till.
"What were you really gonna say?"
The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.
"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean."
His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown.
He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.
You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway.
"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm so serious," he says.
He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it.
"You're hot when you're mad."
You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same."
"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?"
"I thought that too," you say.
He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice."
You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter.
"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival."
You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor.
You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention.
"Seriously, come on."
"No."
"No?" he asks.
"No. I don't have to listen to you."
"You're being stupid."
"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care."
"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."
"What do you get out of this?"
He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?"
"Tormenting me."
"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other."
"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–"
"You started it."
You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his.
"Don't touch me," you say quietly.
He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea."
"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car."
You're infuriating.
Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…"
You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd."
His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that."
—
You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people.
The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt.
Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his.
Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl.
You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him.
And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats.
You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has.
You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second.
You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson.
You don't do that.
You wave.
You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat.
For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do.
You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face.
Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.
There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left.
A wooden board creaks.
You look up.
"Hey, you–"
Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat.
Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view.
"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest.
"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me?"
"You want to mess with me, is that it?"
His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart.
"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson."
"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation.
He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft.
You lift your chin.
I dare you.
His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in.
"Are you going to–"
"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours.
It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you.
You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away.
You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much.
Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth.
"Don't play games," he says.
He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist.
"You like games," you argue.
He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once.
His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt.
"Stay still."
You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own.
"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?"
Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it.
"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now."
A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan.
"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks.
His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding.
He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice."
"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again.
"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart."
Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance.
You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.
You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game.
You'll have to be better.
𓆩❤︎𓆪
I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol
assistant!reader trying to talk to a news anchor about how an interview is gonna go and qb!bucky wont stop bothering her?
assistant!reader:
pic frm @ixalit
Pairing: QB!Bucky x Assistant!Reader
CW: Future smut, 6'5" beefy Bucky.
A/n: Written on my phone, unbetad.
Thanks to months of cultivating working relationships with various members of the press, you’ve developed a repertoire with many of them, allowing you to tactfully nativagte their egos while skillfully dictating how and when his interviews happened.
Bucky is naturally charming and outgoing, but you’ve witnessed how quickly and viciously the media can turn on anyone.
You refuse to let that happen to Barnes.
No matter how aggravating he is.
Instead of listing off the things that are off-limits, you’re requesting, disguised as subtle pleading, the topics you want to be discussed.
His upcoming game. His elusive new contract with Patek Philippe. Charity work. Can’t forget the charity work. Bucky gives a lot of time and money to the local children’s hospital. He had an entire wing completely renovated last year and only a handful of people know how generous he is.
You think it’s time that people know he’s more than just a pretty face.
“Hey,” Bucky whispers loudly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Can we talk about my new car? That baby is sweet. I can’t wait to take you for a drive. You’re going to say yes one of these days. I know it. Matter of fact, let me take you for a quick ride after the game, we can get something to eat and—”
“No.” You hiss, swiftly turning back to an amused Jessica, plastering a cheerful, too-wide grin on your face. “Okay so—”
“Can we talk about Alpine?” He continues, unperturbed. His fingers tapping along the side of your arm as he moves closer to you. “I got some new pics and you know the fans love her. She misses you, by the way.”
His cologne drifts down in a hazy of smoky cedar, spiced orange, and vanilla. Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. He smells incredible and the last thing you need is for him to know that.
“Barnes. Shut up.” You’re tempted to elbow him in his stomach but the last time you did that, you hit rock-solid abs and were left with a sore elbow and Bucky strutting around your office without a shirt on because he claimed his poor muscles were too tender from your hit to have anything on them.
“Okay,” he responds, moving just a little closer, his beard grazing the side of your neck as he gets comfortable. He’s so large and warm and a traitorous part of you doesn’t want to push him away.
“What if we talk about how you should go out with a certain lonely quarterback? You know the cute one with the hair you like to pu—” Without looking, you grab his jaw and squeeze his cheeks until his lips purse and his words taper off into a light chuckle.
“I think that should cover everything,” you grit out between clenched teeth.
Jessica is eating every second of this up. Your relationship with Bucky has been an endless source of entertainment for her. She commends you for your resilience because she was sure you were going to give in months ago.
Keep reading
There’s a pointed gleam in her eyes that makes yours narrow. She bites back a smile and glances down at her screen. “So the new campaign, his charity work, and the upcoming season.” The list is ticked off with a tap of her nails on her phone. “Got it. I’ll be in the media room after the game.”
Jessica turns and makes her way out of the locker room.
“Thank you.” A relieved smile graces your lips and you start to push Bucky away, only to freeze at her next words.
“And Barnes,” Jessica says, one hand on the doorknob, “I want dibs on all engagement and wedding interviews. You two are going to make a beautiful couple.”
“Excuse me?” You splutter, your head whipping around to stare at him. Your fingers lift as a grin stretches across Bucky’s lips, his cheeks jutting out. “We’re not—”
“It’s yours,” he shouts, waving at her as the door closes behind her.
You release him, arms folding across your chest. “We’re not a couple Barnes and we are definitely not dating. Also, I can drive myself to the hotel after the game.” You inhale, taking a step forward to poke him in his chest. “And another thing, I do not like pulling your hair.” That's a lie, you loved it. And you keep thinking about the way he moaned that day and you desperately want to hear that sound again. Not that you’ll ever admit it. Instead, you continue on, steeling your gaze. “And you better not--“
Bucky’s grin widens, his tongue running bottom lip as he gazes down at you, listening to you ramble. If you only knew that he could listen to you read the dictionary and he would hang on to your every word.
“Yet,” he breathes out when you pause mid-rant to poke him again. “Not a couple yet. Give me time ‘cause I’m already yours. We just gotta work on making you mine.”
His confidence is bold and smooth and undeniably sexy. You’re scrambling to rebuild your defenses and find a quick retort when he saunters toward the showers.
“Not going to happen, Barnes,” you manage to get out, your tone lacking its usual bite.
Bucky turns, walking backward without breaking his stride, his darkening gaze so full of heat and promises that you feel it on your skin. He winks, eyes drifting down your body in one exhilarating caress. “And I can’t wait to show you just how good I can be for you.”
when you find out that someone you slept with secretly took photos and videos of you during sex, you feel betrayed - but bucky won't stand by and let that happen to his best friend.
content warning: best friend!bucky x f!reader, mature themes, angst, offscreen reader x john walker, sexual harassment, pictures taken without consent, hurt/comfort, protective!bucky, physical violence, mention of blood, fluff, a kiss.
You've been on edge all night. Staring at the slowly emptying glasses of various alcoholic drinks and barely listening to the different conversations happening around you. A constant buzz of anxiousness runs under your skin, keeping you both alert and numb. Whenever your name's mentioned, you look up and nod, or pretend to softly laugh at the jokes you just about catch the punchline of, and thankfully, nobody notices how distant you are.
Nobody, of course, except for Bucky.
He's been taking mental note of it all night. Your odd behavior. You're not usually the center of attention at these get-togethers by a long shot, but you've never been a wallflower, either. Not just tonight, but all week you've been quieter, more subdued. Barely replying to his texts, giving him a half-ass excuse about being too busy with work to return his calls.
"What do you think, Buck?" John's loud voice cuts through the brunet's deep thoughts. "Is it a good time to invest?"
Bucky, having no idea what he's talking about, simply shrugs, saying nothing.
"Fuck you, dude!" Sam shoots to John bitterly, laughing nonetheless. "Just you wait and fucking watch - crypto's making a comeback, and you'll be kicking yourself in four years."
"Alright, man, I'll hold you to it," John replies, holding his hands up in surrender.
"I've lost too much to bullshit scams this year; count me out," Steve grumbles, sitting back with his beer in his lap.
"Because you chose the wrong things to invest in!" Sam exclaims, nudging his shoulder. "This is why you come to Uncle Sam, first."
While the guys continue their riveting debate, Bucky can't help but look back over at you. Though you've been distant all week, tonight is even worse. You look sad. He hasn't seen you this hurt before, and he hates the way it makes him feel. Times like this make him realize just how much he cares about you, and how he'd do anything to make you smile again.
"Come on, Y/N, dance with us!" Natasha begs you, pulling on your hand while her and Carol sway to the music in front of you.
"I'm exhausted, guys," You whine quietly, mumbling something about being hungry before standing up and slipping out of the living room.
Unable to leave you alone, Bucky jumps to his feet and follows you to the kitchen, where he finds you looking through Steve's cupboards.
"You okay?" Is all he can think of to ask.
You're surprised to see him, your eyes wide as you look over your shoulder at him. Swinging the cupboard shut, you turn to him and nod, feeling that anxiousness double. "Yeah, J, I'm good," You reply, hoping he'll believe you not knowing he won't.
Bucky walks further in, meeting you by the freezer from which you grab a bottle of vodka and a tray of small, spherical ice cubes. He watches as you grab two glasses from cupboard to the left of the fridge before you pour in some of the ice, followed by the vodka. Once you're done, you slide a glass over to him and pick up your own, taking a long sip.
"What's wrong, pigtails?" He asks you with a low tone. A tone that tells you that he's asking for the truth this time, and he won't be amused if you try and lie to his face again.
The nickname from your childhood makes your chest ache, the innocence contrasting with the deep shame you're feeling right now. If only you were a child again, and your only concern was whether or not Bucky was going to be at school that day.
Although you know it's futile, you decide to lie to his face again. "I'm fine, Jamie," You insist, unable to meet his eyes as you play with your glass. "Just a little tired. And hungry. Hangry."
"Hangry Y/N is a lot more emotive than you're being right now," He points out with furrowed brows. "And a lot whinier. You haven't complained about Steve's lack of snacks once."
"Maybe I've matured," You offer before floating away to the breakfast counter where you rest your arms.
"Don't shut me out," He says sternly, following you. "If you don't wanna talk about it, that's fine, but don't lie to me about being okay."
You look up at him, raising a brow. "We don't have to talk about it?" You ask him, surprised.
"Not if you don't want to," Bucky assures you.
After another long sip, you nod. "I'm upset," You admit, before cringing. "That's not really the right word. I'm... I just feel nervous. Anxious. Like I'm gonna die. And I hate it."
Bucky nods slowly, listening closely while studying your face. You're gradually dropping the act and finally letting him see just how truly upset you are.
With your hand on his forearm, you squeeze it tightly. You open your mouth to speak but your phone buzzes, making you suck in a sharp breath. In a panic, you rush to take it out of your pocket, relaxing only slightly when you see it's just an email from one of your coworkers. Still a little shook by the potential of what it could've been, you breathe a little heavier than usual, feeling your heart race.
"Hey, look at me," Bucky says, gently taking your arms and turning your body to face him. Concern swims in his eyes as he looks down at you. "You're okay. I'm here, and I've got you. Whatever it is, it'll be okay, and I'm gonna be here for you through it all. No matter what."
You wince, feeling the dam about to break. When your eyes meet his, you know there's no way you can lie to him again. "Jamie," You breathe out in a whisper. In this moment, you feel like you're dangling. Will he catch you?
He nods, stroking your arms and promising, "I'm here, baby. I'm here."
The pure anguish you've been feeling all week finally reaches it's limits, and you feel yourself aching to pour yourself out to him. To tell him the truth, and to beg him to help you make things okay again. "He took pictures," You say in a hushed tone just as your eyes well up with tears. Bucky's confused, to say the least, but he remains silent, letting you elaborate. "John," You utter. "I never told you this, but a couple months ago, I slept with him."
He wants to express his annoyance at that fact alone, but Bucky does well to remain calm and let you finish.
"It was just a stupid, one-time thing," You explain, shaking your head. "But he took pictures, and videos, without asking me or telling me about it." With a sigh, you lean against the counter. "He's not threatening to expose them. It just... I don't know, he's just getting some sick power rush over it."
Bucky looks down at his glass before picking it up and downing the vodka. With a wince, he slams the glass back down onto the counter. "How long? How long's he been sending you them?" He asks with a slight urgency.
"Past week," You answer, before a new wave of anxiousness washes over you. John is Bucky's friend. He's a part of your friendship group. Is it worth causing drama and fallout over him being a dick? "It's whatever. I can deal with it, he was just being annoying," You claim. "Come on. Let's go back; they'll be wondering what we're doing."
With that, you take his hand and take him back into the living room, no matter how badly you would rather beg him to drive you home. Bucky follows you silently, and you wish you could read his mind. Is he doubting you? Does he think it's no big deal? Has he already forgotten about it? is he more angry at you for sleeping with John than he is at John?
"There you guys are!" Steve exclaims, leaning his head back over the couch. "Y'been smooching in there?"
"Yep," You reply shortly, collapsing back onto the couch between Natasha and Carol. Once again, you zone out, unable to be present without remembering the crass texts from John and his smug expression.
Meanwhile, Bucky's tense. John and Sam are standing by the bar, so he goes to join them. When Sam notices his presence, he holds out a glass of whiskey to him, which Bucky silently takes.
"You alright, Buck?" John asks him with a raised brow.
It's as though time itself slows down. When Bucky looks at John, all he sees is red. "Did you really think you'd get away with it?"
The question throws John, who lets out a nervous laugh. "Uh, what?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Walker," Bucky says, clenching his hands into fists. "You think it's funny, treating her like that? Think you could get away with betraying her trust, manipulating her?"
His face falls, but John keeps up the denial act. "Honestly, Buck, what is this about?"
Sam's confused too, but he remains silent, not wanting to get in Bucky's way. Not when he's angry.
At the end of his tether, Bucky drops the glass and grabs John by the throat, pushing him back until he hits the bar. "You know what it's about, you fucking asshole," He hisses. "Do you have a death wish?"
The rest of you look over at the commotion, and you feel sick to your stomach. You stand up, but Carol grabs your hand, keeping you close to her.
"What's going on?" Steve asks, frowning as he slowly walks over.
"Get off me, Barnes! You're insane!" John yells, trying to push him off but failing.
Without a word, Bucky starts pummelling him, landing blow after blow, making you freeze. Sam is the first to rush forward and try to pull Bucky back, but to no avail. Bucky's too angry, too determined, too lit up by rage to stop. John tries to get a few hits in, but ultimately fails to land much besides a weak uppercut.
"Shit," Steve mumbles, eyes wide. John's always been a bit of a dick, and this wouldn't be the first time he's earned a punch or two, but Steve has never seen Bucky this mad at him before.
"Buck, come on," Sam says sternly, finally able to pull him back. "Whatever it is, we can talk it out."
"Fuck that," Bucky seethes, lunging forward to punch John one more time. With that, the bloodied blond falls to the ground, groaning in pain.
"Shit, man," He groans with a pained look on his face, barely able to move.
Bucky gets down to his level, lifting him up by his collar. "You're gonna delete everything you took that night, and I'll know if you don't," He warns him gravely. "And if you ever, ever go near her again, or try to contact her, I will tear you apart. You got that?"
With a shiver, John nods hurriedly. "Yeah, man, I swear. I wasn't gonna do anything with them."
Bucky drops him back to the ground with a glare, before standing back up to his feet. He then stalks over to you, takes your hand, and leads you out of the house and to his car.
Neither of you speak right away, instead allowing for the hum of the heater to fill the silence. You're grateful for the warmth, slumping down in the passenger seat while you try to process the events of the night.
"You okay?" He asks you, resting his hand on your leg.
Placing your hand on top of his, you nod. "I am. Are you?" You ask.
"I'm great, now that I know you're okay," He replies, shaking his head. "I can't fucking believe him. How did he think he could do that to you and get away with it?"
You shrug, still a little shaken. "I don't know. Maybe he genuinely didn't think what he was doing was that bad," You hypothesize. "Not that that excuses it."
"Well, he knows now," Bucky grumbles, before squeezes your leg. "If he contacts you at all, you tell me, and l'll deal with him. That fucking asshole." He rubs his face, leaning his head back against the seat. "You should've told me straight away. The second he sent you anything, you should've called me."
You wince, gently grazing your fingers over his bruised knuckles. "I was scared."
His brows furrow. "Scared that I wouldn't believe you?"
"No. I don't know," You reply, looking down at his hand on your leg. "I thought maybe I was overreacting."
"He took pictures of you during sex, without your consent," Bucky reminds you pointedly.
"I guess I was ashamed," You admit quietly. "I didn't... I didn't want you to know. That I slept with him."
Bucky takes in your words, turning to look straight ahead. "So, why did you?" He asks lowly.
Your cheeks heat up. "It... you were still dating Jean at the time. It was the night of my birthday. I just... didn't wanna spend it alone," You tell him with a small voice.
Another short silence sits between you, and you wonder what he's thinking.
"Do you remember your fourteenth birthday?" He questions you suddenly, taking you by suprise.
"Uh... when we went to Coney Island?" You ask, trying to remember.
"No, that was your thirteenth," He reminds you. "For your fourteenth, my mom got you Broadway tickets for that musical you had been wanting to-"
"Wicked!" You exclaim with a wide grin, joyful nostalgia taking over you. "I remember."
"That's the one. And you didn't ask me to come because you thought I wouldn't want to," He recounts. "Because the other guys would make fun of me. Remember that?"
"I do," You say with a soft laugh.
"And what did I do?" Bucky asks you with a smirk.
You let out a sigh, smiling. "You learnt all the lyrics to Defying Gravity and performed it at the talent show."
"Damn right I did. And I killed it," He adds arrogantly. "And nobody said a thing to me."
"'Cause they were scared of me," You claim. "They knew I'd fuck 'em up if they bullied you."
"Too long?" You repeat with a whisper, feeling tingles at his touch.
Bucky laughs heartily, nodding. "For sure," He sighs, before turning to you. "We've been best friends for too long for you to think that I wouldn't be on your side, or that I wouldn't fix this for you. I'm here to look after you," He tells you, squeezing your thigh. Slowly, he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. The two of you feel your heartbeats calm to a normal pace, and you feel safe. Bucky's thumb begins to move, stroking your inner thigh gently while he mumbles, "We've been best friends for too long."
"Way too fucking long," He says, looking into your eyes. Without wasting any more time, he closes the gap between you and places a gentle kiss on your lips, soft and sweet, and providing you both relief. Finally. "You're my girl, and I'll always look after you," He utters against your lips. "He's never gonna hurt you again. Nobody is. I promise."
His words envelop you in warmth, and you take hold of his jacket, needing him closer. And for the first time in a while, you aren't nervous, or scared. Instead, you feel completely at peace.
bucky masterlist | main masterlist
happy new year <3 thought i'd kick off '23 with some good, old-fashioned best friends to lovers, my speciality. hope you enjoyed, and i'm so excited for all the fics i have planned this year. have a good one x
i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifs 💞
Summary: Reader and Eddie planned to never have kids, having dreams of travels and a honeymoon phase that never ends, until one rainy day when Y/n takes a test..
Content Warnings: adult language, adult themes, unwanted pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms, angst, suspected cheating, fluff, Eddie being a baby hog
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Y/n and Eddie were together for years. They’d graduated, moved in together, gotten jobs, and started a nest egg, also known as the rainy day fund.
They had meticulously planned their life together in order to avoid ending up like their own parents who seemed to fuck up at every turn, not to mention while having kids.
Which is exactly why they decided they wouldn’t have any. It wasn’t a hard decision, neither of them finding themselves to be baby people and hoped to give each other all of the time and attention they hadn’t received in their upbringings, wishing to travel and live a nomadic life.
Though they didn’t end up traveling right away, they knew they had time for it. They’d come a long way from the inseparable couple skipping class to smoke and makeout all those years ago; Eddie landed a job in a nice garage making a steady rate, while Y/n worked as a waitress at a grill downtown. They’d been diligent in putting money back for a rainy day or ‘something really really cool’ as Eddie would say.
And did the rainy day come.
Literally.
One rainy morning in April, Y/n paced nervously in the trailer, a developing pregnancy test in the other room on the bathroom counter. “How fucking long is this supposed to take?” She grumbled to herself, picking up the timer for the thousandth time as it went off. She yelped and fumbled with the knob trying to silence the ringing, tossing it onto the couch as she sprinted into the bathroom.
Her heart hammered as she picked up the test, the two lines reading positive making it cease altogether. “Holy fucking hell.” She breathed, the newly familiar nausea twisting in her stomach and sent to the toilet with a lurch.
Y/n spent the rest of the day hoping to figure out how to tell Eddie what was going on. She’d been ignoring the signs for a month, too afraid to face the music and finally put her mind to rest. The tender breasts, the constant stomach ache, dizziness, and of course the missed period. Eddie had asked her if she’d had her monthly visitor, to which she panicked and said ‘yes.’
She hated herself for lying, but the thought hadn’t occurred to her that her period was late until he asked. Truth be told she never really paid attention to her cycle before and this time it bit her in the ass.
Y/n worried about how Eddie would react; knowing he didn’t have any plans on being a father and how he’d feel about her lying about such a heavy topic. Part of her feared he’d be upset with her, maybe even enough to leave her.
She debated for a while between procrastinating and ripping the bandaid off, not knowing which way would be easier. If Eddie loved her as much as he showed he did, then this should be easy.
She decided to cook him his favorite meal to start, complete with a dessert that was his own grandma’s recipe. Grandma Edna was one of Eddie’s favorite people, her cookie brownies being his favorite because ‘It’s like Dr. Frankenstein decided to combine two desserts. It’s ingenious, the woman is a God.’ She chuckled at the thought while she poured the oil in the pot to fry the chicken.
As the oil heated up, an intense and foul aroma permeated the trailer that sent her stomach churning and her head spinning. Y/n held her t-shirt over her nose to fend off the smell that’s never bothered her before as she checked the coloring of the food and put it back in the oil for longer.
Y/n slumped against the opposite counter, the window over the sink shoved open as wide as it would go. She took deep cleansing breaths and did her best to push through, telling herself she just needed to eat something though nothing sounded safe enough.
At 6:00, like every evening, Eddie came home from work in his grease spotted uniform, calling “Honey, I’m home!” as he entered.
He quickly dropped his lunchbox on the counter with his keys and undid the buttons of his blue garage jumpsuit to strip it off, leaving him in his boxers and a tank top.
“Aw, you’re making fried chicken?! AND mashed potatoes?” His eyes bugged as he struggled to kick the fabric off his foot, carrying the rumple of stains to his lady, planting a kiss on her cheek and wrapping her in his arms the best he could without getting her dirty.
Eddie took note of the gradual change over the last month or so, how short she had become in conversation, how she had made excuses about not feeling good, running to the toilet all hours of the day; he really started to worry about her and her mental health, maybe even if her feelings towards him were the problem.
He decided to keep his cool, making sure he was doing his duty by her to give her comfort and space when needed, and only assuming she’s upset with him when she’s explicitly told him so.
He figured today was another hard day, her glum and sullen look on her face evident of her discomfort. “Could you help me get these out? I heard coke and dish soap might help.” He said, showing her the spots in question before tossing it towards the laundry room with an easy smile on his lips, one he probably wasn’t even aware of it was so common with her. “Uh, yeah, of course. I’ll give it my best shot.” She nodded and stirred the fluffy mash on the stove.
“Knew I could count on you.” He said before kissing her cheek on his way past, going to the bathroom to start the shower and let the water heat up. Y/n moved the chicken from the boiling oil to the plate she had prepared for them to rest, turning off the stove and thanking the powers that be she made it through without puking or burning anything.
“What’s you do today? Did you enjoy your day off? Are you feeling any better?” Eddie asked, her stomach lurching in response. Her feet moved before she could give any warning that she’d come barreling through the four foot by four foot bathroom they shared to puke in the toilet.
“Baby??” He questioned as she heaved the remnants of the saltines she managed to scarf down during the day. She wiped her mouth and tried to brace herself against the toilet to stand though she wobbled.
“Hey, hey, I gotcha, don’t worry.” Eddie cooed, wrapping his arms gently around her middle and pulling her to sit with her back up against him.
She leaned back against his warm chest, the linoleum floor cold on her legs. The shower head rained hot water, the steam started to fill the top of the room, and the pitter patter of the water drops thudded against the thick shower curtain in a soothing rhythm as he held her close.
“You need to go to the doctor and figure out what’s wrong with you, I’m done waiting, I can’t do it anymore.” He whispered, his brow crinkled in worry.
Y/n sighed, a sob escaping her lips as she did. Tears began to roll down her cheeks while she tried to gain composure, though it didn’t work. Instead she pressed a hand to her mouth and let the sobs roll over her body.
“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He asked as she turned her face into his chest, her hot tears falling against him as a realization hit, “Oh! Is it your period again? Already?? Are you hurting? I can get you some midol—“ He tried to stand, to go into the kitchen and grab some pain medication to make it all go away when she reached out to hold his leg with her whole body, another sob escaping her.
“It’s not that, Eddie. I-I don’t wanna tell you—I do! I do wanna tell you, but I’m scared. I’m scared you’re gonna be so upset.” She heaved, keeping her hold on his leg as he looked down at her, the confusion and alarm evident in his eyes.
Why did she feel so guilty? What had she kept from him? Had she cheated on him? Was that why she was throwing up for a month?
“Y/n, baby, you’re scaring me. Did something happen? Di-Did you make a mistake?” He said, trying his best to ask the questions flooding his mind without breaking down and crying at the mere thought of what they have being gone.
“I mean.. yeah—Yeah I made a mistake... We made a mistake, actually.” She trailed off, looking at the small heaping trash bin by the toilet. Eddie blanched and sunk back to the floor with her, still unsure as to what she meant when she started digging through an abnormal amount of toilet paper on top of the trash.
Before he could ask her what she was doing, she turned to join him by the tub and handed him a closed pregnancy text box. Eddie looked at it and then to her and cocked his head. “Open it.” She whispered, unable to meet his eyes.
Eddie popped the top open and dumped the two sticks onto the floor between them, flipping them over so he could see the result window with two bright pink lines. “What does that mean, Y/n?” He asked, his voice cracking when he reached just barely above a whisper.
Y/n took some shallow breaths as her body and face went numb with fear. “I’m so sorry, Eddie..” She mumbled, picking at her chipped black fingernail polish, still left over from the last time Eddie painted them for her.
“What do you mean you’re sorry?” He asked, his eyes filled with both horror and wonder. “What do you mean, what— I'm pregnant—”
“Is it mine?? I’m asking if I’m—Did you—Y’know, I know shit happens, I know sometimes people hurt the people they love, sometimes mistakes happen—“ He rambled in a panic, his eyes wide and a couple tears escaping from the corners.
Y/n’s jaw dropped, “Eddie, of course it is! There’s nobody else it could possibly be, I haven’t slept with anyone else in, what? Almost.. 6 years, now?”
She quickly counted the numbers on her fingers absentmindedly as Eddie threw his arms around her and laid her down on the floor, holding her to his chest as he breathed a sigh of relief. His heart started hammering for reasons completely different than before. He couldn’t help the smile that refused to leave his lips, and the tears slipping from the corners of his eyes couldn’t be helped.
“Did you really think I’d cheat on you?” She asked with an almost quivering voice. Eddie shook his head vehemently, “No, no, no, just—you’ve been.. weird for a few weeks now and I thought I’d let you come to me since I was constantly asking what was on your mind, I figured if you were upset with me you’d tell me, you know? But then… you said something about a mistake, a-and the worst thing my mind could come up with with was you cheating but then the tests said you’re pregnant and-and you seemed so upset I couldn’t help but think—“
“Aw, honey, no.” Y/n cooed, her hand stroking Eddie’s cheek lovingly as she shook her head in earnest. Eddie’s cheeks shined with tears as he leaned his face into her soft hand. “I was upset because we’ve always said we didn’t want kids, Ed, we have plans! We can’t live with a baby on the road, we can’t see the world, there’s barely even wheelchair access anywhere, how are we supposed to lug a baby and stroller around the House of Blues?? And I lied about my period and.. I was so scared you’d be angry. Maybe angry enough you wouldn’t wanna—“
“Y/n.” Eddie said sternly, taking her chin in his hand and bringing her eyes to his. “I know I said I don’t want kids, I know this deviates from the plan, but I’m not angry. I’ll take this over you cheating on me any day!” He tried to make her smile, which he did with little success.
“Nothing could make me hate you, Y/n, you’re the best person I know and I somehow tricked you into falling in love with me. I wouldn’t ever do anything to jeopardize that.” He tried again, being met with her real smile spreading wide across her face to his delight. “And if there’s anyone I want to try to raise a kid with, it’s you… I really think we could do a good job together—and it’s not like we’re alone anymore! We’ll always have Wayne and the rest of our chosen family.. and I hope you know I’d never leave our family.”
And when he said it, it became real.
Our family.
“Our family?” She whispered, like a safety blanket was draped around her shoulders to make everything feel safe and okay. “Yeah, baby, you are my family, you always have been. And now we’re gonna be a real family, with a baby and everything!” He smiled and touched his nose to hers, gently cupping her cheeks in his hands and stroking her skin.
“I love you, Eddie.” She said in a whisper against his lips before kissing him deeply. “I love you too, baby. Forever and ever and the rest of time.” He declared as he flipped them over for her to sit on top of his lap this time. Their lips were warm and soft working against each other, the sweet taste of his saliva trickling into her mouth as they kissed. Eddie ended with a handful of kisses sprinkled across her face, their tears dry and smiles lingering.
“C’mon, mama, get in the shower with me and I’ll wash your hair.” He sat up and curled a lock of her hair around his finger, the offer earning him a forehead kiss.
“Already calling me mama, huh?” She teased as she tried to stand without him, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder before she could. She shot him an inquisitive look as he stood, holding his hand out for her.
“What? I need to make sure my lady always has help, even more so now!” He pointed out as he checked the water temperature again
Y/n giggled at his protective instincts as he began undressing. “We definitely gotta get out of here before Ozzy slash Axel comes.” He mentioned casually as he tossed his pants into the hall.
“Ozzy slash Axel? And what if it’s a girl?” She asked incredulously.
“Ozzy’s the girl’s name! You can’t tell me it wouldn’t be badass.” He said as he stripped off his tank top, revealing his pale torso as Y/n shamelessly ogled him, “We’ll see about that, daddy.” She teased, slipping off her shirt and shorts from the day.
Eddie chuckled at the nickname, “I don’t think I’ll get used to that.” He scoffed.
“Is it different than you calling me mama?” She smarted with her arms crossed.
Eddie turned back to her with amused wide eyes, “Uh, yeah. It’s completely different now. I’m not just your daddy anymore, I’m someone’s actual daddy now. Or at least I will be.” He glanced down at Y/n’s middle as she lifted her shirt.
She tried not to look at Eddie after she noticed her rounded lower stomach, something she assumed was just bloat until today. “I don’t know if I’ll get used to that, either...” He chuckled, not hiding his gaze at her abdomen.
“Eddie, I’m like two seconds pregnant, quit looking at me like that.” She mumbled with pink cheeks as she rid herself her underwear and stepped under the water with his help.
“I know, but you can’t tell me it doesn’t already look different. You said it’s been more than a month now, right? Your body’s already building a home, isn’t that amazing?” He asked as he joined her, kneeling in front of her naked body as he had a million times before, except this time his focus was slightly shifted north.
He held her hips in both hands, studying the front of her in a new way, turning her side to side as if he were inspecting her like she was the first of her kind. He couldn’t help his smile or the gleam in his eye as he looked up at her. “Y’know when I met you I thought the idea of a nuclear family was hell?” He asked as he stood, looking down at her while he moved all of her hair behind her ears and shoulders.
Y/n shrugged, “I, mean, yeah, still is.”
He smiled and tilted her chin up, her hair meeting the stream of water as he did, getting her hair all nice and warm and wet for him. “Yeah, well, as stubborn as I am, you were able to change that pretty quick.” He sighed, squeezing some soap into his palms. Y/n gasped softly, tilting her chin back down to meet his eye as he turned her by her shoulders to wash her hair.
“Yeah, I know, so soft and gross, ew.” He joked, smirking when he saw her shoulders bouncing with a chuckle. “But it’s true. You’re just—you’re so good.. at taking care of me, at being a person, at being a friend, you’re good. Great, even.. the best.” He whispered, massaging his fingers into her scalp and working the soap into a lather.
“Truth be told, I’ve been holding back on telling you because I knew you didn’t want kids and I wanted to respect that. Cause either way, baby, I’m happy with you, and I’m not making you have any baby you don’t wanna have.. so if this isn’t something you want, that is okay with me, truly.” He stopped his movements and held his hands on her shoulders to speak next to her ear.
Y/n turned to him again, her eyes wrought with longing. “Eddie, you have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that. But you’ll be even more happy to know I want this. Through and through.” She nodded in finality, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he brought her in for a tight hug.
“I’m gonna take such good care of you guys.” He mumbled into her shoulder, more to himself than to her.
After that, Eddie spent his spare time taking on odd jobs to make extra cash to add to the ‘rainy day fund’ which was quickly changed to ‘the baby fund’, while Y/n contributed half of her tips. The couple was satisfied with their growing chunk of money, the feeling of being real adults swelling their hearts with pride for themselves and one another.
They’d stay up late at night talking about the what ifs and the scenarios of late nights and early mornings and potty training and tying shoes.
Somewhere in there they got around to the deeper parts of their childhoods and dissected the uncomfortable and painful parts, figuring out where their parents went wrong and what they’ll do differently, some nights ending in an embrace and tears at the stories traded and relived.
One night, Eddie laid with his head on her chest, tracing shapes into the smooth skin of her hard and prominent bump as they watched Family Feud before bed. Like a ball rolling under a blanket, Eddie saw the skin of Y/n’s belly move as the baby punched or kicked a foot, sending their mother groaning and their father yelling.
“What the fuck!!” He exclaimed, jumping back in horror. Y/n laughed and held her stomach until the baby got comfortable. “They’re moving, that’s all. You finally caught them in action, I told you they’re strong! That felt like a fist or an elbow, I’m not quite sure.” She said looking back down at her now lopsided belly from where the baby rolled over to another side.
“Come look.” She whispered to keep from disturbing the sleeping fetus. Eddie craned his neck over to see what she was looking at. “Oh my god, babies are so weird.” He said with a smile and a gleam in his eye.
“Should I, like, push him back over?” He asked, resting his hand on the bulging side of the bump as she giggled profusely. “Eddie, no! They’ll move in a minute. Why do you think it’s a boy anyway??” She swatted his hand off her stomach as she took her turn laying on his chest to read the survey board on the tv.
“That kid is too ornery to be a girl, trust me. The grief he’s giving you right now is classic Munson boy behavior, and I’ll go ahead and apologize for how down bad you’re about to be for his brown eyes.” He batted his lashes at her as she turned to look at him in disbelief.
“You’re gonna eat those words, Munson, just you wait.
And when the rainy winter day came, Eddie’s words reigned true.
“It’s a boy!” The doctor announced. Y/n’s hair stuck to her face as she fought to catch her breath while the nurses prepared the baby to get his umbilical cord cut. “Alright, dad, just make a cut right here,” the doctor instructed as a nurse set their baby boy on his mother’s chest, Y/n’s body wracked with sobs as Eddie watched the scene happen around him and back to the scissors and clamps before him.
“ ‘S not gonna hurt them is it?” He asked quietly. The doctor laughed lightly and shook his head, “No, no, I assure you your wife and son will be just fine.”
‘My wife and son’
Eddie breathed a laugh, the color returning to his face after the last hour of Y/n’s labor had his soul close to leaving his body. He accepted the scissors and made a cautious snip, his eyes jerking over to the dark haired baby on his loves chest, relieved when he saw neither of them batted an eyelash.
The nurses took the baby for his measurements, announcing he was seven pounds and one ounce, nineteen inches long, born at 4:20 in the morning to which Eddie snickered as he held his girl’s hand and stroked her knuckles lovingly.
Eddie brushed the hair back from her forehead as the nurses cleaned the area and swaddled the baby, now clean from the bodily fluids he had spent his time growing in like a butterfly in a chrysalis.
“You did so good, baby,” he pressed a kiss to her hand, his eyes feeling leaky now that he got to really talk to her for the first time since active labor started. “I’m so proud of you. You, like, hulked out there at the end. It was crazy! And seven pounds?? That’s literally a bowling ball, you know?” He rambled in amazement as the nurse handed Y/n a blue bundle.
“Lemme look at that face,” he whispered, craning his head to get a look at the baby he waited to meet for so so long.
And there he was. Full little lips, his tongue poking out between them as he wriggled, his button nose wrinkling as he fussed, his face scrunched in frustration.
“C-Can I hold him? After you, of course, whenever you’re ready—“
“Eddie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m ready, here, take him.” She smiled, holding out the bundle, too tired to keep her arms up and eager to see the way he looked holding their baby they feared having. Eddie quickly accepted the baby from her arms, taking care to hold his neck and feeling startled at how light he felt in his arms.
“Holy shit.” He whispered, running his index finger down the center line of his forehead, his eyes opening for the first time to reveal shining dark eyes, almost black.
“What is it? He got six fingers or something??” Y/n asked in a panicked daze. Eddie chuckled without taking his eyes off his son, his eyes prickling with tears.
“Nothing—he, uh, he just—he’s the prettiest person I think I’ve ever seen.. and he has brown eyes, I think.” He said quietly, finally looking up at the mother of his child.
“Lemme see!” She whispered excitedly. Eddie stepped over to the chair next to the bed as the nurses left.
The baby looked rather unimpressed between the two of them, their faces permanently etched in awe as they stared at his open eyes. “He’s looking right through us.” Eddie whispered.
“He can’t even see us, yet.” Y/n giggled, tracing her baby son’s face with her pointer finger, stopping to squish his cheek lightly. “It’s all blurry for him right now.” She mentioned, the baby’s eyes relaxing into the hospital lighting a little more and blinking away discomfort.
“So, what’s his name?” Eddie asked, pushing the front of his little hat off his head to stroke his thick curls that swirled against his scalp. Y/n hummed, sitting in silence until she looked over at their bag, his latest fantasy novel, just visible under a hoodie.
Eddie had been inseparable from the book every night before bed, sometimes reading the extra cool parts to Y/n, who loved to hear the adventures of the band of rogues that called themselves the Realm Riders.
“What about Ryder?” Y/n said.
Eddie’s ears perked at that, “Ryder Wayne?” He asked with a growing smile. Y/n giggled, “What do you think?” She asked.
“I love it! It sounds like he’s a knight or-or-or a cowboy, or something!” Eddie nudged her arm with gentle excitement.
Her cheeks warmed with her smile, “The noblest of his countrymen just like his dadd—“
Eddie cut her off by pushing his lips onto hers, their first kiss shared as parents. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Eddie. You’re gonna be such a good dad to him, you know that right?” Y/n whispered, their foreheads pressed together as the baby settled into a slumber. Eddie swallowed hard and nodded his head reverently.
“You’re thoughtful and kind and loving and strong, you are going to set such a good example and-and we’re gonna give him such a happy home to grow up in. And he’s gonna know how much his parents love each other, and him, always, okay? He’ll have everything we didn’t..” Y/n whispered.
Eddie smiled, the tears rolling down his cheeks at the overload of affirmation and praise. “I swear to it..” he mumbled, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips, “ I-I never thought I’d feel this way... I didn’t think it was real.. y’know, feeling like a real family. And now we are. Because of you.” He beamed at her with tears spilling over his eyes. “I hope you know I plan on marrying you the moment I can afford a ring to go on that precious little finger of yours.” He mumbled.
Y/n’s heart leapt, “You mean you already wanna promote me from baby mama?” She sniffled through the joke, his goofy smile stretching across his face.
“Absolutely. The best baby mama I have should share our last name.” Eddie remarked back, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Unless you want us to take your last name! I can do that. I’m cool with not being a Munson anymore, it might be good for me—“
“No, no, no, Eddie I wanna be the Munsons.. We’ll put it on a mailbox or something for the whole world to see, everyone in Hawkins will know we’re your family.” She smiled as his smile returned to his face again.
“My family...” Eddie smiled and shook his head in quiet disbelief at the words coming from his mouth.
When they arrived home, their friends were crammed in the tin can of a trailer home with a blue banner held up by Robin and Uncle Wayne that read ‘Welcome Home, Baby Munson!’
From the outside of the door they could hear the scuffle and bickering of the friends trying to get in place quietly. Eddie held his love’s arm to help her walk, his son in the baby carrier in his other. The two looked to each other and snickered, “Let’s give them a few more seconds, huh?” He asked, his soft stare flitting over her face.
She nodded, turning back to the door, the curtains jerking closed as she did so. “I think they know we’re here.” She whispered, nodding to the window as she eased forward to the wobbly porch steps.
Eddie held his hand up behind her back as she clutched the equally as trusting rail as she climbed. The door opened before she could turn the handle, the crowd shouting, “Surprise!” as they entered their home.
Y/n smiled, looking at Eddie as he greeted his family. Steve wrapped him up in a firm hug, quickly pulling away to kneel and peek at the fussy baby in the carrier. Dustin led the hoard of Hellfire members all chattering and asking wild questions:
“Was there a lot of blood?” “Did you watch?” “Did you cut the cord?” “Did they let you keep any?” “What is the baby?” “What’s its name?” “How do you know they didn’t switch it?” “Did you guys get matching bracelets?” “Does this mean you’re married now?”
Eddie tried to keep up with the questions as they all flew around him, his eyes searching for his partner as they were separated in the chaos. He noticed Robin helping her to the bathroom when he spotted Wayne, a small smile on his lips as he nodded at Eddie to come to him; the same way he’d done the boy’s whole life.
Eddie’s legs began moving before he told Dustin he’d tell him the whole story later. The baby in the carrier grunted, ready to be held or irritated by the noise.
“Why don’t we Munson men take a minute, huh?” Wayne patted his boy’s shoulder fondly, Eddie nodding with quiet eagerness.
Eddie led his uncle to their bedroom, setting the baby carrier on the bed before pushing the visor back to reveal the sweetest set of brown eyes that resembled a baby Wayne once knew long ago.
“Uncle Wayne,” Eddie started as he unbuckled the small seat belt from his son’s delicate chest, his little hands coming up to rest in front of his face as he pouted. “I’d like you to meet your grandson, Ryder Wayne.” He finished as he adjusted his baby in his arms, the baby fully awake and blinking, his eyes Looking from Eddie to his grandpa.
Eddie finally looked back up at Wayne, who was having trouble keeping his breath steady. His eyes prickled with tears as he swallowed the hard lump in his throat and nodded.
“You just really had to make a grown man cry, didn’t you, Ed?” He asked as a couple tears slipped from the corner of his eye. “C-Can I hold ‘em?” He asked his nephew quietly. Eddie’s eyes lit up immediately as he nodded, handing the bundle over to his uncle. The two men sniffled in silence, their eyes unmoving from the baby between them.
“Y’know, over the years I had my worries; that you’d run off, or end up with the wrong folks, that you’d get discouraged and quit school—or worse… Your little ideas have given my heart quite the jump start since I’ve had you, kid, but this one.. well.. this one might just be the best scare you’ve ever given me.” He chuckled as the tears ran more freely, looking over to his grown boy again to see matching tears rolling down his pale cheeks.
The two laughed and held each other close, admiring the sweet boy between them until Y/n opened the door quietly.
“Hi, sorry to interrupt—“
“Nonsense! Get on in here, darlin’, I’s just meeting my grandson.” Wayne said with pride, beaming down at the boy in his arms. Y/n took her place under Eddie’s arm until the baby scrunched his face up in a cry.
“Aww, there he goes.” Wayne chuckled easily before handing the baby to his mother.
“I bet it’s time for another bottle.” Y/n said in thought then looked at Eddie, who checked his watch before nodding at her.
“Yeah, it’s been two hours, he’s a hungry little dude.”
“I guess it’s time to get out here, huh?” Y/n asked Ryder as if he’d have a response. The three of them reentered the living room, the party noticing almost immediately.
“So it is a boy?! Max was just messing with us?!” Dustin asked as the boys looked amongst each other, Will dragging his palm down his face in annoyed amusement while Max and El snickered quietly.
Y/n and Eddie chuckled, the new father making up a bottle of formula while Y/n took a seat on the couch in between Robin and Steve.
“Ah, that is correct, young Henderson. Hellfire Club now has a rightful heir.” Eddie approached Y/n, who expected him to give her the bottle but instead he held out his arms, making grabby hands at his baby.
Y/n handed him over without hesitation, the baby’s fusses silenced as soon as the bottle was in his mouth. “Ladies and gents, I’m honored to present to you, the first of many Munson babies, Ryder Wayne.”
The crowd went wild as the grumpy little guy scowled in response, giving his best side eye before closing them and trying to fall asleep.
“The first of many?” Y/n scoffed, “Where did that come from.”
“Look at his precious face and tell me you won’t have any more.” He grinned proudly down at his son, not even having to look at his girlfriend to know he was right.
Everyone wanted their picture taken holding the baby, especially the Hellfire Club. “It’s our turn next, Harrington, wrap it up.” Gareth teased, his arms across his chest as he impatiently waited for his turn to hold his best friend’s baby.
“I can’t wait to have a baby,” Dustin mentioned as the club gathered around the couch, Eddie and Steve’s faces snapping to the boy immediately and shouting, “Yes you can!”
The girls wanted pictures with both Eddie and Y/n, and of course Wayne needed a couple with ‘his boys’, calling Y/n back into the frame after she set Ryder gently into his arms.
“Whoa there, Missy, you’re a Munson now, get on in here.” He urged through his drawl. Her cheeks burned as she scampered back up next to Eddie, his arm wrapping around her proudly as they smiled.
“Now let’s get one of the new parents and their baby!” Jonathon suggested, peeking out from behind the camera as Nancy gathered the Polaroids and laid them on the counter to develop properly.
Wayne grinned and clapped Eddie on the shoulder before stepping out of the frame. Eddie’s cheeks were pink from his permanent soft smile, his eyes beaming at the mother of his child as she looked down at Ryder between them.
“That’s perfect! Don’t move.” Jonathon urged before snapping the photo, which would hang on the wall until they had grandchildren to show it to.
Later that evening, when all the friends left with promises of returning soon, Wayne lingered behind, waiting for the perfect time to talk to Eddie alone.
“Alright, gentlemen, as much fun as this is, I have to go lay down.” Y/n yawned, patting Wayne on the shoulder, planting a kiss on Eddie’s head, and bending down to take the baby, but not before Eddie could turn away from her. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asked in feigned offense.
“Uh, taking him to bed?” She asked.
“No, no, no, you just gave birth, I’m on baby duty until you’re rested. Go! Shoo! I’ll see you in a few hours, mama.” He urged, using his free hand to swat at her playfully until she was gone from the room.
A lingering smile stayed on his lips as the men chuckled together. “I, uh, been waiting to give this to ‘ya,” Wayne started as he reached in his pocket for his wallet.
Eddie shook his head immediately, “No, Wayne, uh-uh, no way, we aren’t taking your mon—“
Wayne opened his billfold and pulled out a single gold ring, an emerald in the center of the setting. Eddie’s jaw dropped, only remembering that ring from his childhood. “Is that—“
“Grandma Edna’s wedding ring? Yeah. It is.” Wayne chuckled quietly before sighing and handing it to his boy, closing his fingers around it and nodding, more to himself than to Eddie.
Eddie looked at Wayne with wide eyes, a ring in one hand, a baby in the other, his life feeling surreal in this moment. He shook his head at his uncle in disbelief, Wayne nodding back at him, “Yeah, it’s really happening, son.”
Eddie nodded, tears welling up in his eyes for the hundredth time in the last 24 hours.
“I never imagined—not even in my wildest dreams—“ Eddie hiccuped through the brewing tears.
“I know, son, I know.” Wayne said, the grown boy laying his head on his uncle’s shoulder as he’d done many times before, letting a couple tears loose while he inhaled the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and motor oil lingering on his work shirt.
“Thank you, Wayne. For everything—Absolutely everything.” The metal head urged into the old man’s shoulder, his baby boy sleeping soundly between them as the only father he’d ever truly known patted his back soothingly.
“And I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat… you’re my boy.” Wayne mentioned through a tight smile, his life feeling surreal, too.
When you and Eddie are 9, he falls off the monkey bars at school and breaks his arm. You sit with him and hold his good hand while the teachers call an ambulance. He looks up at you with big brown tearful eyes and a sniffle and says “Don’t leave me.” You hold his hand tighter and shake your head, “I won’t.” You say.
When Eddie gets his cast on you’re the first person to sign it. You write your name with a little heart next to it in red marker. “Do you think I can get Stacey Carmichael to sign it?” Eddie asks. You frown a little and your tummy feels weird at the thought. Stacey is in the grade above you and she’s the coolest girl in school. “Dunno” you shrug before Mr. Munson calls from the living room to tell you your parents are here to take you home.
When Eddie is 11 he starts a band called Corroded Coffin. You think it’s a funny name but Eddie tells you that it’s really metal. You tell the boys they should enter the middle school talent show and they do. They come 4th but Eddie is so happy that he picks you up and spins you around even though you’re taller than him. “You didn’t even win!” You laugh as he spins you, “I don’t care, that was so fun!”
When you and Eddie are 12, you fall off your bike riding down the big hill near the trailer park. You scrap your knees and chin and you’re crying all messily. “Eddie! It hurts!” You sob as Eddie holds your face in his little hands to look at your chin. “I know. Let me go get Uncle Wayne!” And then Eddie runs as fast as you’ve ever seen back to the trailer to get Mr. Munson who comes speeding down with Eddie and a first aid kit in hand. “Okay, little miss, what have you done to yourself, hmm?” Eddie holds your hand while Mr. Munson patches you up.
When you’re 13, John Baker kisses you at the snowball dance while you’re slow dancing to a song you don’t know. It was okay but your mom’s lipstick you stole gets on his lips and he has to go to the bathroom to clean it off. “I kissed John!” You tell Eddie who is sitting on the bleachers looking bored. Eddie screws up his face “Yuck.” You frown, “I didn’t say it was yuck when you kissed Jessica Thompson!” You argue. “Did you use tongue?” Eddie asks. This time you screw up your face. “Gross! No!” Eddie shrugs, “Then it wasn’t a real kiss.” You don’t think that’s true.
When you and Eddie become freshman’s he joins a club called Hellfire and it’s all he talks about. “Our DM is so cool! He listens to Judas Priest just like me!” “The campaign is so fun!” “Look at the shirt that they gave us! I’m never taking it off.” He can’t hang out at lunch anymore because he sits with the Hellfire club and that makes you sad but you don’t tell him that. You’re just happy he’s happy.
When you reach sophomore year, you and Eddie agree that Friday nights are your dedicated nights to hang out. Eddie came to you at the end of freshman year saying he missed you and you were so happy you almost cried. You barely saw him anymore so now that you have a night just for you, you couldn’t be happier.
When Eddie turns 16 you surprise him with an audition at the hideout for Corroded Coffin to play every Tuesday night. It might just be a few drunks that heckle at them every gig, but Eddie literally tackles you onto his bed and almost squishes you in thanks. He’s bigger than you now.
When you and Eddie are 17, you’ve become somewhat of the band manager. You help them unpack and pack every night and Eddie usually drops you home after. The rest of the band have left and it’s just you and Eddie hauling the last of the equipment in the back when you almost fall out the back of the van. Eddie is underneath you in an instant, catching you bridal style. “You saved me.” You laugh as you hop down to your feet. Eddie doesn’t laugh, he just looks down at you “‘Course I did. I always will.” He says. It makes your stomach flutter and before you know it you’re leaning up and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. You pull away and stare up at him nervously watching as Eddie’s face breaks into a smile. “Y’know, it’s not a real kiss unless there’s tongue.” He says. You slap at his shoulder.
When you’re 17 and 6 months, you’re at Eddie’s trailer and Mr. Munson isn’t home. You’re in Eddie’s bed and you’re both in your underwear and under the covers. Eddie is kissing all over your face, “You sure you wanna? We don’t have to.” He asks for the millionth time. “Yeah, I’m sure.” You reassure him.
When you turn 18, Eddie gives you a little box. You open it and find his guitar pick necklace curled up in the soft velvet. “Eddie,” you gasp, “I can’t accept this. This is the most important thing to you.” Eddie pushes a piece of hair behind you ear and leans in close, “You’re the most important thing to me.”
When you and Eddie are 20, Eddie finally graduates high school. He runs up to you and Mr. Munson (‘Call me Uncle Wayne’ he told you a million times before) and picks you up and spins you around in his cap and gown. “You did it!” You cheer, giving him a loving kiss. He holds your face in his hands “I fucking did it.”
