#this au takes place in 1995 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blueywrites · 1 year

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I Will Wait

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness

18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader, alcohol consumption

three (15.3k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes

in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. enjoy! 🐝

The next few months are an absolute whirlwind. Corroded Coffin was in the last legs of producing their new album when you were hired, meaning the period of time when they were gearing up for the debut was just getting started. Photoshoots, interviews, preparing press releases, scheduling future appearances, and a million other things all seemed to be happening at once.

In addition to being the middleman between Eddie and the powers that be, which mostly consisted of Steve sending you constant emails of new appointments, you also were quick to learn some of the other expectations that comes along with being a PA for a celebrity. Mainly: house work.

At first you had thought they were fucking with you when Eddie mentioned that he needed you to come to his brownstone in the morning to do his laundry. As it turns out, he was both completely serious and incredibly amused with your ignorance of all the things you had technically signed up to do for him by taking this position. So you found yourself letting yourself into the Munson brownstone in Greenwich Village a few times a week to do menial tasks for your client.

Today, you’d walked in around 10am, much to Eddie’s displeasure, and were greeted with a bag full of laundry thrown at your feet. “Good morning to you too, Eddie,” you offer, albeit a bit dryly as you place your pocketbook on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Did the maid I hired not get around to laundry this week?”

“Fired her.” Eddie sounds way too chipper for this time of day, and you can only guess it’s because of his smug smile as he forces you into doing things you’ve tried to work around. “Kept looking at my underwear weird; thought she was gonna sell it or something.”

Not believing it for a second, you still give him a tight smile. “I’m sure. I’ll work on finding another maid to clean the brownstone. Again.”

“You do that!” He calls over his shoulder as he walks further into the bright and airy kitchen. In his black sweatpants and bleach-stained tank top, he looks completely at odds with his own home. It sometimes makes you wonder if his wife, Robin, picked everything out or if they had just gotten a designer to come in and make it like a show home. The first floor is beautifully decorated but stale, like no one actually lives there. It gets a bit more personal as you ascend but it still seems strange to have a home feel so disconnected. “Oh—” he looks back over as you lift the bag of laundry into your arms with a huff, “I have a pair of silk boxers in there that need to be hand washed, so don’t even think about putting them in the machine. And, uh… don’t worry about the stains.”

Oh, how you wish you could smack the cheeky grin off his face sometimes. You mumble an acknowledgement as you carry the bag through the first floor and past the kitchen, passing through an open door frame that leads into the laundry/mud room. Sorting lights and darks, despite the very intense lack of white articles that need to be cleaned, you start shoving black fabric after black fabric into the top load washing machine. When the tips of your fingers brush silk, your teeth clench tight together as you clutch it in your fist and throw it towards the deep sink a few feet away.

Once the machine is started, you walk back over to where the bundle of black silk now rests at the bottom of the plastic basin. Upon first examination, there are no suspicious ‘stains’ to be seen, but you still don’t trust it. Pinching one of the hems between your fingernails, you lift it up to eye level to inspect further, wanting to know exactly what you’re getting into before you get started.

The french door behind you pulls open with a stream of sunlight and a brush of floral perfumed air. Still holding the offending garment between your fingertips, you spin toward where Robin has just entered the mud room, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose and a book in her hand. “Uh…” Her hand slowly drops from the door handle, a smile stretching across her face as her eyebrows raise. “Whatcha doin’?”

Embarrassment wells up to warm your face, which you assume was Eddie’s goal all along, while you give Robin a tense smile. “Eddie fired the maid again. Said his silk underwear needed to be ‘hand-washed’.”

Robin’s sigh is one of long-suffering acceptance as she crosses over to you, grabs the boxers, and throws them into the running washing machine. “He’s fucking with you; you know how he is.” The sunglasses are pushed up into her hair so she can fix you with her blue-eyed stare. “You can just… push back a little. Don’t let him walk all over you.”

“It’s my job to—”

“Your job is not to just do whatever the fuck he tells you to do. Like, hiring the maid was a good move. He probably would’ve had you over here everyday dusting his little trophies if you hadn’t outsmarted him.” Her smile is warm, almost like she’s proud. “Your job is to make sure he can do his job. That’s all.”

Since meeting Robin 3 months ago, she has been nothing but sweet and kind to you. Despite being your client’s wife, she very often put herself in your corner, facing off against some of Eddie’s more unreasonable requests. While you don’t necessarily need her intervention, it still is nice to have sometimes. Her reassurance has your tension easing, a deep breath expanding your lungs in slight relief. “Thank you, Robin.”

“No prob,” she taps the cover of her paperback against your bicep as she moves past you and out into the kitchen. “Eddie!”

You follow her through the entry just in time to see Eddie spinning toward her shout, an open gallon of milk in his hand and a white stain on his upper lip. “Hey Rob, what’s the move?”

“God, Munson, you’re so fucking gross.” She pushes his shoulder out of her way to reach into the fridge and pull out a decanter of orange juice. “Remind me to never drink the milk in this house again.”

He sets the jug on the kitchen island and leans on his elbow to keep himself in her sideview, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. “And you married me anyway.”

“Don’t remind me,” she groans, although it betrays a certain level of amusement with her husband as she places her palm on his forehead and pushes him away again. Watching the easy interaction of their back and forth, always acting more like best friends than a more formal married couple, has a pang twisting in your chest. You can only hope for such an easy and comfortable relationship with your soulmate one day.

Two days later, you’re once again standing in the Munson brownstone in the early hours of the morning. Or, Eddie’s version of early, which happens to be anytime before noon. You hadn’t had time to find another cleaning service yet so you were elbows deep in the sink in their kitchen, bright yellow silicon gloves protecting your hands from the hot, soapy water as you washed bowls and coffee cups.

Eddie appears at the bottom of the stairs, yawning loudly as he stretches his arms skyward, shirt lifting to show a peek at the ink beneath. You pay him no mind as you continue your methodical cleaning of ceramics, keeping your eyes down even when he walks right up beside you and leans on the counter. Fully content to ignore him until your task is done, you can’t help but startle away when his fingertips ghost against your temple, pushing the hair back.

“What are you doing?” You finally glance over at him, your voice pitching up a bit in surprise. His smile is mischievous, eyes shining in the light, leaning over further to rest his chin on his fist.

“Oh, I was just fixing it for you. Your hands are wet and soapy.”

Exhaling through your nose, you go back to focusing on scrubbing the burnt eggs from the bottom of a frying pan. Over the last month or so, Eddie has gone from barely tolerating your existence and trying to make your life miserable, to being very pleased with your existence so he can continue to push the envelope on making your life miserable. It has become more and more like a game for him – testing the boundaries on what you will tolerate. Both what you will do for him and how much he can flirt with you until you get terse.

After a moment of awkward silence, at least on your end, you move to break the tension. “We should go over your schedule for today.”

He gives an exaggerated sigh, turning to lean both arms back on the counter beside you. “If we have to.”

“Your stylist asked you to be on site by 10am so they would have time to get you ready before the photographers arrived.” You’re barely halfway through your sentence before Eddie is groaning, sinking a bit lower onto his elbows. Mustering a flat look, you turn your head in his direction. “Why are you pouting?”

“I forgot the fucking photoshoot was today.” A ringless hand comes up to rub at the side of his face, still a bit swollen from sleep. “The only thing worse is those stupid press interviews.”

You turn back to the soap filled bowl in your gloved hands to hide your smile. “Good thing that’s not today. The interview is later this week.” Eddie’s reaction is instantaneous and dramatic – he moans in outrage as he slides all the way down to the floor beside you, leaning over to lightly hit his forehead against the side of your outer thigh over and over.

“I swear, it’s like you hate me,” his voice is muffled from below, face directed down. “You hate me when I have been nothing but nice to you.”

An amused snort leaves you against your will at the idea. His head whips back to look up at you in surprise and you barely manage to school your expression in time. “It’s not personal, Eddie. I’m just doing my job.”

“Speaking of your job,” he picks himself up off the floor in a less-than-graceful fashion, his sweatpants running much lower as he rises. You keep your eyes in the sink as you wipe down the last coffee mug left and pretend you aren’t seeing him adjust the fabric around his groin. “I need you to walk my lizard today.”

Halfway through removing the stopper from the sink to drain the used water, you freeze with your forearm still in the slowly lowering water. “Excuse me?”

He’s leaning on his elbow again, a smug smile on his face as he watches your reactions. “My lizard. You know, the one upstairs?” You make a noise of acknowledgement that you know what lizard he’s referring to. “He needs to be walked once a week. Specifically on sunny days. Normally around noon when the sun is highest, so he gets the most of the heat, y’know?”

You feel your eyebrows drawing together in confusion, trying to think back to what you know about lizards. Which, admittedly, is not much. Still, needing to walk a lizard sounds incorrect. You’ve never seen someone walking around with their lizard on a leash. You’re about to start to question him more when you catch sight of his expression. He has his lips drawn in between his teeth, his eyes pinched tight as he tries not to laugh. “... You’re fucking with me.” The laugh escapes as a bark, his palm slapping down on the counter beside you as it echoes out into the high ceilings of the brownstone. “You almost fell for it too!”

Bristling in annoyance and just a little bit of embarrassment, you take a deep breath and hang the damp gloves over the edge of the now-empty sink to dry. “I think it’s time for you to get ready to leave.”

His mirth dies down fast, his head rolling back to sigh at the ceiling. “But, and here’s the thing right, I really don’t want to go.” You make another noncommittal noise, not looking to encourage his antics right now. Neck rolling toward you, that cheeky grin that you’ve come to loathe is back. “Beg me and I’ll do it.”

Another exhale out of your nose to remain calm, you weigh your options. If you beg, you are playing into his games and encouraging antics like this. But, you also get the result you want faster. If you refuse, you are technically standing your ground, but could end up with a bigger fight to try to get him ready and out the door in time. Deciding to play his game, you give him the flattest expression you’re capable of. “Will you please get ready to leave for your photoshoot?”

This time the sigh he lets out is satisfied, his shoulders falling and eyes closing in what looks like relief. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re accompanied by a lazy smile. “Love when you say please.” He taps the tip of your nose, shocking you still, as he turns back toward the stairs. “I’ll be ready in no time!”

He is not ready in no time.

You’re standing at the bottom of the stairs at 10:10am and have still not seen head nor tail of Eddie since he traipsed back up. The car outside has already honked twice, letting you know it’s waiting, but you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Eddie, we’re already late!” Your voice echoes through the multi-floor space, definitely loud enough for him to hear, but you get no response. Patience running thin, you raise your voice again. “Eddie!”

You finally hear him reply, voice far off. “I got stuck in my pants, maybe you should come up and help me!”

Pressing your fingertips to your brow bone hard enough to pull the skin of your eyelid, you call back, “If you’re struggling to put your own pants on, I should probably call a medical professional.”

The soles of now-familiar boots appear at the top of the tall staircase, your eyes trailing up their occupant as he begins to slowly lumber his way down the stairs. He’s in his usual attire. Scuffed Doc Martens, a pair of black jeans stretched tight over his endless thighs, leather jacket fitted against his frame, those chunky rings adorning his fingers. Around his neck he wears multiple silver chains of varying sizes, dipping low into the collar of his shirt. “Y’know you could stand to be a little more fun.”

You remain firm, arms crossed as you wait for him to hit the final step. “I don’t think I understand your version of fun.” He blows a raspberry in your direction as he crosses the foyer to start shoving things into the already-tight pockets of his jeans. “We’re already late, and that means we are just delaying further when we can get to your preferred portion of the day at the studio.”

He meets your eyes through the mirror before him. Both of you showing an attempt at nonchalance. “I swear, sometimes when you talk it’s like a fly buzzing around my head and I just,” he swats once, “can’t,” twice, “get it,” three times, “to stop.”

“Maybe you should get better aim,” you offer coolly as you cross behind him to hold open the front door, hoping to get him to finally walk through it. “Or, better yet, you should consider actually listening to me instead of letting it go in one ear and out the other.”

“But it's like a buzzing little bee in my ear. Gets so annoying whenever you’re droning on and on about responsibilities and my to do list and shit.” He walks past you as he continues his rant, bouncing down the small set of stairs leading to street level. You’ve just turned back from locking the door when he whirls on you. “Maybe if you wore something a little more easy on the eyes, I’d be able to focus more on what comes out of your mouth.”

When you grit your teeth, his grin only grows, backing up towards the black sedan waiting for you both. Your voice is a thinly veiled warning when you start to say, “Eddie –”

“Careful, little Bee,” he opens the door, lifting a boot to rest on the frame. “If you get too aggressive, you’ll lose your stinger for good.” Then he falls into the darkened car, leaving the door open and sliding across so you can get in next to him. With no other option, you stomp down your frustration and climb in after him.

You’re not sure what to expect as the car pulls up in front of an abandoned warehouse out on Long Island. At first glance, it’s a dilapidated looking hole in the wall. From where you’re sitting, you can see the rusted metal roofing, the smashed in windows, exposed beams standing erect to hold up the exterior of the building. You knew the team intended for a grungier, broken down scene to represent the lyrics of the band’s latest album portraying a man’s downfall; however, you hardly anticipated something such as this in the seemingly middle of nowhere.

Eddie’s knee spreads further right from where he sits next to you, jean-clad thigh brushing yours ever so softly. Your head shifts to take him in, gaze trailing instantaneously to where you’re connected, stamping down the feeling that wells up and lingers behind your ribs with every fleeting moment such as this. His amber eyes are shrouded behind a pair of sunglasses today, tattooed hand nearest to you sprawled over his bent kneecap. There’s a thought burgeoning in his gaze, ever present before he ever even opens his mouth to speak out his reluctant drawl of, “Guess it’s now or never.”

The two of you slide out the car in unison on opposite sides of the respective vehicle, winding around the exterior and meeting to join in the center of the uneven, grassy ground. His lip quirks upward as he takes in the sight of you like a newborn doe on heels that insist on sinking into the ground, head tipping your way in the only acknowledgement of your presence you’ll likely receive. Inside, you’re immediately greeted by rusted over conveyor belts in the center of the room. There are steel beam stairs leading to an upper deck overlooking the central portion of the interior. To your left is the wall least eaten away by rust throughout the years, silver metal spanning from floor to ceiling, with endless lights positioned around the edges of the parameters to illuminate the set.

Your head tips to Eddie, standing there disinterested as ever, head tipping up to the sky, visible through the broken up ceiling. Like this, you can see every dark wave of hair that dances along the leather of his jacket, the ridges on the column of his pale throat, the tattoos that creep up high along the neckline of his collar, hinting at intricate detailing beneath. And then that left hand settles over the bridge of his sunglasses and pushes them upward, the glint of his wedding ring catching in your field of view, and you set your gaze on the glowing set before you as you edge closer to your destination.

The room itself is bustling. People shift and mill about the warehouse, carrying various pallets and crates in hand and positioning them strategically around the room in order to create impactful angles for the intended photos. Workers chat amongst themselves with cameras draped around their necks, clipboards in hand as they mark down a list of tasks you’re not privy to. Once nearer to the group, a woman comes barreling over in a flurry of movement. She’s gorgeous. Deep russet skin, dark hair styled to perfection, a tape measure over her shoulder, and a pair of leather pants curled over a forearm. You catch the glint of her artful gold hoops in either of her ears and the bright makeup covering her eyelids. You admire the rips in her jeans and the fabric of her oversized hoodie as she tuts audibly and glares Eddie’s way. You assume this isn’t the first time Eddie’s run behind schedule, try as you might to get him there as close to on time as possible.

“You’re late!” She admonishes, hand dropping to a popped out hip. For the first time since you’ve been working for Eddie, you catch the slight drop in his steely facade. It’s barely noticeable, just the slightest downturn of his lips, but you capture it all the same, knowing this woman intimidates him in a way no one else seems capable of doing so. She turns to you then, flashing you a megawatt smile. “Erica. Erica Sinclair. I’m Corroded Coffin’s stylist. I’m sure you tried your very best to get him here on time, but you see Edward wouldn’t be Edward if he wasn’t late to everything.”

“Fashionably late, Sinclair.” She glances him up and down, clearly unimpressed by his excuse, and curls a hand around his shoulder.

“Says the man who would wear the same ugly ass Hellfire shirt to every fitting when I first started working with you all. It’s a miracle by my own doing that you know how to dress yourself now. Come on, the team is already paying for your lateness,” she says, and without another word your way, she ushers him to a trailer standing just outside of the warehouse, where you anticipate the rest of the band to be readying for their photoshoot within.

You’re left to stand in the back of the warehouse, trying to keep out of the way of those working around you. With a low sigh, you wander over to the furthest wall covered in sheet metal and broken in windows, looking out into the grassy landscape. A bird flits on by, drawing your attention, just as a voice sounds from behind you. Jolting, you whirl on the heel and spot none other than Steve himself, and beside him, a man you’ve yet to meet before.

The man’s bearded face is twisted in a scowl as he shouts into his brick of a cell phone. He’s gesticulating wildly, dark curls bouncing with every angry movement. You can only catch snippets of his impassioned rant, but you’ve gathered enough to know that he does not suffer fools gladly.

Steve stands awkwardly beside the man, wincing on occasion at his booming voice. The scene is not entirely inviting, but you have no choice but to approach when Steve’s gaze catches yours. His face lights up in recognition, and he waves his hand to beckon you near. As you approach, Steve steps forward and briefly pats your upper back in greeting.

“Glad to see you made it! I want to introduce you to our band manager, Murray Bauman.” Steve motions you over with a warm smile until another shrill taunt from the man in question has him flinching away. “But let’s just give him a minute, shall we?” You agree politely and turn with Steve to observe Murray closing out his phone conversation.

“I don’t care how busy you are, get it done TODAY!” Murray’s barking demand echoes throughout the warehouse, and you stare as he rips the phone from his ear and takes out his frustrations by repeatedly smashing the end call button. He lets out an annoyed breath before pushing his wireframe glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Fair warning, he can be… bold.” Steve whispers this warning for your ears only. Just another hothead for the collection, you snort to yourself. You deal with Eddie Munson on a daily basis. How much worse could Murray Bauman be? Steve walks ahead of you to serve as the bridge during introductions. Before Steve can offer an explanation, Murray’s annoyed face takes in your approach with suspicion.

“Who are you? Harrington, why are you bringing this person to bother me?” Murray interrogates you immediately. He regards you skeptically, assessing whether you are worth his time or attention.

“Murray, this is the assistant I was telling you about,” Steve explains, offering your name as he beckons you forward. “You know, the one who is currently working with Eddie.”

“You mean the one you forced me to hire?”

Steve casts a furtive glance your way before his gaze whips back to Murray, the stare holding weight as he replies, “She’s lasted four months, Murray.”

Murray looks back flatly as Steve tries to impress some knowledge upon him with a combination of wide hazel eyes and bushy brows. Behind his wireframe glasses, Murray squints. “Four months?” He replies skeptically, and Steve nods slowly.

“Four months,” he enunciates slowly, and you watch the men communicate through shifting facial expressions: Steve’s eyes implore Murray to be civil, while Murray appears exasperated by the prospect of niceties. Eventually, Murray lets out a groan before forcing his face into a perfunctory smile.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Murray offers, insincerity lacing his every word. His dark eyes cut to Steve as if to ask - happy now? All at once, his mask crumbles and he returns to his brash self. “Do me a favor, yeah? Keep Munson in line. I’d prefer to not clean up any more of his messes.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” you reply. “It’s very nice to mee–”

“What the hell are you wearing?” Murray sounds appalled, disgust written all over his face. His question makes you stutter to a stop. You look down at your outfit and see nothing untoward - white blouse, black cardigan, plaid pleated skirt, dark tights, and chunky heels. It’s simple and professional. It’s safe. Or so you thought. Confused, you look back up to see that Murray isn’t making eye contact with you. Instead, he’s glaring at something or someone behind you. That’s when you register the sound of heavy boots thudding your way. You turn to see who has inspired such a visceral reaction from Murray, but instinctively you know who you’ll find.

Eddie.

He strides toward you with Erica by his side. She looks proud of her work, and you can’t blame her. Eddie looks… well, he looks hot. To put it bluntly. Erica has given Eddie a monochrome look that’s enhanced by different textures and accessories. His black suit is striking with its satin lapels and tailored fit. The suit jacket is unbuttoned, revealing the pièce de résistance - a mesh top that leaves little to the imagination.

“You look ridiculous! Where’s the rest of your shirt?” Murray’s question is directed at Eddie, but his scowl is aimed straight at Erica. Any other person would have withered under the intensity of his glower, but Erica seems emboldened by it.

“Where’s the rest of your hair?!” Erica counters without a moment's hesitation, arms crossed in defiance. “Leave the dressing to the experts. Seriously, Murray. You look like a sad, middle-aged hack going through a divorce.”

“Oh, spare me, Sinclair.”

Erica and Murray’s jibes muddle with Steve’s pleas to stop, eventually fading into background noise as you observe the man standing before you.

You have to hand it to Erica - it’s a daring look. The mesh hugs Eddie’s torso in a way that flatters his lithe frame and provides just enough of a glimpse of his tattoos to captivate any onlooker. His pale skin is heavily decorated in ink, and you can’t help but try deciphering what you’re seeing through the mesh. Eddie’s collection of tattoos seems to pay homage to his love of music and fantasy. On his left side, you spy an unusual string instrument with the word bard etched underneath. Just below that, you see artwork of a dagger with a blade made of uniquely shaped dice. By his right ribcage, Eddie has a tattoo of a mighty dragon with wings poised for flight. The dragon’s claws seemingly tear into the supple skin of Eddie’s toned abdomen. You follow the dragon’s scales down, down, down until its tail disappears beneath Eddie’s suit trousers - along with a little patch of sparse hair below his navel.

I wonder where that tattoo ends. The thought jolts you back to reality. This is your client— your very married client— whose wife has been nothing but kind to you. The guilt and shame overwhelm you.

You become very aware that you’re still ogling Eddie’s body, and your eyes race upwards to find a more appropriate location to settle. Unfortunately, your retreat to safety is foiled by the glimmer of metal you spot by Eddie’s nipples. You feel flustered by the sudden warmth blossoming within you. Eddie Munson has his nipples pierced. You had been too distracted by his tapestry of tattoos to notice them at first, but now you’ll never be able to forget that the piercings exist. Great going, you think to yourself, you try to avoid staring at your client's happy trail only to stare at his nipple piercings instead. Well done, very professional.

To your horror, Eddie has caught you staring. He sports a look of faux disappointment with his plump lips pushed into a pout. His tattooed hand points to his face, and he teases, “Tsk, tsk, little Bee. My eyes are up here.”

Your mind races to find a suitable excuse for your staring, or better yet, a way to deny it happened in the first place. Eddie is looking at you like he’s a spider that has caught you in his web, and you break eye contact to save some face. It ends up being the wrong decision because your mortification only deepens when you realize that Murray and Steve have witnessed Eddie’s accusation. Erica has long since departed after her verbal sparring match with Murray. Without her there to act as the target for his irritation, Murray is now laser-focused on you and Eddie. “Hmm… that’s interesting,” he observes, his head tilting to the side in curiosity.

“What’s interesting?” Steve asks.

“Keep up, Harrington,” Murray offers no explanation and instead dodges Steve’s question with a dismissive wave of his hand. Steve places his hands on his hips looking utterly bewildered. He goes to speak again, but Murray beats him to the punch. “So, Munson… I hear that your assistant has lasted four months working with you. Is that right?”

Murray’s inquiry has an instant effect on Eddie’s body language. His playful pouting has dissipated, and his stance now appears guarded. He crosses his arms over his chest— over the distracting nipple piercings, thank god— as he eyes his band manager cautiously. “... why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason at all. Just curious,” Murray replies nonchalantly. “You must be getting along.” You don’t know Murray well at all. However, you do know Eddie well enough to take his weariness as a signal that things could soon become uncomfortable.

“I haven’t scared her off, yet. If that’s what you mean,” Eddie scoffs. “But don’t worry, I’m still working on it.” It’s a classic Eddie move - making a joke of something to avoid showing any hint of being rattled. He throws a coquettish grin in your direction, which does not go unnoticed by Murray. Steve looks uneasy, as if this conversation will upset whatever balance you’ve struck with Eddie.

“I sure hope she isn’t stroking your ego too much.” Murray’s tone is blasé, but his implication is clear. “And you better not be giving her a mouthful.” Steve can no longer stand idly by now that he has finally caught onto what Murray found so intriguing. He swoops in to intervene by physically placing himself between Eddie and Murray.

“Well this has been fantastic,” Steve forces a laugh out and runs a shaky hand through his brown locks. “Murray, let’s continue that chat about merch, yeah?” He is practically vibrating with nervous energy as he tries encouraging Murray to move.

Allowing himself to be led away, Murray offers a farewell over his shoulder, “Good luck, kid. If you need anything, anything at all, do not contact me. Bother Harrington instead.” At the mention of his name, Steve turns briefly to mouth I’m sorry as the pair exit.

Mind spinning off kilter from everything that occurred in the last few minutes, you turn yourself back toward Eddie for a sense of stability. Since when is Eddie something constant in your life? You find a very tense-looking man. The muscles in his jaw are pulled tight as he glares at the spot once occupied by Murray. The moment ends quickly as if he can feel your eyes on him. Eddie annoyingly seems to have gained a sixth sense for knowing when you’re staring. His crossed arms fall along with the seriousness of his expression, hands tucking into his front pockets. The action only causes his pants to inch lower and, for a split second, your eyes are instinctively drawn to the patch of skin now on show.

My eyes are up here.

The echo in your brain rings out and has your glance jumping back up in horror. Eddie watches every movement and his lips pull between his teeth again, the same face he made this morning when he was trying not to laugh. All you can offer in defense is rolling your shoulders back to look taller and making your gaze sharper, daring him to say something. He lifts his hands in surrender, his lips popping out into a self-satisfied smile as he turns on his heel and saunters back toward the set, whistling all the while. You begrudgingly follow after him.

Eddie’s pace is unhurried as he drags his feet in a clear display of apathy. You spot the rest of the band gathered around a petite woman speaking animatedly and pointing to various spots on the set. She’s captivating with her high cheekbones, loose brunette waves, and eyes like the ocean. Those eyes narrow upon seeing Eddie’s dawdling.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” she chides. “We’ve been waiting on you. Hurry it up.”

“Hello to you, too, Wheeler. I didn’t realize you were so excited to see me. I’d hate to disappoint a fan,” Eddie teases with a roguish grin wide across his face. Much to your surprise, he picks up his pace and joins the others in listening to Nancy— whose first name you learn indirectly, thanks to Eddie’s habit of calling everyone by their last names— detail the aim of today’s photoshoot. She explains that the media team will be experimenting with several looks in order to use the photos for both album promotion and touring purposes.

Eddie turns to you as Nancy begins guiding the others to their spots on set. “Enjoy the show. You sure seemed to earlier.” He winks and turns on his heel to join the others.

Deny! Deflect! Do something!

“I was only admiring Erica’s work! It had nothing to do with you.” You can see Eddie’s shoulders shaking with laughter, and you know he’s not convinced. To be fair, you haven’t convinced yourself either. It sounds weak even to your ears, like a last-ditch effort to save your dignity. Feeling defeated, you slump over to the chairs lining the wall where you can watch the photoshoot concealed behind the photography equipment.

Two hours pass and the band is still preoccupied with taking pictures. You watch as they’re pushed and pulled into different poses and settings. The process feels overall repetitive, but Nancy does her best to keep energy levels high. She directs the photographers to get solo shots, which leads to hilarious chaos as the band hypes each other up behind the camera. “Yeah, Harry! Rock out with your Cox out!”

Despite the momentary amusement, you find yourself mostly bored watching from the sidelines. You’re both surprised and grateful when you see a familiar face enter the set. Robin peers around at the flurry of activity before making her way over to you.

“Finally some good company,” you breathe out in relief. Robin is delightful to be around, and you mean it when you share your appreciation for her presence. She gives you a sympathetic look before taking a seat beside you.

“These things can take forever,” she commiserates. “But Nancy will keep them on track. Don’t worry. They’re lucky to have her. She’s brilliant.” Her husky voice sounds especially warm with adoration.

Just as Robin said, Nancy is brilliant in her precise and methodical approach. She directs the crew in adjusting the lights and backdrops with ease. Her critical eye allows her to observe each shot and offer valuable posing guidance. It’s impressive to watch someone be so in her element.

You and Robin sit together and make small talk until there’s a break for a set and wardrobe change. Robin excuses herself and makes her way over to Nancy. You notice Nancy’s focused demeanor melt into one of warmth upon Robin's approach, and the sight of their friendly affection for one another brings a smile to your face. Quite honestly, it makes you miss your friends; you’ve been so busy since starting this job that you haven’t found much time to see them.

Eddie walks past the pair on his way to meet Erica, briefling nodding at his wife in acknowledgement. He stops abruptly and looks around at the crowded set before swiveling back to face them.

“Hey Wheeler, did Robin tell you she’s getting new headshots done for her upcoming play?” he asks. “Do you mind giving her some pointers while we break?”

Nancy brightens at the suggestion, “That’s a great idea. I’d be happy to help!”

“Why don’t you two go somewhere private? I don’t want all these people leering at my sexy wife when she’s posing.” Eddie winks at Robin, who whispers a quiet ‘thank you’ before leaving with Nancy. You’re touched by what you’ve just witnessed. Eddie is actually a supportive and loving husband. The longing hits you unexpectedly. When will it be my turn? Soulmate, where are you?

It’s exhausting to pine for someone you haven’t met yet. You have all of this love to give without a person to receive it and reciprocate. It feels aimless, like being adrift in the dark ocean with no light to guide you home. You’re too lost in your yearning to notice that Eddie has returned and is standing beside your chair.

“Everything okay, Bee?” The question physically jolts you from surprise. You wait for the inevitable teasing from Eddie about catching you off guard. Instead, you look up to find Eddie eyeing you closely. Whatever he sees in you in that moment must cause him concern. His brow is furrowed, and there’s an unexpected tenderness in his gaze.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, I got distracted by my thoughts.”

“Well, that’s no good. What did I tell you this morning about having more fun?” Eddie hold his hand out for you to take, and he gently coaxes you to stand. His calloused hands feel rough against your gentleness, but you find it comforting. Once upright, he drops your hand and offers out his arm out as a replacement. “Come on, I’ve got just the idea to break you out of your shell.”

The two of you walk side by side comfortably, and Eddie guides you to where the band and Nancy have reconvened. The guys are looking up at one of the warehouse walls in deep observation. You squint your eyes, searching for something on the wall that might be drawing their attention. Having no success, you look back to the band and realize they’re each holding something. Are those spray paint cans? Your ears perk up at the sound of rattling as Gareth shakes the can he’s holding. Yeah, definitely spray paint. You send a quizzical look Eddie’s way.

“Murray thought we needed some more edgy photos. He suggested we graffiti the wall for the next set,” he explains. “Wheeler was all worried about it, but… Murray knows best.” He mutters the last part bitterly, shaking his head with distaste. “He might actually be right about this, though.” Eddie steps forward, breaking your linked arms, and snags two spray paint cans from the ground. He holds one out to you, his face alight with mischief.

You look around self consciously, noting that Steve and Murray are both within view. You fidget nervously and contemplate whether you can let your hair down while on the job. No one else appears to be partaking; only the band members have been given spray paint. “Are you sure about this? I think it’s just meant for you all.”

Eddie throws his head back with an exaggerated groan. “Come on! Live a little.” He snaps out of his dramatics when he hears the sound of hissing fill the air from the spray paint cans in use. Gareth, Jeff, and Harry have already begun doodling on the wall without him. “See?! We’re missing out on the fun because you’re overthinking.”

He extends the can out to you once more, gently nudging you to partake. He grins widely when you take the simple black paint from him reluctantly. You can do this. Show him you’re not always so uptight.

You slowly approach the wall and think about what to paint. You need to show him that you can have fun and keep up with his jokes. The idea comes to you easily, and you get to work on your masterpiece. It’s a simple piece that only takes a few minutes for you to prepare. .

Eddie is intently focused on drawing a large, crimson devil’s face, and you need to wave to get his attention. When his eyes meet yours, you point to your painting and await his reaction. Previously blank, the wall now sports the image of a humble bumblebee. The bee has two basic stripes, fluttering wings, and most importantly - a stinger. Eddie’s warning from this morning is fresh on your mind. If you get too aggressive, you’ll lose your stinger for good.

Your artistic choice has the intended effect, and Eddie lets out a hearty laugh. He smiles at you, and those brown eyes crinkle at the corners with joy. He looks proud, and it stirs something unexpected inside of you. You find that you like pleasing him.

“Atta girl.”

You suppress a shiver that the hum of his voice conjures despite the flippancy of his words.

That photoshoot, though chaotic in and of itself, somehow ended up becoming the calm before the storm for you. A demarcation point beyond which your days became filled with the relentless pursuit of planning a multi-month tour for a moderately famous industrial metal band. Days that had previously been spent ushering Eddie around to meetings with some semblance of timeliness and bringing him snacks when he gets cranky are now consumed by filling a thickening manilla envelope with neat documents, each marked with your precise handwriting as you plan and record each aspect of the trip logistics: contacting venues as per Steve’s direction, managing their hospitality riders, tracking expenses and budgeting for food and accommodations, as well as other minutiae that, frankly, has begun to make that vein throbbing in your neck a near constant companion by the end of the workday. The hours feel long, longer than they do when you’re trying to wrangle Eddie; though the days aren’t physically taxing as you spend them holed up at a desk fitted snugly into the closet you’d reorganized, they are mentally exhausting as those dates, dollar amounts, and contact names begin to tangle up in your head. You spill them out onto your trusty desk calendar, collecting them there as you stretch the strands and detangle them in order to begin weaving together Corroded Coffin’s first tour. It’s a feat you take no small measure of pride in.

Thankfully, during the weeks you spent taming this beast of a task, Eddie and the guys had been occupied almost entirely with rendering the final mix of their album. They’d worked closely with Argyle in refining the balance and levels of instruments and ambient sounds that would create the dirty industrial feel they were seeking with this upcoming release. You’d popped out of your stuffy little closet occasionally to check on them, though they didn’t seem to need much beyond being fed. Eddie, in particular, seemed quite consumed by a desire to see the vision brought to life, and was as serious and engaged as you’d ever seen him with a chair pulled up next to Argyle. That’s where you’d almost always see him when you emerged— long fingers idly twisting chunky rings, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed while he listened carefully and assisted in tweaking such small changes that you hardly could tell the difference with your unpracticed ear. He had a beeper to page you, but through your months of working with him, you’d begun to anticipate what he needs to sustain him daily in this routine— a hot to-go cup of black coffee first thing in the morning; at least half a box of cigarettes in the pocket of his leather jacket, on call for a smoke break; a salty snack around his lull time of four in the afternoon, which you rotate to keep him from getting bored; and next-to-no interruptions except a quick meeting of your gazes a few times a day in case it reminds him to ask you for something.

And now, finally, as late August adorns the New York streets with haze rising from the asphalt and paints sidewalks with the frantic bustle of summer tourists, your strands of dates and locations and prices and contact names have now been woven together to form a complete tapestry: Accommodations for Corroded Coffin’s ‘95-’96 Album Tour. All the knotted muscles in your shoulders, the bloodshot eyes, the late nights and early mornings had been worth it to get to this point— the point at which the final picture of what exactly that tour would entail has been tied off into neat and tidy knots of thorough efficiency. You stretch your arms above your head and your spine pops with relief; despite the fatigue you feel fuzzing between your eyebrows, you push back your chair almost cheerily and pull the headphones from your ears, prepared pop from the closet and join the men whose tour you’ve just planned.

When you emerge, you expect to see them all in some approximation of the same position as usual— Argyle and Eddie sat in front of the mixing board, Harry hovering close behind, and Gareth and Jeff either mucking about in the studio or sprawled on the couches in the corner where they call out their contributions. Instead, you’re surprised by the presence of an unexpected figure, who acts as the nexus point around which the rest of the band hovers. He’s got his hands stuffed under his armpits and his hip jutted out, one loafer tapping against the floor, though behind his wire-rimmed spectacles he looks less irritated than the last time you’d seen him. I suppose having the tour booked and the album finished would put any band manager in a decent mood, you think, eager to join the throng of smiling men who gather around him.

“What’s on the menu? Anything good? ” Gareth is asking as you walk up.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is free food not good enough for you? You eat Smarties in Yoohoo as breakfast cereal. Get a grip,” Murray snipes, and laughter rumbles through the group.

“Oh!” All eyes turn to you at your little sound of surprise. “What promo event are you discussing? Did Steve plan something? I don’t remember seeing it on my weekly agenda notes from him.”

There is a beat of uncharacteristic silence from everyone before Jeff speaks— not quite tripping over himself, but with an extra edge of enthusiasm you don’t typically hear in his voice. “No, no,” he assures you quickly. “You didn’t miss anything. It’s a celebration for finishing the album, not a promo event. Just a get together Murray planned for us tomorrow.” He lifts his brows, eyes warm and sincere, if not a little too wide. “You gonna be there?”

That familiar feeling in your chest— that subtle deflating that sinks into your stomach, reminding you of cafeteria tables lacking in saved space and friends reminiscing over shared experiences you hadn’t even been aware of— weighs you down inside as you look into Jeff’s kind face. It stings, the knowledge that you hadn’t quite been forgotten or excluded, but only just— only because you’d emerged from your makeshift office and wandered into the conversation at just the right moment. Had you not, you would have been none the wiser, and it makes Jeff’s question— ‘You gonna be there?’ — feel awkwardly like you’ve invited yourself.

Still, you choose to save face. “Oh, gotcha!” you say, turning to Murray. “Where is it?”

The neutrality in Murray’s expression in place of his typical sardonic scowl almost makes you feel worse. “My place. You been to the Upper West Side?” You nod. “You can show up anytime after seven. I’ll have Harrington shoot you the address, kid.”

You brace yourself against this second blow— being called ‘kid’ as if you really are just Eddie’s babysitter, as if you hadn’t just single-handedly coordinated an entire tour’s-worth of hotels and restaurants and activities— and smile. “Thank you,” you say, avoiding the dark brown eyes of one curly-haired menace.

Because if there’s pity there, too— pity like the kind you felt in Jeff’s too-wide smile or Murray’s soft nod— you think you might just burst into hot, utterly humiliating tears.

On Friday night, it takes some time for you to dress and even longer for you to resolve to actually attend the celebration party. That last-minute invite has rocked your sense of self, manifesting most clearly in the lack of clarity regarding your outfit. Clothes are strewn across your typically-orderly room like a cyclone of indecision has torn through it, and what you’ve chosen feels barely adequate: silver jewelry, simple mary janes, and a black silk blouse that flows like water against your skin, tucked loosely into the waistband of your bootcut blue jeans. You’d settled on the blouse chiefly because of the color, as if with some subconscious desire to blend in with the men you work with so that maybe next time they won’t forget about you.

After a good nights rest unencumbered by that looming task still hanging over your head— since you’d finally completed it, to your relief— and some consideration, you’d reasoned that the reason for your late invitation was probably not malicious. And when you’d checked your email to see that, not even twenty minutes after your conversation with Murray had Steve emailed and sent you details and the address, it essentially confirmed it. Sure, it certainly still stung knowing that you hadn’t been thought of from the get-go, but you chalked it up to your newness and the fact that you’d been cloistered in your ‘office’ so often lately.

You’d concluded the mistake was likely innocent, and as you stand outside the front door to Murray’s apartment hesitating to knock, you find yourself desperately hoping you’re right, and that you haven’t made a mistake by coming after all. This job is already so different from any you’d had before— nowhere else had you spent so much time intimately intertwined with the details of your employer’s life outside of a professional context. Spending time at Eddie’s apartment to wash his dishes, coordinate his meals, take him to his appointments, fetch him the things he needs… look after him… it all feels more domestic than professional, though in this role, really, those things are one in the same. It blurs the lines and leaves you strangely yearning for inclusion, leaves you feeling more vulnerable, as you finally press your index to the doorbell, than you’d honestly prefer.

A flash of panic hits you as you hear the approach of footsteps beyond the door. You prepare yourself for the sight of Murray’s face half-twitched into a reluctantly-polite smile as the rest of the men stare at you from their seats, drinks dangling from their hands as their eyes turn quickly from you and back to one another.

But when the door swings open, you’re instead greeted with the sight of Gareth’s poofy brown bangs and pink cheeks as he smiles so widely at the sight of you you’re sure his face must ache from it. “She made it!” he exclaims into your face, breath puffing loose and acrid with alcohol as he hooks an arm around your shoulder to pull you inside amidst a rousing chorus of elongated ‘ay’s from the rest of the band.

Your apprehension dissolves like seafoam as he pulls you eagerly inside.

The interior of Murray’s apartment feels as though you’ve walked into a time capsule. You aren’t sure whether the mid-century modern theme is because Murray is partial to the style or because he hasn’t bothered updating the furnishings since the seventies, but judging by his half-unbuttoned ‘party’ shirt striped with deep brown and cream— displaying no little amount of bushy chest hair within which a gold chain is nestled— you figure it’s probably the latter. You look around with interest at the furnishings, intrigued by the design’s ability to feel both high end and also warm, quite a contrast from the modern crispness many favor nowadays. Gareth doesn’t give you much time to sight-see as he leads you towards the party’s epicenter in the living room, though you do notice that the walls are a bold burnt orange, accented by geometric wallpaper and bookshelves filled with vintage books and knick-knacks likely gathered on Murray’s travels. As you pad over the shag carpet in your mary janes, your gaze is drawn to the men crowded on the low-slung sofa around a sleek, glass-top coffee table. The air is hazy with smoke, which wafts from a cigar resting in a crystal ashtray near Murray’s elbow, and the record-player in the corner is crackling with jazz— Miles Davis, if your memory serves you correctly.

All-in-all, it’s nothing what you expected Corroded Coffin’s album-completion party to look like, down to the way they all perk as Gareth leaves you to hover near the side of the couch while he plops back down in his spot on the floor. It’s all the familiar faces you would expect, and no one else. Murray, Steve and Argyle sit on low-profile armchairs pulled up beside the coffee table where cards and poker chips clearly indicate they’re in the middle of a game; Jeff and Gareth are seated together on the floor, and they lift their drink glasses to you when your eyes pass over them; and finally, Harry and Eddie are on the couch, knees spread wide and comfortable as they slouch, though they straighten at your approach. The mens’ greetings become a cacophony of friendly voices you can’t possibly discern as they overlap happily, and you accept them with somewhat shy nods but a pleased smile. Harry immediately shifts over towards the couch’s arm, and when he notices, Eddie does the same, narrowing his knees and shuffling over to the opposite side to make room for you.

It’s a clear invitation, one that makes warmth bloom in your chest as you step carefully over Harry’s shoes to sink onto the low velvet couch between them.

“Did you find the place okay?” Steve asks, and you meet his hazel eyes as you reply,

“Yes, thanks. Actually, my aunt lives—” You find a cup suddenly thrust into your fingers, and you close them hastily around textured glass, glancing down at the amber liquid inside. “What is this?”

“Whiskey, my dude,” Argyle replies, settling back into his chair with a lopsided grin. “Bottoms up.”

You stare at it for a moment skeptically, already balking from the burn in your throat. But, like sharks in the water, they sense your hesitation; as if with one mind, the guys lean forward to goad you with some light ribbing, flashing brows, and wide grins. All except Murray, that is, who seems more impatient to get back to the poker game as he grouses and sighs impatiently.

In the end, it’s Eddie’s elbow in your side and his brown eyes catching yours that do it— his gestures are loose with alcohol, and yet more gentle than you typically see him. “C’mon, little Bee.” He smiles, and something catches in your throat as it brightens his flushed face. “Time to get buzzed.”

Your head tosses back of its own accord as you laugh, tickled by the pun; when you look at him again, Eddie looks inordinately pleased with himself. “All right,” you concede; the guys cheer as Murray shakes his head. And though it burns just as much as you knew it would, when you clink that glass down against the coffee table, coughing slightly as Harry claps you jovially on the back, all you feel is warm. Warmth in your belly, warmth against your sides where Harry and Eddie sit beside you, warmth in your cheeks as you settle back against the cushions and look around at the friendly faces that surround you.

Now that you’ve been christened with your first drink, the group turns back to the game of poker your arrival had interrupted. You watch with interest as they take up their hands again, hiding your giggle behind your hand as Gareth dramatically flops backward in a sprawl on the floor when he loses to Jeff, who rakes the pile of chips in the center gleefully and dramatically into his corner of the table. “I put thirty dollars on that hand; come on, man,” Gareth whines, but Jeff pays him no mind nor offers any mercy.

“D’you know how to play?” Eddie asks you, and you shake your head.

“We can teach you,” Harry offers.

“Oh, I’m fine watching—” You begin to protest but it’s cut off almost as quickly with a sharp movement from Eddie, who snatches a handful of chips from his pile into his broad fist, heedless of the way some bounce to the shaggy carpet below. You’d felt warm in your belly, at your sides, and in your cheeks, but more than anything else, you feel that warmth in your heart as Eddie presses some of his poker chips into your open palm.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to play,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just have some fun.”

You smile at him, a gentle curve of your lips to match the way he pats your wrist before lurching forward to pick up his fallen chips and receive his next hand.

Throughout the games of poker you play, you find yourself both having the fun Eddie had instructed you to and simultaneously watching him, marveling at the way the haze and jazz and laughs and velvet couch have… softened him, almost. He's clearly drunk— more than a little glassy-eyed, with flushed cheeks and loose, heedless swinging of his wild curls and his limbs as he celebrates victories and laments losses— but it’s accompanied by more easy smiles and cackling laughs than you’ve heard from him in the last few months combined. He’s full of life tonight, but without as much biting edge. And you can’t help but think that to see him like this, so relaxed, so happy…

It’s nice. Nice in a way that makes that feeling bloom again— the one you’d been feeling more often since the photoshoot. You shake it quickly away.

His joy fuels the others, you notice. You suppose it makes sense; Eddie’s boisterousness and overwhelming energy tends to dictate the tides despite others’ attempts to direct situations otherwise. And as the night wares on, that easy looseness eventually devolves to become a bit more wild. Of course, it doesn’t take much for some of the others to follow suit.

Somewhere between the umpteenth hand of poker and your third round of drinks, Argyle wanders into Murray’s kitchen and helps himself to the bottle of champagne chilling in an icebucket, most likely prepared by Steve— you can’t see Murray bothering with that. Steve perks up when he comes back over, rubbing his hands on his trousers and rising as he reaches to take it from Argyle.

“Thanks, Arg,” he says, but his gratitude ends up being a little hasty. Because rather than passing the bottle into his waiting hand, Argyle instead begins to shake it with a jerky flail of his arm, forcing Steve to retract his fingers, who huffs affrontedly. “I was gonna say something,” he protests, and while the exasperation is easy to read there, it’s overshadowed as Eddie leaps suddenly off the couch, crouching slightly, face alight with mischief as he circles Argyle on the rug. Once Eddie’s up, everyone follows suit— Jeff and Gareth scramble to join him, and you and Harry follow close behind, your hands clasping your elbows as you eye the proceedings with cautious amusement.

“Yeah, yeah, Steve, we all know what you’re gonna say,” Eddie drawls, but the wide smile on his face takes the edge off the sarcasm. “‘What an incredible accomplishment, we’ve worked so hard, the culmination of many months of effort—’ blah, blah, fuckin’ blah.” Eddie cackles as he flings his arm out to smack Steve companionably in the stomach, making his PR manager stumble slightly due to the accidental force behind the gesture. “Allow me.”

Eddie flourishes and bows dramatically, his wild curls splaying around his shoulders as he jerks his head up to address the group— his face is flushed, pink rather than pale, with a vein popping on his forehead, and you can’t help but shake your head in reluctant, wry amusement as he declares, “Fuck bitches, get money, make metal, and raise fucking hell, boys!”

And with that— without any forewarning, really, besides a slanted smirk— Argyle pops the cork from the champagne bottle, spraying Eddie directly in the face with it.

You don’t know why you wouldn’t have expected it, but you stiffen with a little jerk as Murray roars, “Fuckin’— dammit, Argyle, not on the goddamn rug—!”

His ire is quickly overtaken by joy that fills the room as Jeff and Gareth jump towards the spray, mouths open wide in wait; ever obliging, Argyle coats their faces, too, directing most of the alcohol into their mouths but playfully directing it toward you and Harry too. You squeal and giggle as fizzy drops coat you lightly, turning into Harry’s broad shoulder for protection as the spray gradually weakens until it’s nothing but a dribble dropping to the shag.

In the ensuing silence, Steve looks at Murray sympathetically. “I’ll bill him for the carpet cleaning,” he promises, wringing his hands until Murray’s face calms from apoplectic to merely deeply aggravated.

You’re briefly worried he may pop an aneurysm until Argyle— the only one of you still bone dry— distracts everyone by pulling something casually from his pocket. “Oh, brochachos. Almost forgot. I got this advance copy of the album finished last night.”

The boys explode in a flurry of potent outrage and glee. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us sooner?!” Jeff shouts, and you’re taken aback to see the most even-keeled member of Corroded Coffin shake his producer by the shoulders.

“Relax, dude,” Argyle drawls. “S’not fully mastered yet, but it’s close enough.”

And when the needle scratches to a halt on the record player, replacing smooth, dulcet jazz with the rhythmic drum beat of what you know is the boys’ favorite song on the album: ‘Closer.’

It also happens to be one of the best tracks to dance to, and the boys take advantage of that, though their movements— mostly just flailing limbs as they jump and headbang— are really just some crude approximation of dancing. Yet that doesn’t detract from the glee of the moment as, at some point you get pulled in, too, finding yourself in the middle of it all— laughing and swinging your head and shouting along with them. “I wanna fuck you like an animal!” you scream, chest effusive with bubbling joy as Eddie doubles over in wild, joyful laughter at the crudeness of the lyrics shouted in your alcohol-hoarsened voice. You find yourself swung by hands, twirled under arms, spinning and sing-shouting until your throat goes scratchy and your head a little fuzzy from all the activity.

As the song ends, Eddie steadies you with a hand on your shoulder, and you smile up at him appreciatively but are surprised when he doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he tips his head, jerking it toward the kitchen. “Come on,” he says, and you see his lips move but barely hear his words underneath the booming of the next track, which echoes so loudly it nearly rattles the knick-knacks on Murray’s shelves.

You trail after your employer as he leads you to the kitchen, sloppily filling an empty glass with water from the sink and handing it to you without any explanation. The intuitiveness of the gesture surprises you, as does the way he hovers nearby while you take tiny sips to soothe your parched throat.

Eddie leans a hip against the counter, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his dark jeans and looking you over appraisingly. It’s the first time you’ve really gazed at him all night, and as he appraises you, you don’t feel that instinctual need to hide, the impulse dulled by the warmth buzzing in your veins. Instead, you just appraise him back, eyes trailing over the silver of his handcuff belt buckle, the chain at his hip, the soft, faded black of his band t-shirt, your eyes lingering where he’s clearly torn the sleeves off, evident by dangling threads that tickle the alabaster of his pale biceps. His curls are frizzier than before, still damp and sticking to his neck from the champagne, and his plush lips are pinker than they typically are— shiny and wet as he licks across them with a swipe of his tongue.

You feel a distinct stirring deep in your belly and wrench your gaze from his mouth to his eyes, face heating as you anticipate a smirk and a crude remark, or perhaps a pointed comment about your wandering gaze. Yet Eddie’s face is calm, almost a little hesitant as he opens his mouth to speak— seemingly entirely consumed by what he wants to say. “So, you know we’re going on tour,” he says matter-of-factly, and you can’t help but snort at the ridiculousness of it.

“I think I’ve gathered that. I mean, I’ve only been working out your accommodations for said tour for the past few weeks now,” you retort with a little smirk, and his lips curl in a lopsided grin at your sass. You anticipate a rebuttal, but Eddie continues without comment.

“Well, I know it might come as a shock that I’d be admitting this, but, ah…” He scratches the corner of his lips with one dark-painted fingernail, mouth stretched wide before he continues abruptly, “things have been running a little smoother since you came around. ‘Specially once you got the hang of washing my silky drawers right.”

Your growing pleasure at the praise flattens along with your expression at that final comment, though it eases when he smiles at you, crooked but wide, as eager as you’ve ever seen his smile be. “So,” he says with an air of dramatic finality, “how’s about you take that laundry service on the road?”

In what is almost more to goad him than in genuine disgust, you wrinkle your nose, and your chest warms again when he chuckles huskily, knocking you with his elbow lightly again. "What I'm try’na say is... you wanna come on tour with us?"

When you think back to the way this party began for you— with a split second of awkward silence and a hastily extended invitation, clearly late-to-come— you hadn’t anticipated the way it would end up. In that moment at the studio, you couldn’t imagine being welcomed in so readily, sprayed with champagne, twirled underneath their arms, and cared for with poker chips and glasses of water. You hadn’t thought you’d be here, standing with Eddie Munson in his manager’s kitchen, being invited by him personally to go on tour with the band.

It’s confirmation that you do have a place amongst them, and it’s also exactly why you took this job in the first place— the opportunity to explore beyond the limits of your current world.

"Yes,” you reply, and you can’t help it when your voice comes out honey sweet. “I'd really like that."

"Well, good,” Eddie huffs good-humoredly, “‘cause you kinda have to whether you like it or not. But I'm glad I don't have to twist your arm after all."

You nod, and something small— small and tenuous, trickling like briny water— flows between you and Eddie as you gaze at one another. "Well... thank you," you say, your voice soft and almost shy as you look up at him.

Eddie blinks, looking a little taken aback by the gratefulness in your expression. Quickly, his eyes jump from yours to track around the room as he says distractedly, "Sure, little Bee— Hey, Murray!” His hoarse voice rises in a shout as he skirts around you, trailing out of the kitchen as he calls wolfishy, “Where's your top shelf shit? I wanna get fuckin' blasted tonight."

You watch him lope off toward the living room again without sparing you another glance. Quickly, you drain your water glass, leaving it in the sink and wandering back into the fray until you find yourself elbow to elbow with Steve.

“So—” Your eyes find hazel as Steve regards you with a friendly, knowing smile. “You ready for that travel I promised you?”

Another wild cackle— one that, after tonight, threatens to haunt you in your sleep— draws both of your gazes. For a moment, you and Steve watch as Eddie sneaks up behind an unsuspecting Gareth, grappling him around the neck and tugging him into a headlock as the other man sputters and kicks at him. All at once, they seem to you much younger than their years, and it makes you consider the question.

Are you ready for the travel Steve promised you— travel where wrangling these unruly rockstars, and one in particular, is about to become even more of your daily existence?

You find, as Eddie shoves Gareth into Jeff and licks across his bottom teeth with a manic grin when the two recover and face him, readying themselves to retaliate, that you have no damn idea whether you’re ready or not.

Dear Soulmate…

The early morning of the first day on tour, your feet carry you around the familiar walls of your apartment, taking in the comforting sights you’ve woken up to for the past year. Angela watches from the kitchen island, eyes full of unshed tears, an unspoken awareness settling over the room. Your life has changed since becoming Eddie’s assistant. It’s a reality you’ve accepted for some weeks now, but it feels real now—more than it ever has before. Because now you’ll be traveling on tour with the band, with him, moving across state lines you’ve never roamed. It’s a world of endless opportunity ahead, new sights to see, places to explore. It dawns on you that your home in New York City will be a far and distant memory for the next months you’ll be following Corroded Coffin around the country.

I’m leaving on tour with Eddie and the band today. Isn’t that crazy? I’ve never been this far from home – traveling was just never something I had time to do. I was always so focused on school, on trying to make my parents proud, on trying to be perfect. And now, I’ll be traveling with a metal band across the country! I never thought this is where I’d end up, but I’m trying to learn to embrace the unexpected (it’s so scary though!). I definitely didn’t expect Eddie to be the one inviting me. Although, he acted like he really had no choice in the matter, it’s still strange.

Angela helps roll your multiple suitcases out into the main living area, mouth a wobbly line as you push them over onto their side and make sure you have everything you need one final time. Heels and other shoes, boots and sneakers in one duffel bag, each one a proper pair, freshly wiped down for any imperfection or defects. Another bag holds all your toiletries, makeup products, and hair tools should you ever need them. You unzip your suitcases next, peering in at various tights, dark skirts, dark colored sweaters, dark wash jeans for your off days.

Eddie is… well, we’re still working on our relationship. I think most of the time he feels like I’m annoying him on purpose, but I’m really just trying to do my job. He’s not used to being on a schedule, which is a little wild to me because that’s all I’ve ever known. And maybe that’s what makes him push me away so much. His wife says I need to push back a bit, but I’m worried about keeping my job… I think I’ve grown to like working for him.

Angela walks you down to the street, helping roll one of your bags down and onto the pavement. Cars and taxis speed by in a kaleidoscope of color, but your eyes latch solely on the rolled down window of the car sitting on the curb’s edge.

Eddie’s thre with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, those dark sunglasses of his shrouding his eyes, tattooed arm on display in the bright sun of the morning. An inky tapestry of intricate detail, etched with countless stories and meanings he’ll never divulge. In the front is Hopper, his usual bored demeanor in place as he opens the driver's side door and walks around to join you and your roommate. The back trunk of the vehicle pops open with a small beep, your heart hammering away as the heftier man helps hoist your things into the back and latches the car back into place.

“Ready?” Eddie calls from the car.

You’re on the clock, sure, but you still remind yourself to quench the desire to raise your middle finger in a vulgar gesture, annoyance writhing in your gut. Instead, you focus your tangle of nerves on the girl standing before you on the street, with her shiny blonde hair and mournful expression on her face. She takes a slow step forward, arms coming to curl around your shoulders. There’s a suddenness of the realization you won’t see her until you return to New York for the holiday season. For the last year you’ve woken to the comfort of the four walls of your bedroom, the warmth of your apartment, and your friendship with Angela.

“Go crush it,” she says, smoothing a palm up and down your spine, head close to your ear. “Take all the pictures. Try and enjoy yourself. New York will be here when you get back. I’ll be expecting as many phone calls as possible, and postcards of all the places you travel to! I want to hear about it all.”

He’s challenging, and yeah he calls me Bee (which I am STILL certain is short for Bitch despite his reassurances otherwise) but the work genuinely feels rewarding. Also, I am really enjoying getting to know the other guys in the band. They’re not friends, no, but they’re kind enough. And who knows? Maybe Eddie will come around. We don’t need to be friends, but I would like it if one day we could become colleagues, at the very least.

Eddie regards you with little interest, still unchanging in his distaste for any time before 12pm, as you clamber into the back of the car with him. He does not shift whatsoever to accommodate your presence, only haphazardly flicks his cigarette onto the concrete below and dips his head at Angela. The blushing blonde raises her hand in a nervous wave, an uneasy smile crawling across her features as he glances along her frame, telling her to have a nice rest of her day. It’s almost comical, though no laughter bubbles up from you, the easy kindness he shows her way; meanwhile, he regards you most days as though you’re no more than a pest when he’s not relentlessly flirting with you. Hot and cold, dependent on his mood on any given day. A bee to be swatted away. You suppose it’s understandable—knowing your mere presence is a reminder of the mistakes he’s made in the public eye. Huffing audibly in your mild upset, your fingers lift to wiggle in the air to wave goodbye to her as Hopper slides the tinted windows up to keep the air conditioned temperature within the vehicle, obscuring her from view.

I wonder about what you’re doing a lot these days. It’s summertime, the season of endless possibilities. Are you traveling? Maybe you’re on a beach somewhere tropical. Maybe you’re celebrating some good news. Or, maybe you’ve taken up a new hobby. Angela and I tried hot yoga last week (never again), so I suggest you stay away from that one. To be honest, and maybe it sounds silly, I just think about you a lot. With everything changing, it seems like knowing you’re out there is one thing I can rely on. Even if I haven’t met you yet.

Your fingers drop and curl around your notebook tucked within your pocketbook for safekeeping, trailing along the pages littered with words meant for the one person in the universe who will understand you better than anyone. It brings you comfort as Hopper peels away from the road and into the bustle of New York City traffic.

Outside, taxis speed in and out of lanes, regardless of bodies surging forward in intersections, heedless in pursuit of their destinations. The car jerks and thumps over numerous manholes and metal grates around street corners, Hopper’s fingers reaching across the center console to raise the volume on the radio.

One of Corroded Coffin’s songs is playing through the elaborate speaker system. There’s a spark of pride that springs to life within you. It’s not one of the newer, to be released singles—no; but there’s a sense of excitement for them, knowing how hard they’ve worked to get where they are, especially because you’ve witnessed the effort they put into their craft first hand.

Eddie seems unphased by his own voice on the radio — as if it’s a normal occurrence for him, and you suppose it is. While you’re still adjusting to your new life following alongside a public figure, he’s had some time to become acclimated. He’s experienced sold out concerts, screaming fans singing along to his songs, crowds surging forward to try and get closer to Corroded Coffin. He’s been on the receiving end of good and bad press that paints him in a caricature of himself; one that’s larger than life and not entirely accurate.

And you’re once again reminded you’re here with him because you’re his assistant when his thigh accidentally brushes yours as the car jolts over a particularly large bump, skin burning at the point of contact, seated beside him in the quiet space around you, watching as the city blurs behind your eyes.

“Remind me of what you have planned for the day,” he drawls, and you’re grateful his stare is presently focused on looking out his window and not on your face. He doesn’t capture the deep inhale, nor does he catch the slight gathering of tears on your lashes that you swat away with the pads of your fingers, brought upon by the suddenness of your change in scenery and leaving Angela.

It's as easy as breathing after that. With his cold, quiet words a distraction from the sadness swirling in your gut, you swiftly breeze through the mental list you woke with. You remind him you’ll arrive on schedule at six, where you’ll get on the tour bus around seven after having a meeting and breakfast with Murray and the rest of the band. After that it’s a two and a half hour drive into Philly. It gives you all enough time to get situated once in the city and for the band to relax a bit to get into the proper headspace before getting ready for their soundcheck in preparation for the first concert scheduled later in the evening.

You tamper down and try to hide the thrill of excitement that buzzes in your veins at the prospect of seeing the guys all perform together. It’s been one thing watching them in the studio for the months they’ve been working on the album, and another all together to see the culmination of all their hard work come to fruition. However, it also brings up a new bout of anxieties over what exactly will be required of you while on the road. Thus far you’ve run errands and kept Eddie on schedule for meetings, interviews, photoshoots and other appearances. Following him across state lines and watching him on the stage, however, seems like a new, daunting task you’re hoping to tackle head on.

“Ever been to the exotic Philadelphia?” Your head jerks as the words break through the silence, those dark eyebrows of his furrowing in confusion when your mouth opens and closes, no words falling freely from your lips. “I’ll take that as a no.”

You swallow thickly, pushing aside the indignation that burns and builds at his words. His inked fingers reach up to grasp the sunglasses perched on his nose, sliding them down slowly to fold them away beside his thigh. You’re no stranger to Eddie’s features at this point. Those amber eyes of his, emotive and magnetic, immediately capture your attention. You regard him carefully, just as he is you, his gaze trailing your features in a slow perusal. When you finally speak, it’s a soft utterance of, “I haven’t really ventured too far out of New York.”

He chuckles gleefully, mouth drawn upward enough where your eyes catch on the dimple in his cheek. He’d be prettier, you think, if he scowled less. Like this he’s vibrant and bright, and appears much younger than his twenty nine years. For a moment you wonder what he was like before all the fame, before the party lifestyle, before the allure of the industry sunk its greedy teeth into him and spat him right back out. His head shifts toward the streets, and your eyes drop down to your lap, fingers toying with a frayed edge on your pocketbook. You hear him then, voice a husk of, “Looks like it’s time for my little worker bee to finally leave the hive.”

My first stop is Philadelphia. I’ll definitely be sure to take a bunch of pictures to share with you someday! I’d like to try and draw a bit too while I'm gone, but who knows. I haven’t really had much time for that lately with the new job. If I create anything worth keeping, I’ll definitely save it so I can show it to you.

You offer him an easy smile, returning your gaze to the world outside the vehicle, exhaling deeply when Hopper pulls up into a parking garage. He mutters briefly that he needs to go check on the tour bus and leaves the two of you to your own devices. You can hear the echoes of voices closer to the tour bus, whoops and calls from the other band members reach your ears through the softly parted window as they catch sight of Eddie’s vehicle. Vaguely, you even catch the utterance of your name in the midst, teasing in nature, urging the two of you outside.

Before you can even say a word, Eddie’s opening his passenger side door and getting out of the car, leaving you behind with your things. Exhaling deeply, you move to open your own side and nearly fall out when the man in question tugs the door open and extends a hand in your direction. There’s a brief clash of stares while your eyes drift from his to his palm, uncertain as to what he’s doing.

Unamused, Eddie huffs out, reluctantly explaining, “So you don’t bust your ass like you did your first day working for me.” His eyes drop to your largely inconvenient heels. You’d only worn them because you weren’t sure what one would wear before heading off on a concert tour. Noting your apprehension, he continues, “Bee, I’m not going to pull my hand away at the last second. I can be a gentleman, you know?”

You snort, wrinkling your nose. “I didn’t doubt it.” It’s not the fullness of truth, but you suppose for your client, it’s better to abstain from telling him that most days he is quite determinately, or at least it seems that way, driving you to the brink of hysteria. It’s probably also best to not remind him how not very long ago, before you hired him another maid you insisted he keep this time, he would make you clean his brownstone top to bottom. A task that also included tending to his clothing and highly suspect underwear on more than one occasion.

Deciding to appease him, you envelop his palm within your own and allow him to help you down onto the concrete below. Your feet wobble a bit from the drop, but he’s there with a gentle hand at your bicep to steady you, before the moment fizzles and he pulls away all together. You walk side by side, though not together, to join the rest of the band where they stand in an excited huddle around the tour bus.

Even the vehicle itself is larger than you anticipated. It looms above you, imposing and impressive, signifying the success the group has seen in the time they’ve been in the media spotlight. You have little opportunity to think about it, however, because the boys greet you with warm welcomes and hellos, trading their normal handshakes they’ve given you for hugs. A recent development, brought about merely by spending as much time with them over the months as you have. Jeff in particular lingers a little longer just as Murray calls the band into a circle for a meeting, muttering a “Happy you’re here,” before rejoining with the rest of his band mates.

You’re not left alone long in that parking garage, luckily enough. Steve’s there to urge you off to the side when he pulls up in his car. He’s a little worse for wear, acknowledging his lateness with a wave to the guys and a pleading look shot your way. He requests you follow him, putting yourself out of earshot from the rest of the men. For a brief moment, you worry you’ve done something to muddle your position. Stomach dropping at the thought you might have unintentionally said the wrong thing to Eddie, a vendor — maybe even Robin, but that fear is quelled immediately when Steve clears his throat, his hand coming to cup around the back of his neck, kneading the muscle beneath his fingertips.

“Look, you’re doing great. I’ve told you more times than I can count on two hands how grateful I am you’re here and everything, but I need you to know that the Eddie you’ve seen thus far is nothing like Eddie on tour. He’s — ”

Your mouth opens briefly to ask what his meaning is behind the clear warning, just as Eddie appears out of the blue and claps Steve on the shoulder, chuckling brightly as he asks, “Ready to go, Bee?” He looks to you imploringly, and you haltingly meet his stare before shifting back to Steve’s kind features. He tips his head, dismissing you, and you join at Eddie’s side, following him in the direction of the vehicle. Murray shoots Eddie a stern look as the two of you walk along by, your eyes darting to the Corroded Coffin logo stretched across the entirety of the exterior. “Here is your home for the next few months.”

You’re uncertain as to what you might expect. You’ve never been on a tour bus before. The closest thing you can attribute it to is a coach bus for a school field trip back in your early education days. What greets you as Eddie turns back to extend a hand once more and assist you in climbing up onto the first step is greater than anything your mind might have conjured.

He’s not kidding by his assessment that the bus will quite literally be your home for the duration of the tour. At the head of the impressive vehicle belies Hopper’s station, full of buttons and displays you’ve never seen before, and a dashboard with a hanging Corroded Coffin logo dangling from his rear view mirror. The burly man raises his hand in a wave as you and Eddie pass, heading into the lounge area that follows immediately. Your eyes are drawn to dark red couches, like that of a red wine, with black pillows strewn about. Nestled in front of the couch is a table pressed against the corner wall, new magazines displaying photos of the band and a headline that details the upcoming tour.

Deeper into the vehicle is the adjoining kitchen, all in the same color scheme of dark black furniture, with red and silver accented bits. Eddie shows you around the space, opening the fridge for emphasis, showing you how to use the different amenities, before moving on down to point out the bathroom. Lastly, you’re brought into the bedrooms. Or rather, one spacious room lined with bunk beds on either side of the bus.

“Normally I like being on top, but when it comes to sleeping I prefer the bottom." Eddie says suggestively, gesturing to the bed on his right. Your head shifts his way, taking in the little alcove he’ll be sleeping in for the night. He waves his hand to your left, smirking. “That’ll be yours. In case of an emergency.”

“In case of an emergency,” you repeat slowly, placing your pocketbook down on your assigned bed as you settle down beside it, positioned specifically across from Eddie’s in the event he requires you for anything. You quickly reach inside and jot down a few sentences in the unfinished letter, affixing a bright floral sticker to one of the corners.

I have to go. We’re about to leave, but I just wanted to let you know what I’m up to. I’ll talk to you soon. Wouldn’t it be fun if we met in Philly?

As you shut your notebook, you realize you never heard the rest of Steve’s harrowing warning. I need you to know that the Eddie you’ve seen thus far is nothing like Eddie on tour. Your eyes narrow in piqued curiosity as you take in Eddie, that now familiar lanky form of his flopping down against his own mattress. He nods his head in your direction and you wave back numbly.

You hear it then. That soft howling in the distance, a creeping sense of something looming with no name to place on it.

You offer him a soft smile, and he throws a pillow over his head, settling down to nap.

Steve’s warning is suddenly very far away from your mind.

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tic-toc-clock77 · 2 months

Note

how old is everyone n your AU just curious

As of 2024, each character is

Slenderman; 100+ (??/??/????)- Slenderman has been alive for well over 100 years, same as Zalgo

Jeff the killer; 32 years old (20/09/1992)- in dwellers, his story takes place when he is 17 in 2009

Homicidal Liu- 30 years old (06/11/1994)- In Dwellers, Liu's story takes place in 2009 a month after Jeff's

Nina the Killer- 27 years old (07/03/1995)- Nina's story takes place when she is 14 years old, 6 months after Jeff's

Jane the Killer- 40 years old (17/10/1984)- Jane's story takes place in 2009 when she was 25, a week after Jeff's.

Eyeless Jack- 35 years old (25/02/1989)-Jack's story takes place in 2010 when he was 21, a year after Jeff's

Lucile "Lulu"- 15 years old bodily/27 years mentally (31/10/1995)-Was cursed by Zalgo with immorality at age 15 in 2010, same month that Jack was sacrificed

Sally Williams- 10 years old/mentality does not change like Lulu's. (25/12/1960)-Body is found by Slenderman in 2012

BEN drowned- 14 years old (10/10/1997)-BEN was killed by the cult leader in 2011 then found by Slenderman

Natalie "Clockwork" Ouellette- 28 years old (03/11/1996)- Story takes place in 2013 when she is 17

"Ticci" Toby Rogers- 28 years old (11/04/1996)- Story takes place when he is 17 years old in 2013

Tim "Masky" Wright- Assumed 30-40s (??/??/????)- Tim suffers from amnesia, he can't recollect a lot of information

Brian "Hoodie" Thomas- Assumed 30-40s (??/??/????)- he has not disclosed this information to the Slenderman yet

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gimme-gimme-georgie-weasley · 9 months

Text

love. [g.w. x reader] (blurb, kinda)

a/n: this is gonna be an au where the wizarding war doesn’t take place. doesn’t affect much but at least george and you get to graduate from 7th year. dumbly-dorr is alive. everyone is alive.

a/n 2: i highlyyy recommend listening to love by wte or seasons (whichever works) while listening to this :'))) I wrote this while listening to love !!

december snow, final farewells, bitter-sweet hugs that seem to last for centuries before painfully pulling away.

hogwarts class of 1995 stood in the great hall with their pointed caps on. students were wiping away at their eyes, trying to compose themselves as they waited for the headmaster to give his speech. the air was thick with sentiment. parents were seated in another column of seats watching their children in their final moments before they step into adulthood.

your eyes scanned the room, looking for a particular face. a face you’d be seeing for the last time before moving back to muggle london.

the graduation procession went by smoothly as students flung their pointed caps into the air, shouting with rejoice. you couldn’t help but tear up knowing you’d be leaving behind the wizarding world and him. just then, a warm pair of hands held on to yours.

“y/n.” said george as he tugged at it, leading you out of the hall.

he led you up the moving staircases, through the corridors and into a room that appeared before your eyes; the room of requirement.

“george? what’s happening?” you asked, still trying to process everything.

he led you into the room, letting his actions answer the question instead. it looked like a ballroom, decorated with jewelled chandeliers that sparkled and enchanted candelabras that seemed to sway. a little vinyl player stood in the corner of the room, and with a flick of a wand, george turned it on. it made scratching noises at first, but then slowly faded into a sweet tune. it was the song you two first listened to together in fourth year.

then, he held you by the waist, waltzing your bodies towards the centre of the room. he guided you through the steps, easing your uncertainty. his eyes looked deeply into yours, as if he were savouring this last dance. you saw how his eyes seemed to glisten with tears, and you wondered if yours were too.

a look of sadness flickered on his face. his head dove into the crook of your neck and his arms slithered around your waist, now enveloping you in a tight, desperate hug.

“please, don’t leave,” he said, voice breaking, “don’t leave me.”

your body stiffened, no longer swaying to the rhythm of the music. the candelabras seemed to lean in, now curious. your face softened and returned the embrace, tiptoeing slightly to lean into his neck. his hand made its way up, raking fingers through your hair.

“i’ll visit you, always.” you whispered into his ear reassuringly, rubbing circles into his back.

“every month?”

“yes, every month.”

“and a letter every week?”

“yes, darling. every week, every day, every hour.” you could hear his sobs reduce to sniffles.

content, he swayed your bodies side to side as the song was nearing its end, head still deep in your neck. you could feel his tears wet your skin. you pressed a long kiss onto his shoulder, as your eyes stared at the floor.

the swaying of bodies went on until the song finally ended, leaving the two of you in complete silence.

“y/n?” george said.

“yes, george?”

“do you know what i’m feeling right now?”

the room then turned dim. yellow butterflies started to swirl around your bodies, bewitching you with the fluidity of their movement as if they were one unit.

“what are you feeling?”

he finally pulled away, allowing you to take one final look at him. his face was red and glistening with tears. you wiped away at his face with the sleeve of your robes and cupped his face in your hands. then, he leaned in, ghosting his lips over yours.

“loved.”

#george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley x reader #george weasley fluff #george wealsey x reader #george wealsey imagine #harry potter #harry potter oneshot #george weasley oneshot #harry potter imagine

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ladykailitha · 1 year

Text

All My Roads Lead Back to You Part 1

Hello, my beautiful readers! I should be working on “If I Rescue You, Will You Rescue Me, Too?” and that was the intent yesterday I swear. But I wanted to sit down and flesh out the first part of my “Eddie and Steve reconnect after years apart because their kids are in a rock band together AU”. Only I went from 680 words to 6020 words over the course of the day.

So um...yeah. I’m still working on “Rescue” but since I have so much of this ready, you’re going to get this for the next couple of days.

Just a couple of things, you can find the original idea for this on my Master List, but I don’t recommend reading it before this, because it makes the story a little less fun. The other thing is that in case it wasn’t clear enough the first part are all newspaper headlines.

Enjoy!

***

Corroded Coffin Signs Three Record Deal with Relapse Records: American Tour to Start Soon

-July 15th, 1986

Business Moguls Clint and Rebecca Harrington Announce the Engagement of Their Only Son Steven to Socialite Addison Reed

-June 1st, 1987

Corroded Coffin to Launch First World Tour After Huge Success of Their First Album Underdark in December

-Sept. 23rd, 1987

Steven Harrington’s Nuptials to Addison Reed to Take Place in New York on Jan. 1st 1988

-Sept. 24th, 1987

Steven and Addison Harrington Announce the Upcoming Birth of Their First Child

-Feb. 23rd, 1988

Has Corroded Coffin Frontman Eddie Munson Found Love in London? Metal Star Eddie Munson Seen About Town with British Actor Jay Sanchez

-March 29th, 1988

Steven Harrington, Son of Business Mogul, Clint Harrington to Start Tech Company with Genius High Schooler, Dustin Henderson; Says Focus Will Be On Audio Devices

-May 9th, 1988

Tragedy Strikes in Austria! The Tour Bus Carrying the band Corroded Coffin Rolled Over Late Friday Night. Most of the Band Only Sustained Minor Injuries, but Bassist, Brian Martin was Thrown From the Bus and it Rolled on Top of Him, Killing Him Instantly

-Sept 11th, 1988

Funeral For Corroded Coffin Bassist, Brian Martin Was Held Yesterday in Their Hometown of Hawkins, IN. Frontman Eddie Munson Was Surrounded By Friends and Family

Picture: Eddie at grave site, clinging to boyfriend, Jay Sanchez. Wayne stands on his other side. The other two Corroded Coffin members stand behind them. The entire Party is there. Jonathan and Argyle, too. All but Steve.

-Sept 17th, 1988

Steven and Addison Harrington Announce the Birth of Their Daughter, Edith Barbara Harrington

-Sept 23rd, 1988

Eddie Munson and Partner Jay Sanchez Announce They Will Have a Child Together Through Surrogacy: Right Wing Groups Up in Arms!

- Nov 8th, 1988

S&D, the Tech Company Launched by Steven Harrington and Dustin Henderson Last Year Has Hit a Snag. Henderson Says the Technology is There, Investors Not Convinced

-March 19th, 1989

Steven Harrington and Wife Addison Battle It Out in Court, The Former Socialite Claims All Their Money Should Be Split Evenly, Including the Trust Fund Steve Received From Grandparents Upon Their Marriage; Judge Disagrees

-May 30th, 1989

Eddie Munson Back in the Studio. Producing This Time. Former Lead Singer and Frontman for Corroded Coffin is Back at It Producing What is Being Heralded as Metal’s Next Great Album...

-June 13th, 1989

Divorce Final! Steven Harrington and Addison Reed Split! Harrington Gets it All, Including Custody of Nine Month Old Daughter, Edith

-June 30th, 1989

Eddie Munson and Partner Jay Sanchez Announce Birth of their Son, Born Though Surrogacy; Mother and Son’s Name Has Been Withheld for Privacy Reasons

-July 14th, 1989

Tech Company S&D Reached Record Profits This Year; CEO Steve Harrington’s Ex Wife Back in Court for Bigger Cut of the Pie

-Sept. 7th, 1992

Eddie Munson, Beast of the Metal Scene Back in the Studio Again as Metal Bands Clamor to Have His Name on Their Record

-Jan. 19th, 1994

S&D CEO Comes Out as HOH (Hard of Hearing) and Bisexual in the Same Press Conference, Signing and Speaking His Speech

-Aug. 13th, 1995

Jay Sanchez, British Actor and Partner to Eddie Munson, Famed Metal Producer Has Passed Away Over the Weekend Due to Cancer. Family Asks the Public to Respect Their Wishes and Allow Them Their Privacy as They Grieve

-Oct 25th, 1999

Funeral For British Actor, Jay Sanchez Held in His Native Hampshire. Fans Flock to Mourn His Loss

-Oct 31st, 1999

Audio Tech Giant S&D Announced a Line of Headphones That Can Block Out Most Noises

Nov. 22nd, 2003

Grammy Award Winning Producer, Eddie Munson to Retire Amid Rumors of Troubled Son in Legal Woes

-March 27th, 2006

Steve was a man of few regrets in his life. He had a job he enjoyed, a daughter he loved more than life, and close friends he could count on. One of his biggest regrets, though? Losing track of Eddie after Corroded Coffin’s bassist Brian Martin died in a tour bus rollover in Europe on their first world tour.

He knew that Robin and Dustin and probably some of the rest of the Party still kept in contact with Eddie, but after Steve was forced to miss Brian’s funeral...he wasn’t sure Eddie wanted him to contact him. So despite Dustin’s greatest efforts their lives remained separate.

“Hey, Dad!” Edith called from the kitchen.

Steve sighed into the bedroom mirror. He patted his hair down to hide the hearing aid. “Coming!”

He trotted out, grabbing his keys and wallet as he did so. His daughter was sitting at the counter happily munching on her cereal. Steve grinned when he saw her. She looked nothing like her mother, a fact Addison loathed. Edith had brown eyes and light brown hair with freckles, just like Steve.

“We finally have a new guitarist,” she said happily when she saw him. “But because we can’t have it at Lauren’s anymore...”

Steve sighed. “You want to use my garage as your studio?”

Edith grinned. “Pleaseee...”

Steve closed his eyes and opened them slowly to see her giving him the biggest pair of puppy dog eyes.

“All right,” he said. She started squealing and jumping for joy. “Only one day a week and if I have a migraine...”

She sighed, “We’ll keep it down.”

Steve ruffled her hair.

“Ugh...” she moaned. “It’s a good thing I don’t spend hours on my hair like you otherwise, I’d be really upset.”

Steve laughed. “Uncle Dusty keeps telling me it’s a miracle it hasn’t all fallen out yet.”

Edith smiled softly at him, before reaching up and gently tucking a lock of hair behind his left ear. “You’re the face of S&D, Dad. It’s not a crime to show off the goods.”

He ducked his head and blushed. “I know I wouldn’t be where I am without it but it chafes, you know.”

“You’re the father a seventeen year old girl,” Edith said with a wink, “I think you’re allowed to have a hearing aid.”

Steve sighed, too. “It just makes me feel older than I am.”

Edith shrugged. “You’re already old, so what’s a few more years difference?”

Steve raised his eyebrow and she squealed as he lunged for her. He kept up swimming and had taken up running. Edith on the other hand? She loathed sports. She claimed on more than one occasion that if anyone saw her running, they best start running too, because there was something chasing her.

A joke that didn’t go well with her dad or any of his friends for some reason she wasn’t privy to.

So she was an easy catch and he tickled her.

“No!” Edith huffed. “I’m too old for tickles!”

Steve stopped and cocked his head at her. “I still tickle Aunt Robin so...invalid argument.” And went back to tickling her.

Once she was gasping for breath, Steve let her up. “Now, Miss Thing, it’s time to get you to school.”

“Ugh...” she said, going to grab her backpack. “I hate school. Why can’t I just drop out?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Because last time I checked, I didn’t raise a quitter. And you only have a couple months left of this year and all of next.”

“I hate being a September baby,” she huffed dramatically. “I’m older than most of my class.”

He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “You can blame your mom for that one.”

Edith smiled gratefully up at her dad. “It’s nice to have a scapegoat for all one’s ills in life.”

Steve laughed. “Thank god, for Addison Reed.”

Edith had to admit that there were certain parts of school that she enjoyed. She loved history and art. She didn’t know if she got that from her mom, as she had seen her mother all of three times in her memory. The first nine months of her life didn’t count.

Addison Reed had showed up when she was three when S&D had finally made it big and wanted more money from Dad. Again when she turned eight and Addison had taken her out for ice cream to try and charm Edith into giving up information on Dad so she could wheedle even more money out of him. The final time and the time that upset Dad the most was when Addison turned up when Edith was twelve to try and convince her to move in with her, so she could live off the child support.

That was when Dad got a restraining order against her, and moved them to Indiana from California. Edith missed the warm sunny days and the beaches, but she knew why Dad had done it. If moving back to Indiana was the only thing that would keep the leech away, Edith would have suggested it herself.

The other parts of school she liked were her friends. Mandy Lawrence and Kenny Grant. They had been a quartet, but Lauren decided she was too cool for them at the beginning of the year and stopped talking to them.

It was whatever.

She had art today which was a blessing because math was a killer and it always made her depressed. There was another reason she liked art class. Because that’s where she met this boy.

No, no not like that. Edith Barbara Harrington was a lesbian thank you very much. No, for all the kid’s fluffy brown hair, dimples and doe-eyes, she was interested in his ability to absolutely shred on guitar. His dad was some famous producer or some shit.

She walked up to him and fist bumped him. “H-man!”

“Miss Thing!” he greeted back. “Talked to my dad, but he said no go. He’s got too many valuable instruments he doesn’t want us touching.”

Edith grinned. “Well you’re in luck because my dad said yes.”

“Hell yeah!”

“So after school, k?” she said and he nodded. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Awesome!”

Their teacher called out for them to sit down and they did so with a grumble.

Edith couldn’t wait for after school.

***

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Epilogue

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#My writing #stranger things #steddie #reconnecting years later AU #ladykailtiha writes

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roguehongsami · 4 months

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Velvet Crowbar | Pt. 4

pairing/s: rockstar!wooyoung x fem!couturier

genre/s: fluff, angst, au

synopsis: y/n's wedding turns into a televised public lynching, which almost costs her her career.

content: 1995/2001. closure, public humiliation, reconciliation, pregnancy.

word count: 3.9k

navigation: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

masterlist here

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ selena // dreaming of you

"I know you're all very busy people, so I'll keep it brief; I'll be stepping down as the CEO of Archibald Scott. Effective immediately." Y/N spoke sternly.

There were protests coming from all the board members. Taken aback by this announcement.

"The runway show was a massive success, your line just put the organization on the map. Why the sudden departure?" a board member, Mrs. Phelps queried.

"In a few weeks, there are personal matters that are going to come into light. And I'd prefer to handle them as an individual entity, and not as the corporation's figurehead."

[ . . . ]

With Wooyoung's advice, Y/N made her deadline. The launch of her new junior line, inspired by her youth, was a success. Every publication was singing her praises after the runway show. Introducing an alternative-inspired look in haute couture was a career-defining risk, one that shot her to exospheric heights. Archibald Scott was officially in the big leagues, challenging heavyweight houses.

Everything fell into place.

The wedding day had finally arrived, and it could not be any more perfect. The big day was held at a massive cathedral with gothic architecture. As non-religious Y/N was, it was what she had envisioned. The press was already set up in the church, cameras at all angles to capture every moment. The union of a fashion titan and a rugby icon was highly anticipated. It was going to be broadcast live.

Donning a silk-chiffon fit-and-flare dress, with a square neckline and a train in the back, the dress was topped off with a bow in the back. Paired with opera gloves, diamond studs and a tennis necklace. White stilettos and a lace veil that stretched down to her elbows, to tie the ensemble together.

Taking in her own image, she could not believe how far she had come. She stood in front of the mirror, studying herself. It was time to tie the knot and move on to the next chapter of her life. Murphy held her hand, catching her eyes in the mirror, and gave her a proud smile.

"You really deserve this." Murphy embraced her.

"You think so?" Y/N asked.

Murphy nodded. "Definitely. I've waited for this day since we were eight."

She started pacing in the room, her heartbeat picking up speed. She couldn't help the pit in her stomach, something was off. Every muscle in her body felt tight. She took off her gloves, throwing them on the couch. Fanning herself, as she begun to feel heated.

"Is it hot in here?" she fanned harder. "Or am I just nervous?"

Her friends exchanged worried glances.

Rosanne stopped her in her tracks, grabbing her shoulders. "Relax, breathe." she pressed her hand against Y/N's chest. "I have Xanax... if you want it."

"Why do you have Xanax, aren't you breastfeeding?" Caroline gave Rosanne a confused look.

Murphy led Y/N to the couch, sitting her down. She covered her with a thick blanket before giving her a half-glass of red wine. Before making her way out of the room, Murphy spoke.

"There's something I need to do, but I'll be back before you have to walk."

[ . . . ]

As Murphy made her way down the spiraling staircase, dress in hand to keep from tripping, she half-jogged back to Y/N's room. Her heels clinking against the cobblestone. She reached the entrance where Caroline and Rosanne stood. Their eyes wide in disbelief and at a loss for words.

"Is she... Is she still... nervous?" Murphy spoke as she tried to catch her breath between words.

Rosanne and Caroline nodded as they stepped away from the door. Murphy opened the door, head peeking in. Y/N stood by the window, humming a tune. She turned to see Murphy looking at her.

"It's easier to ask for your forgiveness than permission." Murphy spoke in a hushed tone. "I would hate myself if I didn't facilitate a dialogue between you two, before taking the biggest plunge of your life."

Murphy stepped in as she opened the door a bit more. Wooyoung came in, a look of worry painted across his face. Donning a black tuxedo and white button-up shirt, with black oxfords and his hair neatly parted down the middle. He approached Y/N until they stood merely inches away. Murphy left the room. They stood in absolute silence for a few seconds, just staring at each other.

"Murphy said you wanted to talk." he nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

"Tell me that I'm making a big mistake, that I'm making excuses to stay away from you."

Taken aback, he ruminated on his words. He looked back at everything that led them to this very moment. This was the moment he had waited for. 12 years. His second chance. He decided to take that moment to prove that he had truly matured in that time. It was his defining "adult" act.

"A part of me is happy you said that but..." he hung his head, defeated. "I think it's time our chapter came to an end."

Wide-eyed, she looked up at him. These were not the words she wanted to hear. She wanted a reason to walk out that door, to leave Brady. Convinced that it was a promise that had to be fulfilled, more than ever, she was willing to turn her back. Wooyoung's return sparked a light that had dimmed in 1983.

"I know it's not what you wanna hear but Bradford's been there for you for the past nine years. That's longer than our three months." he took her hands and smiled. "I made you the worst version of yourself and–"

She shook her head disapprovingly. "No, you didn't. Had you not signed me up for art classes, I'd be stuck in a dead-end job I hate."

A stray tear came down his cheek, smiling at her words. He'd never admitted how he made her life hell, and he was oblivious to it too. The time between their reunion and her wedding day, reflecting on their past made him ashamed of the darkness he had brought into her life. Hearing her words, it was only then he saw the positive influence he'd enacted on her.

And that's exactly how he wanted their story to conclude.

"You pushed me to be who I am today. A part of why I started Bloodhound was to prove I was right for you." he gently squeezed her hands. "But ultimately, eighteen year old girls should be having the time of their lives. Not getting pregnant, not getting abortions, not running away from home, not dealing with exes who OD. You were way too young for the shit I got you into."

His words weighed heavy on her heart. All he had to do was tell her to call everything off. His constant remarking of their youth was only adding on to her growing regret.

"But you did give me one hell of a time, even if it was three months." she broke into a sob. "I had not been that happy since before my dad..."

"Bradford is the kind of husband you deserve because he's never put you through what I did. You are my first and only love. I'll never love another girl the way I do you, you've set the bar too high. But Bradford? He's surpassed me. I sought you out to try and change your mind, but that would only prove what all the Kialecombe parents said about me." he cocooned her in his arms. "Give Bradford a chance to prove himself. You gave me one when you shouldn't have. It's time I let you go."

He cupped her face. "I want you to have a simple life with simple love, not the destructive all-consuming thing we had, okay?"

She cried even more, shaking her head. She grabbed his wrists and looked at him, glossy-eyed and wet lashes. "Woo, please don't..."

"I love you, Y/N."

"I love you, Woo."

They shared a deep, passionate kiss. One they had not shared in over a decade. That was it for them. That ship had finally sailed, a new page had been turned. A bitter end to something that started off so sweet, and only soured with time. Wooyoung felt a weight had been lifted off his shoulder, owning up to his wrongs how he should have in the past.

Y/N experienced a devastating second heartbreak, by the same man yet again.

Wooyoung left the room and immediately, her friends hurried in. Murphy was the first to get to her. She apologised profusely, explaining that she felt Brady was not the one. Admitting that Wooyoung's association with Seonghwa was the reason she condemned their relationship, she had grown to understand why Y/N gravitated towards him.

Wooyoung truly loved her for who she was and all she could be.

Brady loved what she could do for him.

[ . . . ]

Her arm was looped around Mrs. Scott's, with violet and blue–gradient hydrangeas in hand. They stood behind the doors, awaiting their cue to walk. Silence befell the cathedral. The giant bell outside the church tolled four times, catching the attention of passer-bys. All those in attendance stood and faced the doors. A violin rendition of Dreaming of You began playing.

They waited a while longer before the doors opened. Gathering every breath she could, Y/N was very wound up. A gutless wonder who couldn't call the wedding off. Instead, she chose to persist until the very end. Whether that end came in the form of a dissolution, hopefully initiated by Brady, or death.

The singer was enchanting, the choir harmonizing her lines only added to the ethereal ambience in the church. Everyone's eyes were glued to Y/N as Mrs. Scott accompanied her. Cameramen recording as photographers snapped away. A quick glance to her left, Wooyoung was seated at the very back of the church. He gave her a tight–lipped smile, she responded with nothing.

Y/N and Brady stood before the priest. A great deal of time was spent listening to Father Sykes speak on Bible extracts. Eventually came the time for those who opposed their union, to speak. Y/N prayed, begged, for Wooyoung to protest. He remained true to his word, he set her free. Regret crept into her mind.

"I do." Brady vowed.

"Y/N Lilith Scott, do you take Bradford Keith Halliwell, to be your husband, to live together in matrimony, to love and honor him, comfort and keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?" Father Sykes recited.

Her mouth felt extremely dry. The words caught in her throat. She tried mustering up all her courage to vow. Brady looked to the back of the church. The straw that broke the camel's back. He was hoping this would happen. Not having seen him before the service begun, he spotted Wooyoung making his exit. As Y/N opened her mouth to pledge her loyalty, Brady intercepted.

"Wedding's over." he deadpanned into the microphone, his voice carrying all over the church's architecture.

"What?" she said, eyes wide.

Confused as ever, she watched as Brady descended the stage and trudged to the door. She trailed behind him, trying to match his pace. Murmurs from the guests materialised. The camera crew and photographers followed them outside the cathedral. She grabbed his wrist to slow him down and he pulled it back. They stopped in the middle of the street.

"Talk to me, what's wrong?" she probed. "Are you having cold feet? What is it?"

"You know, I hoped you'd outgrow your childish infatuation with Wooyoung but you haven't." he seethed. "How much more does he have to hurt you before you get it through your thick skull?"

People started circling around them, curious as to what was happening. The cameras still capturing everything. Wooyoung, who was a few feet away from the cathedral, turned to see a whole commotion. He ran back the opposite direction, cutting through the thick crowd. He stood beside Y/N.

"What are you talking about?"

"It's one thing for you to meet him behind my back, I would've turned a blind eye." his tone laced with repulsion. "But to bring him to our wedding? Is that how little respect you have for me?"

Brady pulled out photos from inside his jacket, each one with Y/N and Wooyoung kissing in front of her car, outside the office building. She looked at the photos, horrified. Unaware that her every move was being captured. Her eyes welled up, tears running down her face. She handed the photos to Wooyoung.

"'He doesn't fuck you this good, does he?'" he parroted Wooyoung's words. "I came to your office to keep you company, then I heard you two fucking like rabbits."

She bowed her head and whispered, "Stop."

Wooyoung put the photos in his jacket's inner pocket. Y/N stood there in silence, taking in his every word. This was not the way she hoped their relationship would end. Nothing could ever measure up to the humiliation she felt. She wished the earth would just swallow her. Too frozen to utter a word, there was no excuse good enough to justify her philandering. Her wrongdoings were caught on camera.

People watched from their homes.

Her friends sped to her side. Murphy attempted stop the camera crew from recording, failing dismally. She started getting aggressive with the media personnel, frustrated that they wouldn't stop. Caroline and Rosanne were trying to calm her down as she begun silently weeping.

"Ease up on her, it wasn't her fault!" Wooyoung shoved Brady in the chest.

Hand over her heaving chest. "Please just stop." she whispered again whilst sobbing, chest tightening as a panic attack ensued shortly after.

"Of course you'd defend her! Weren't you fucking other girls after she got her abo–"

Wooyoung landed a clean hit on Brady's jaw. He grabbed his collar and a succession of near-fatal blows followed. Nobody outside of Kialecombe knew about that part of their history. Brady knew and to even mention it was sickening. Wooyoung was determined to make sure that piece of information never saw the light of day.

Brady's groomsmen managed to separate them. His face was bloodied, eyebrow and lip cut. Wooyoung escaped their hold and lunged forward, landing a last hit before getting restrained again. As he looked around for Y/N, he found that she had disappeared during the commotion, along with her friends.

Two weeks had passed since that public lynching called a wedding. Brady stayed at a hotel for the time being, while Y/N was huddled in their penthouse. With the bad press surrounding her, stepping down as the CEO of Archibald Scott beforehand was the best call of action to protect her brand's reputation.

Wooyoung had tried to contact her, visit her, but guards of her residential building would not let him in. Bloodhound's tour resumed, with Blue Coast being the first stop. He had accepted that there was nothing he could do, seeing that he put her in this position.

Y/N sat the dinner table while Brady packed up the rest of his belongings. He entered the living room with the last of his suitcases, and breezed right past. She stood from the chair and 5 feet away from Brady, her hands pocketed in her sweatpants.

"I must say, your little stunt was eye-opening." she said, matter-of-factly.

"Discovered your humiliation kink?" Brady snarled.

"No, no." she shook her head. "I've gotten soft since I left Kialecombe, yeah."

"What are you droning on about?"

"I never used to cared what people thought of me. I just... did whatever." she spoke monotonously. "And then you came along... If we had it your way, we would've never made it to that cathedral. You wanted us to achieve our goals first then get married. What did you say, you wanted to become captain of the national rugby team?"

"What's your point?" he deadpanned.

"You may have led the team to their '91 win but even then, Magnus scored the winning goal. Here's the kicker;" she chuckled maniacally. "the team needed a sponsor for the world cup and on the condition that they grant you captaincy, I'd give them capital. Magnus was first pick for captain."

She pointed to the television, which was turned on to the news. The man stared intently into the camera, delivering the biggest news of the day.

"Cheated on and cheated his way to the top. This just in, White Lotus captain Bradford Halliwell allegedly bought his captaincy in the team. In a press conference held by the Rugby Union, board member Vernon Hemingway revealed that White Lotus received sponsorship from fashion label, Archibald Scott, on the condition that Halliwell was granted captaincy. This was confirmed by the board of Archibald Scott, and its former CEO Y/N Scott." a clip of the conference played and an interview of Y/N. "The Rugby Union is currently discussing Halliwell's future in the league."

Her lips took form of a shit-eating grin, satisfied with herself. She stood there, watching anger materialise on his face. The energy he put into the universe had made a complete 360. She loved getting her hands dirty and watching his life fall apart before his eyes.

"You should be getting a call from the Union soon, and believe me, it's not looking good for you. Your team is gonna shun you, they're gonna blackball you from the league and Magnus?" she pulled her face. "Short man with a short fuse... He's gonna be on a warpath after that broadcast."

Brady grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently as he looked her in the eye. "Why would you do this to me?" he yelled from the top of his voice. "You cheated on me! I was getting my payback!"

The security guards rushed to Y/N's side and separated the two. The dragged him to the elevator, as they waited for it to come. Brady squirmed in their hold but nothing, they would not budge.

"You humiliated me in front of the whole world. Could've asked Pari to bury the story but you wanted more." she bit back.

A look of surprise spread across his face, realising that Pari sold him out to save herself. Pari spoke to Y/N before the wedding, and came clean about everything from the pictures to Brady's plan to publicly out her. With how far Y/N's influence stretched, it was wise not to cross her.

"Yeah, Pari told me everything. When you told her about your stupid plan, she came to me."

She walked over to the dinner table and sat down, leg crossed over the other.

"I didn’t think you'd actually go ahead with it. That's on me but I commend your bravery, albeit, stupid." she crossed her arms over her chest. "I could've been kicked out of my own company had I not stepped down beforehand. You act like you're better than Woo, but you're worse. He actually owns up to being a jackass. Consider this our final act as a couple."

[ . . . ]

Wooyoung practiced his riffs on the couch. The show was minutes away from starting. All he had on his mind was this tour. He tried to fix the mess he made but Y/N wouldn't let him. He took his loss and decided to push forward with life. It was the only way to go.

The stage manager came into the room.

"You've got a visitor." he announced.

Wooyoung absentmindedly waved him off. "No groupies. Tell them to go."

"That's worse than the time you called me a poser."

He turned around and came face-to-face with Y/N, who wore a toothy smile on her face. She didn't look like someone who had her reputation marred. He couldn't help the look on his face when she stood before him, wearing the same outfit she wore on their first date. Only the Judas Priest shirt was replaced by Bloodhound.

"You were right, mall-maggots don't know anything about fun." she nodded with a grin on her face.

"What are you doing here?"

"Brady was never the better man." she held his hands. "We were kids back then doing kids' stuff. And we held ourselves to a ridiculously high standard. Let's ease up a bit and see how far we can go."

He went in for a deep kiss, savoring the feel of his victory. He finally got his girl back. It was all he ever wanted. This was all that mattered to him in the past 12 years.

"I'm gonna give you the life I promised you." he sighed. "But what do you give a woman who already has everything?"

"I've got some ideas..."

E P I L O G U E

Autumn was at its very peak, all the leaves and grass had browned. Skies mildly grey with a slight breeze. It was almost time for Y/N and Wooyoung to leave the cemetery, as they had another social obligation scheduled. As they walked, you could here the dead leaves crinkling and crunching beneath their weight. Y/N deposited a bouquet of white roses in a vase, right beside her father’s gravestone.

She headed over to the other side of the cemetery to meet with Wooyoung. They stood in front of another gravestone in silence, hand-in-hand. Every year on the same month for the past six years, it had become a regular habit for them to take a trip back to Kialecombe to pay a visit to their past. Acknowledging their mistakes was one of the few things that helped solidify their marriage.

"Who's Jung, isn't that our name?" their 6-year old daughter, Willa asked innocently.

"It is, my love." Y/N stroked her daughter's hair. "But it's also their name."

"You used to have an older sibling, would've been 17 now, but..." Wooyoung's head hung low as he recalled that fateful day.

Wooyoung crouched to the floor, careful to not drop Willa in the process. He put down the bouquet of gardenias beside the gravestone and stood back up.

"When you're older we'll tell you all about it." Y/N planted a kiss on Willa's cheek. "We should get going."

The lot made their way out of the cemetery and into the car. It was a fairly short drive from the cemetery to Mrs. Scott's residence. They knocked twice before Mr. Hardwick answered the door. Mrs. Scott eventually remarried upon meeting William during a trip. In this union, Y/N gained a stepsister named Maria.

As they entered the house, the smell of food invaded their noses. Willa disappeared as soon as she saw her cousin, Maria's daughter. The adults exchanged greetings before heading in different directions, with the men barbecuing outside and the women socialising in the kitchen.

"Motherhood really is your second calling to fashion." Maria spoke as she playfully nudged Y/N's shoulder. "Do you ever miss your job though?"

Y/N shook her head. "I stepped down because of that stupid scandal but I stayed off because my priorities changed. Willa's hyperactive but she makes it worthwhile." she shrugged. "Plus, I still hold majority share anyway."

"And what about Wooyoung?"

"He purposely goes on tour during school holidays so Willa can tag along. She even plays guitar on stage with him sometimes." she smiled to herself. "It feels like I birthed a younger him, but with my face."

Mrs. Scott took off her oven mittens, looking at Y/N, she said, "It sounds like Wooyoung is very hands-on." Mrs. Scott gently pressed on her daughter's stomach. "Does he know he's expecting another bandmate?"

#ateez #jung wooyoung #wooyoung fluff #wooyoung angst #roguehongsami

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earthstellar · 7 months

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it is time to be old on the internet: TFP Ratchet's hatred of 2010 era human tech is hilarious

every time Ratchet complains about shitty human technology in TFP, it's so funny to me, that shit is so good

because, I mean, I grew up with the first computer in my house being a fucking Tandy 1000, which to be fair wasn't exactly the hottest model even then, but still LMAO

the first modem I ever messed with as a kid was the wood box phone receiver type, the acoustic coupler ones, which was my dad's, and he only had it because his job at a local university meant he could borrow one from their tech lab (so we didn't technically own it)

if I remember correctly, the one we had ran at 300 baud, which was fucking amazing for such a set up at the time. slightly later AOL dial up looked like lightning speed compared to that shit.

my first chat rooms were BBS/Usenet (whenever I could connect) and IRC chats. now everyone has Discord and I still don't understand how that shit works lmao but that's more of a me problem and less of an age problem, I think

we got dial up (in the "modern" sense of it being AOL dial up service with the infamous hell noises) in my household in 1994, back when it was pretty much a brand new thing (at least for AOL), and I remember the Eternal September Usenet rush, lmao

imagine if TFP took place in the 80s/90s, oh my god

(I'm assuming TFP takes place in roughly 2010 because that's when the show premiered, and Miko has some kind of Razr-inspired flip phone, so if we assume it's supposed to be based on the first model of Razr, then at the earliest that places the show in 2004)

Ratchet would have gone completely insane with old school internet capable consumer level human tech

Ratchet: "How do I look at photos on this monitor?"

80s Raf: "what"

Ratchet: "what"

oh god now I want an 80s/90s TFP AU so fucking bad. imagine 80s Raf. it's so good

oh god, IMAGINE 90s RAF. just getting traumatised by terrifying shitty mid-90s FMV horror games. this poor boy. but imagine his hype when the PS1 would come out in the USA in 1995. the hype would be so fucking real. lmao

also for those of you who are Younger and Blessed With Good Internet From An Early Age, if you want a good idea of old school internet shit, go ahead and watch WarGames (1983) and look up 2600 Magazine and Mondo 2000 if you don't already know about those.

(personally I consider WarGames and Hackers (1995) to be the two best simultaneously dumbest and best movie depictions of computer bullshit in their respective eras, although Hackers was more of a thing that informed cyber culture after it released rather than reflecting actual hacker culture as it was at that exact time but anyway, please watch them if you have not seen them already, you will love this shit lmao)

I assume almost all of you already know about this stuff, but just in case, I want to mention it. those two movies are really good. lol

anyway, Ratchet dealing with early internet. early shitty human tech. or at least the 90s shit. imagine Ratchet having to listen to the fucking dial up screeching. the kids having to look through geocities webrings to see if any images of the bots had been leaked on any conspiracy websites. just 10/10 lmaooo

"I hate talking to machines" Ratchet, buddy, you have NO IDEA how bad it could have been!!!

anyway I'm old, I guess that's the point of this post LOL

#tfp #tfp ratchet #tfp raf #transformers prime #just thinkin'#maccadam #maccadams

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qxuiara · 2 months

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Information about the Playtime.Co Sentience Au

[🧸] PLAYTIME.CO SENTIENCE AU

[❓] What's it about?

Playtime.Co Sentience is an alternate universe where instead of live, human subjects used for the Bigger Bodies Initiative, Harley Sawyer suggested the use of robots who were programmed with sentience. This means that the orphans who had taken part of the experiments were never turned into living toys, this also means that the Hour of Joy never happened either. Basically all the bad things that happened in Playtime.Co *never* happened in this alternate timeline. The Orphanage and Factory have been working alongside each other in harmony. While yes, it still takes place in 1995 and it's quite odd that the sentience of these robots would be too modern, while I am still thinking of an explanation, I can always default to 'logic'. It's better than having actual children piloting the suits really.

[❓] What roles do the toys have?

The toys retain their original roles in the Bigger Bodies Initiative project, aside from Boxy-Boo who's role is still related, but changed to be less gruesome. There are also toys who were not given a proper role in BBI and were given ones here.

[❓] How would they operate with humans?

They operate like Co-Workers, with the toys being extra needed help that primarily take care of Playtime.Co, with the humans tending to be secondary help as the toys are more efficient than they thought. The two parties don't seem to mind each other and respect one another as they fulfill their roles together.

[❓] Could you give me a brief summary of the toys?

Sure! But I'll only be doing the ones who serve relevance in the au.

Poppy - Assistant to the entirety of the Playtime.Co. Responsible for providing help around Playtime.Co and doing daily check-ups around the many facilities. She also takes note of her fellow Co-Workers, seeing which employee or toy needs to be taken to the Medical Bay to be tended to.

Doctor (The Prototype) - Head Doctor, Inventor, and Advisor. Responsible for aiding employees and toys with their injuries, illnesses, etc. in Playtime.Co. They like to tamper with little trinkets they find and helps in concept making for new toy lines-- occasionally fixes toys that orphans have broken in the Orphanage. It also provides needed advice for those who come to them if ever so needed, they're more than willing to have a little pep-talk with you.

Huggy Wuggy - Security Guard for Playtime.Co alongside Kissy Missy. His job is to patrol the entirety of the place and seek out unwanted people who have snuck their way into the factory. They also lead employees to their assigned stations or escort them out if they weren't supposed to be there.

Kissy Missy - Security Guard for Playtime.Co alongside Huggy Wuggy. Her job is to make sure all that enter the Factory are authorized individuals, visitors who wish to adopt an orphan, and other orphans who have been newly taken to the Orphanage. She gets rid of any threatening individuals who try to break into the facilities. Usually seen juggling their stations at the security lead of the Factory or the front desk at the Orphanage.

Mommy Long Legs - Host and Guide for the Game Station. She makes sure the orphans are engaging and behaving while they're doing their activities in the Game Station, serving as an encouraging figure to hype up the children and make them feel confident as they play the games.

Boxy-Boo - Employee Trainer and Defect Inspector of the entirety of Playtime.Co. He works relatively close to Poppy, but rather than being an assistant, he's the one responsible for training the employees and other toys that happened to be assigned to factory duty. They are also responsible for checking for defects in a toy or the machinery used for the factory. VERY BUSY, only talk to them if urgent or necessary, he doesn't like being bothered while he's doing his job.

Dogday - A Caretaker for the Orphanage and the Leader of the Smiling Critters. He serves as a confident, mentor-like figure towards the orphans, encouraging them to stay physically fit and exercise. He's the one planning the activities inside of Playcare, and teaches everyone the importance of getting along together and have a great time while you're with him.

Catnap - The Main Caretaker for the Orphanage, partial Security. He serves as the observer and peacekeeper of Playcare, making sure that the orphans are behaving and are kept in line while performing activities. He also teaches them how to behave and discipline them if needed. Though at night, his primary role is to make sure all orphans are comfortably tucked in their beds inside Home Sweet Home, patrolling the Orphanage for any mischievous orphans or unwanted visitors at such hours.

Hoppy Hopscotch - A Caretaker for the Orphanage. She serves as a Sporty Idol for the orphans and motivates them to play sports. She highly encourages competitive nature, but makes sure that everything is all in good sport. She loves teaching them tips n' tricks and strategies on how to win games. She'll always be your Number 1 Supporter through and through, no matter what happens.

KickinChicken - A Caretaker for the Orphanage. He serves as everyone's friend and guide in Playcare and instructs them on health and safety regulations from time to time. While he loves it when the orphans want to apply the chill lifestyle, it's also important to learn the DO's and DON'T's while you're at it. During activities, he demonstrates what to do and not to do while occupied with what ever activity the children will be doing, sometimes even going as far to do stunts and come out okay in the end. He doesn't seem to mind it, as long as the orphans are learning something new. If you need someone to hang out with, he's always free.

CraftyCorn - A Caretaker for the Orphanage. She serves as the artistic inspiration that the kids need to crank up their creativity. She's very passionate about art and the beauty around the world. She highly encourages the orphans to pursue in their dreams of becoming artists and even offers advice on how they could improve their techniques.

Bobby Bearhug - A Caretaker for the Orphanage. She serves as a Therapeutic and even Motherly figure towards the orphans, willing to listen to their problems and give them advice on how to mend them, as well as teach them on how to solve them on their own in the near future. She adores it when the children come to visit her and tell her about her how their day went during their time at Playcare.

Picky Piggy - A Caretaker for the Orphanage and Chef. She serves, quite literally, food to the orphans. At mealtime, she's always psyched about hearing what the children are looking forward to in their day and even dabble into some of their conversations from time to time. She takes notes of what meal suggestions the orphans want next, as long as they're healthy of course-- I suppose a few cheat meals won't hurt anyone.

Bubba Bubbaphant - A Caretaker for the Orphanage and Teacher. He serves as the 'complex' teacher for Playcare's School, teaching children more complex school topics in the school; Mathematics, Science, History, etc. While he knows his subjects are hard to grasp, he does teach them well and even encourage them on their homework. He's very passionate about his work, and some day, the kids will thank him for them.

#poppy playtime #playtimeco sentience #poppy #the prototype #huggy wuggy #kissy missy #mommy long legs #boxy boo #dogday #catnap #hoppy hopscotch #kickinchicken #craftycorn #bobby bearhug #picky piggy #bubba bubbaphant

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tremendousconnoisseurgardener · 26 days

Text

Ruthless! Player.

A Poppy Playtime AU

Author's Note: hello! This is my first time writing a Poppy Playtime fic. This is a different version of The Player, us, from the game, my version to be more exact. It will be a series of 4 chapters (for now), each one taking place in one of the game chapters. Some will be divided by parts.

This first chapter will be more of a way to show the Players life and intentions, as well his problems. Hope you like it!

Ps: “Reader” is referred as “Player”

Introduction:

Player: The Player is a already in their middle age; when younger, they went to a war and fought for a year on the battlefield. The war undoubtedly left scars, both physical and mentally. Although cold most of the time, they are calm, they don’t want to get involved in fights. When they came back home, after the war, they became a parent and started to take care of their child alone, after their partner left them for another person.

Player’s Child: he is a young man with a bright future ahead, he and Player would help each other a lot. He started working in Playtime’s Factory to gain some money, so that he can pay for his college. But, he disappeared, along with all staff from the factory.

Warnings!

This fics will have sensitive topics:

PTSD

Death

Blood

Gore

Swears

Consumption of alcohol and smoking

If you do not like any of these topics, you are free to leave. Have a nice day/night.

Chapter 0: Prologue.

August 8th, 1995

Player sat down on their couch in their living room as they read a pamphlet, it was for a Veteran Meeting Event to celebrate the heroic actions of those veterans. Player was happy because they will be able to see some of his comrades once again.

their son came in and sat beside them, he was adjusting his uniform to get ready for work

“Oh, it’s the event today? I thought it was next week.” He said, a bit disappointed

“Yeah, is it a problem?” Player asked

“No no… It’s because,Today is the “Bring your family to Work” day at the factory. The staff can bring their children and parents to take a look around the place for free, I thought it would be fun to bring you for a visit.” The son explained

“I see. Maybe i can leave the event early and-“ He was interrupted by his son

“Don’t worry. This meeting is very important to you.” The son said “Don’t worry about me, I just wanna see you happy. Ok?” He hugged Player, which in return made them smile.

“Ok… I love you son.”

“Love you too. Gotta go now, see you later!” The son said, waving a goodbye, he went to the front door and exited the house.

Who knew that those would be the last words that Player would hear from their son?

(The Present)

August 8th, 2005

After their son’s disappearance, Player did not take it very well. But, you can’t blame them, the only family they had is now gone, without explanation.

Player wakes up on their bed, the alarm blaring beside them, they turn it off and starts getting ready for their job, as a delivery guy. They walks around the house retrieving their clothes and going to the bathroom; the place where they live was a mess, it looked like it wasn’t cleaned in weeks, empty bottles of alcohol layed around the ground, dirty dishes overflowing the sink, it wasn’t a pleasant scenery

After taking a bath, Player put on their working clothes and went to the delivery agency to start his shift. There, some colleagues waved them a good morning, but they gave them only the cold shoulder. They sorted and placed the packages inside a truck, getting ready to deliver the boxes of products. They drove the vehicle around the town, finding the addresses for the products. It was a very repetitive task.

Finally, after delivering most of the packages, it was already night and Player’s shift ended; they brought back the truck to the agency and went home to take some rest. Not before passing by a liquor store and buying a whisky bottle. drunk ass

On the doorstep of their house, Player saw an envelope with his name on it, he picked it up and started to inspect the object. They noticed a logo from a company stamped on the envelope… It was Playtime’s logo…

Player kept staring at the package placed on a table, while they took sips from a cup full of whisky and smoked a cigarette; they were rather scared to open it, even questioning if it was real. But, curiosity got them first; using a knife, Player cut open the package and pulled out a letter and a vhs tape written “Vintage Poppy Commercial”

They read the letter, their eyes widened about what it was written.

“This… can’t be real.” Player said.

“Everyone thinks we dissapeared 10 years ago, wer’e still here. Find the flower.”

That’s what was written on the letter.

After chugging down half of the whisky bottle and being clearly drunk, Player laid on their bed and went to sleep, trying to forget what they had just read.

“Find me. Save me, I need your help.”

Player woke up shocked, their eyes shot open. They sat on his bed while his face was covered in sweat. The alarm clock marked 6AM.

“It was just a dream.” They assured themselves. They dreamed about their son, the factory, and heard a voice talking to them.

Player grabbed the again letter that was laying on the ground and took a closer look, noticing the clear spelling errors of a 5 year old and how it was written with red crayons. Maybe it was a prank, but why would a kid do that? And if so, how did they know their address? The disappearance happened 10 years ago, most people moved on or just don’t remember. That gotta be a clue, it doesn't make sense.

“Maybe I should bring that to the police.” Player suggested “no… they will think I’m crazy…” they said with a sad tone.

They grabbed, inside their pocket, a photo of them and their son when younger and looked at it, a wave of determination started to spread inside.

“I guess I don’t have any choice, I’m doing it myself!” Player said, getting up from the bed

They started preparing for their new mission, investigating the old factory. Player grabbed only the necessary, they opened up the closet and retrieved an old hunting rifle, caressing the wooden part of the gun. Besides that, they retrieved 5 bullets.

“That's enough, hopefully.” They said, putting the small amount of ammunition inside their pocket.

Not only that, but Player got a hunting knife, a flashli and, of course, a whole ass bottle of whisky and a pack of cigarettes, placing them inside their jacket pocket. Get some help my guy

Player exited the house and got inside their car, turning it on and drove to the abandoned factory. The path was long, it took almost one hour to get there, but after sometime driving on the road, they finally saw the factory in the distance.

A metal fence was blocking the entrance for the factory parking lot, but Player only accelerated the car even more, breaking the gate open, the lock and chains being thrown away. With a screech, the car stopped in the middle of the big parking lot that the factory had.

Player exited their car and lit up a cigarette, puffing the smoke while eyeing the place.

“Well, if I don’t find my son… At least I might find answers.” They said, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground and stepping on it. They grabbed the rifle and carried it on their shoulder “Honestly, I actually wanted to visit this factory before.” Player commented, while opening the front door from the building. With a deep breath, they entered the abandoned place.

(To be continue)

#poppy playtime x reader #poppy playtime #hope you guys like it

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tpotr · 26 days

Note

Hi my writer, I came to let you know here on Tumbrl as you told me about part 2 of the Aerea-Rhaegal body swap fanfic in which they wake up in their genderless counterparts, thank you in advance.

It's been a while since I've got this req, but hehe, did it. Thank you for sending this in! This is part 2 of this req over here, where Aerea, Rhaegal, Aemma and Daella (Genderbent!Green children, ordered by age) wake up in the bodies of their not genderbent counterparts. This time with actual Daella on screen, lol. This one is more of a feel good fanfic, ngl.

Genderbent!Helaegon | Humor/Fluff | AU of a series | wc: 1995

“Prince Daeron has come, your Grace,” a servant says when they all stand at the hall.

Rhaegal lifts his head in interest, and so do his sisters — or brothers, at the current moment. These bodies they found themselves in had not been theirs, but until they found a solution, he had been degined to wear the dresses. It hasn’t been all that bad; Princess Helaena’s dresses all seemed to have been made of comfortable fabrics and cuts, and Aerea had made sure to stick in his hair as many of insect themed jewels that would be considered palatable to court. Seeing ‘Prince Aegon’ help his wife in the mornings seemed to have left their maids speechless, but they’ve all been shooed away quickly enough. Aemma had quite a bit of thrill herself as ‘Prince Aemond’, getting to know she’s one of the Keep’s most intimidating men.

This Queen Alicent had been different from theirs. Certainly, a mother of three boys and one girl, rather than the other way around. But although not their mother, she had been no less caring or worrisome. They have adjusted to the roles of her children to calm her down, told her all had been a prank, but she insisted they remain by her side for a while.

“My sweet boy,” her brown eyes brighten when she sees a silver-haired boy entering the room. He has eyes of violet, as any of them do, with long light eyelashes framing them. The sun pecked him freckled, soft dotting seeming a blush over his nose bridge. He has a tentative smile on, and his arms hold each other in front of his body as if hiding together under billowing sleeves. “The ride must’ve been long. You should’ve told me you are coming, your room would’ve been prepared.”

Prince Daeron smiles a boyish smile.“It is of no matter, mother,” He answers softly. Prince Daeron eyes his siblings prolongedly, as if seeking something out. Aemma and Aerea both glance at Rhaegal, a conference of eyes taking place. There must be a reason for this arrival, at this time, Rhaegal thinks, and comes forward towards the boy, trying to make a proud walk as noticeable as possible with skirts of the dress seeking to drown it out. His sisters follow soon behind him.

“Daeron,” he says, reaching for his arm. The name feels odd on his tongue. “How has it been with Uncle Mundy?”

The queen turns to him, lifting a brown brow. “Uncle Mundy?”

The boy’s eyes crinkle to the utmost joy and relief, their glimmer nothing less than starlike in quality. “Well!” Daeron— Daella, now without doubt— and rushes into his embrace. This male form of his youngest sister is surprisingly lanky. He wonders if this is how sisters feel normally; gods, he has never felt so short.

Perhaps now he could understand his wife’s tantrums of being the smallest of them four. Unfortunately for her, Prince Aegon’s height has only elevated her one spot on that list, and she had been quick to make note of it. “This is ridiculous,” she says annoyedly, when Daella lets him go. Prince Aegon’s hand reaches up to Prince Daeron’s hair, as if to level him. “Who allowed you to become a tree?”

Daella chuckles, coming to hug her and Aemma as well. They are stuck in this position, them all, but at least they are together.

“We should see what you have become on the training yard,” Aemma says, keeping a calm tone, although laced with intrigue. Prince Aemond had a menacing appearance to him, with a strong jaw and the most conniving of looks, but his lips earned a cat-like grin when Aemma spoke. There may be a chance that it was natural to that body, but Rhaegal could tell Aemma had been excited. “Things are quite different, now.”

They both turn to Ser Criston naturally. The man blinks at the both from Alicent’s side; it is clear that they needn't have any of his permission here. He only proceeds to clarify. “At this moment, my Prince?”

The grin on Prince Aemond’s face is undoubtedly Aemma’s. “Yes.”

Aerea snorts, and Rhaegal tries to keep himself from chuckling too. Even in the male bodies, Daella grabs onto Aemma to drag her forward, locking arms with one another. Despite the odd, almost resigned looks from Alicent and Criston, Rhaegal brings his own arm to lock with Aerea and go after them.

It makes the Queen and the Kingsguard even further confused, but he minds it not. Today, Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena walk hand in hand, and Rhaegal will enjoy every minute of it.

—

It is a storm of swords between his sisters in the yard.

They make the fullest of every moment. Each clank of a sword earns them intense cheers from the crowd of watching bystanders, and it is quite a crowd; long it has been since two princes sparred each other on this yard, it appears. It had never been a primary interest of his, but he feels odd now, watching from the sidelines himself.

He leans his head against Prince Aegon’s shoulder. That body is surprisingly not that different in softness from his wife’s, although he can’t say it is quite the same, either. Still, it’s comforting within all this noise and strangeness.

“Sulking?” she asks. It sounds a drier remark in the lower voice she attained herself. He keeps his lips lined.

“No, it is only…” he trails off. The violet gaze of hers is no less piercing as a prince, and the rise of an eyebrow is just as pointed. We agreed on honesty, he reminds himself. He will not break that promise here, even if they spoke that promise from different lips. “Yes.”

Aerea hums and brings a finger to his lips. “I rather like the pout, you know.”

Rhaegal believes she is more inclined to squeeze and hold him as much as possible at the moment. She certainly did not hold back on testing the differences in intimacy. It had been as awkwardly funny as it had been oddly pleasing. He still can’t fathom some sensations that he had felt, and she had made a point to laugh at his relentlessly at some of his questions — but then again, he similarly got to laugh at when she realized fucking is quite a different job from being fucked.

But some natural instincts helped, or one may assume even muscle memory. Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena had a third child, unlike them. Maelor, his mind supplies again, with the image of an infant holding at the edge of his cradle and babbling relentlessly.

He thinks some wistfulness conquered them both. By the time he leaves this body, he wonders if the princess would be left with a fourth.

Either way, Rhaegal bites the finger in his vicinity. Aerea yelps away, pouting at him now. Prince Aegon has a plump pout himself. “And I like yours,” he chuckles and looks back at the scene in front of him. He smiles at his younger sisters, resigning himself to observe. This is a sobering moment; yes, he had not enjoyed swordplay for the sparring itself, but he thinks he can understand Aemma and Daella more fully now that he is not to be included.

From the sidelines, the joy on their faces is enviable; it looks so very fun. He has taken training for granted in his lifetime. He will have to do his best to keep being dedicated and thankful to Criston when he returns to his body.

Rhaegal does hope it will be rather soon. He misses his children, and his mother, and the abilities to hold his wife with no ogling and join his sisters’ in their spars freely.

“Oi,” Aerea huffs at some squire to her left. It is amusing to hear her attempts at impersonating male speech. It nearly brings a smile to his face, but soon enough she completes the sentence whole. “Bring me a sword!”

He squeezes his wife’s upper arm, looking at her confused. He knows not about Prince Aegon, but he could count the times Aerea has held swords in her hands on one palm. “You never liked sparring,” he says, eyebrow lifting. Their sisters would know to be mindful of her inexperience, but she doesn’t even like it. Why would she leave his side for it?

Aerea brings a hand to squeeze on his side in response. The squire returns hastily with a sword in hand, offering it to him. “My prince,” he says, and Aerea takes the sword with little care, the grip on his waist seemingly stronger than the hold on the steel.

“Prince Aegon is joining the fray!” Someone calls. The excited audience claps in excitement, and even Queen Alicent and Ser Criston eye him with intrigue. The princes in the midst of the circle turn to them with confusion that matches his.

Aerea dispels it very quickly. “Dimwit,” she says aloud, “who told you that? It’s not for me,” she turns back to him. “It’s for my wife.”

Ah?

That is met with a deafening silence.

“Aegon, what is this nonesense—” Alicent begins, and Rhaegal feels as if he is watching his mother from years back come alive again. Aerea hadn’t bothered with their mother’s complaints then, and she isn’t bothered by them now, only shoving the sword in the smooth hands of Princess Helaena, and patting him to move forward.

He first stares at his wife, surprised.The sword feels heavier than how it usually does, and certainly the dress is not quite the proper garb for this activity. However, he had trained and fought with swords in many situations in years past, even when it was inconvenient. Aerea knows that too, he reminds himself, and for a moment smiles at the sword as warmth rushes down him.

Go on, that is the message. And he knows his sisters would not allow for anyone to object.

Aerea is steadfast despite the complaints coming her way. Aemma and Daella also care none for the shock among the observers, they return to a starting stance in front of him. He laughs when he sees Ser Criston balking at them; now this Criston might want to put an end to this before anything starts, but his Ser Criston would remind him to not waste an opportunity to take first strike.

Rhaegal grips the sword better, and rushes forward to enter that dance.

Swords clank in a nostalgic symphony. Words die down somewhere between the third of fourth strike he blocks. The audience’s yapping even turns into amused ones when Aemma and his team up to make Daella yield first. Prince Daeron has fallen to his back first, in full hearty laughter.

Aemma turns back to him, sword pointed towards him as she circles him. “Let it be said it is not the dress that would make you lose, sister,” he says. I would know, are the words that remain unspoken. Prince Aemond may have intimidating features, but the contesting tilt of his sister is all the same.

Rhaegal grins; it is a game, and he’ll play along. “It would not need to be said if I win, right?”

“Get him!” Aerea yells loudly from the sidelines. She holds Alicent by the hand, making the stressed, shocked queen cheer alongside her. Daella has retreated to stand by Criston, who seems so bewildered he has been rendered speechless. The rest of the audience, however, seems to have been enjoying the show.

There are many people to please. Wife, sisters, audience, who not? Rhaegal picks up the sword, and lunges forward. In this circle of surprise and cheer however, he himself feels he has already won.

This is odd work for the body he is in, but he puts his best foot forward as swords meet again. He may as well leave this body knowing he gave Princess Helaena her own victory, too.

#'uncle mundy' best code for 'are u genderswapped bestie?'#helaegon #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #aemond targaryen #daeron targaryen #hotd #hotd fanfic #*aereagal #*aerea #*rhaegal #*aemma #*daella #*alicent #*criston #*reqs #*fanfics #*answered

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gravedigginbbydoll · 10 months

Text

pencil shavings and shared smiles {pt.6}

Fem! Teacher Reader x Teacher! Eddie

Previous Masterlist Next

AN: Hey y’all! So we get a little taste of the spice to come ;) Angst will also build later lol. Please like and reblog and lemme know what you think!

WARNINGS AND CONTENT: Minors DNI!!!, Noncanon, Hawkins AU, Normal Hawkins, Rumors about Eddie, Smut, Mentions of Masturbation and Sexual Acts, Trauma, Reader is horny lol, Very fluffy, Outcasts and Bullying, Mentions of Loneliness, Flirting, drinking, violence/fighting, drug usage, mentions of death, Fem!Reader, use of nickname Tish in place of Y/N, older! Eddie, short-haired Eddie, 1995/1996 Hawkins, F! Reader has a dark past, F! Reader is a former goth lol, angsty angst.

Summary: When you and Eddie just begin blooming into something, a ghost from the past begins to haunt you. Your coping mechanism is less than ideal, given it involves a certain tall and dorky metalhead.

Ever since that night out in the field, you find yourself leaning more and more into the idea that this electricity between you and Eddie could lead somewhere. You lean more into his lingering touches and find yourself hanging out more with his friends. Hell, just this past weekend, you had joined Eddie and his friends for a movie night out in Steve’s backyard. You and Eddie cuddled on a blanket, earning some teasing remarks from Steve and Robin, causing you both to throw popcorn at them.

Things were beginning to look up in Hawkins. You were getting the hang of teaching your classes and were happy to see a few students excited about literature. You had made the most of your apartment, covering the ugly green leather eyesore of a couch in pillows and blankets and ensuring the peeling pink floral wallpaper was hidden by a large bookshelf and some art you found at the thrift store. You even began cooking meals for yourself, finding the routine comforting.

There is that lingering feeling of uncertainty tickling the back of your brain despite all this. You tried to will it away. There was no warning sign yet. You gained friends from Eddie, as well as the kind and dorky metalhead himself. You found yourself like a young and giddy teen again, sneaking handholds at the teachers’ lounge and making Eddie lunches when you discovered he always brought instant ramen for lunch ( Eddie disclosed to you that the best thing he could make was sandwiches and maybe breakfast). You had no reason to be on guard.

Except…

The dreams. They began a few days ago. You would be back in the city, your apartment, your old grounds. You kept finding yourself in the same place you were about a month or so ago. In the dreams, you were stuffing a suitcase, your chest tight, and your vision blurred and distorted from tears. The dream always ended the same way. You would walk to the door, only to find it locked, and the walls would start closing in. You would panic, tugging at the door, pleading with anyone to set you free. Afterward, the same voice would ring out behind you, sour and condescending despite the words spoken.

“Don’t leave. I’ll change. Don’t hurt me again…”

You would wake in a cold shock whenever you felt the same large clammy hand on your shoulder. He wasn’t there, of course. He couldn’t be. You were miles away, no note left and no trace of you.

You tried to brush off the dreams, but they kept waking you up earlier and earlier. Eddie was first to notice, offering you coffee every morning and taking bus duty for you when he could. You felt a pang of tugging guilt in your gut at his gestures, knowing that maybe if you just spoke about the issue, you would feel some weight off your shoulders. But you couldn’t bring your mouth to ever open or the words to come out.

You still indulge in Eddie’s touch and affection, lingering hands, and flirtatious winks when no one looks. But today was the fourth day in a row you had the dream. You should call them nightmares, but the word dreams felt less…drastic. You were drained. You found yourself with less patience than usual, being much more stern with the students than expected. You skip your regular lunch with Eddie and Will. By your last period, you feel like a zombie. Going through the motions, trying to stomach the idea of sleeping again tonight.

You’re locking up your classroom and about to head home when you run into a broad chest, Eddie’s warm and spicy scent filling your nostrils. You look up at him, feeling the urge to lean into him, to be embraced. He looks at you, warm brown eyes full of concern and lips tugged down at the corner.

“Tish, what’s going on? You’ve been on edge this entire week. You’re tired and…” His eyes search your face for answers, hesitating on his last words, his brows furrowed. You want nothing more than to soothe the little wrinkle between his brows. “I feel worried.”

Your heart tugs at his words, but your brain swirls with sharp thoughts, your lack of sleep making it harder to block out.

Look at you, making your own stupid shit, everyone else’s problem.

Maybe you should tell him.

No, because you clearly are making a big deal out of nothing. He’s trying to be nice. He doesn’t wanna hear your ridiculous sob story. He has actual issues.

Just keep it to yourself. You don’t want another person to know what a whiny crybaby you are, do you?

You fake a smile in his direction, shaking your head. You will keep this to yourself. Eddie is untarnished so far, not murky and grayed by your influence and presence. If you let him in too far, it was only a matter of time before your inky black destruction leaked into him, tarring his insides and making him bitter.

“I’m okay. Noisy neighbors. You know how it is. I’m just scared to approach them,” You lie easily, feeling a twinge of guilt in your gut.

Eddie’s eyes are intense, warm brown darkening as he stares at you with some fierce emotion you can’t quite place. His voice is low and stern, making you curse inwardly at how your skin tingles and your face warms.

“Tish, I know for a fact that’s a damn lie.”

Your mouth feels dry as you struggle for words, awkwardly laughing and looking away.

“I-”

He grabs your chin, moving it so you have to look into his eyes. The stern and authoritative action causes your stomach to flutter. You steel your resolve to not break until his mouth opens again, his voice practically a whisper, but his stern and no-bullshit tone causes your breath to catch in your throat.

“You don’t have to tell me, but I’m here for you. Don’t try to handle everything alone.”

Your skin is aflame from his touch, and when he takes his hand away, you feel a longing for the touch back. He turns around, walking away, leaving you to stare at his broad back and long legs, his hands in his leather jacket pockets.

Your chest tightens, and you sigh out a bit of relief. You may not take his offer now, but it was nice to know it was there.

The following week, you’ve gotten a handle on blocking out the nightmares. The method, however, leads to you dodging Eddie a bit more than usual. It’s embarrassing to try to face those warm and caring eyes when the thing chasing away the nightmares is the thought of him looming over you.

You first learned the cure that weekend after his stern tone caressed your ears. His voice’s low timbre and authority still sent shivers down your spine that day. You had been laying in bed the weekend after, dreading the thought of sleeping, trying to calm your nerves. You then remembered Eddie’s words, the intensity of his gaze, and his grip on your chin. You felt laid bare before him despite being clothed. Your brain began to swirl with ideas about how the look would feel if you wore less.

You knew you had been attracted to Eddie before these thoughts but had tried to push the ideas down. But that night, your brain swirled with the image of Eddie looming over you, those dark eyes laying you bare as his calloused hands explored you. You imagined his stern voice telling you to be good for him and his lips nipping at your neck. These thoughts led to a hand traveling down your sleep shorts, your chest heaving, and the desire pooling between your thighs.

That night you were left panting and spent, shocked by the lust that overtook you. You hadn’t felt this way in months, maybe even years. Sure, you had masturbated, but it wasn’t often. Plus, it felt more like a chore to complete when you came around to it, hating how your hands cramped or how you felt guilty after. This time, all that was left was a worn-out body and a calm sleep.

However, now you couldn’t seem to face Eddie without immediately feeling heat creep up your neck to the tips of your ears, your stomach twisting with nerves and embarrassment. You had spent the week dodging him, making excuses when you could. When you did speak to him, you were shy and far quieter than usual. You felt a sting at his puppy dog eyes and confusion flashing across his face every time you dashed away. Every time he gave you those looks, you swore to yourself you wouldn’t touch yourself to him that night, only to have the wild fantasies enter your mind in bed and your ever-traitorous hands explore yourself.

Today, you find him blocking your exit while getting ready to lock up, his immense stature in your doorway. You blink at him in shock, trying to stomp down the swirling feeling of desire at his intense gaze towards you, feeling your thighs squeeze as if it’s instinct.

“Tish, did you forget it’s Friday?” He sternly questioned you, a brow raised.

You furrowed your brows, searching your mind for the significance of the weekday, only to feel your stomach sink and guilt wash over you. You had planned to hang with Eddie and his former bandmates weeks in advance, who had scheduled to get together and play at his house for old time’s sake. They planned it so far ahead because Gareth was always busy with his baby daughter (who he thought hung the moon). Jeff was engaged and planning a wedding with his fiance for the next couple of months. You felt embarrassment intertwine in your belly as you thought about how you let your dirty thoughts distance you from Eddie, your closest friend. You could never explain to him why.

“I’m so sorry, Eds, I can still-”

He walks forward, shaking his head. “Tish, I really hope I didn’t do something wrong. I’m sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable or pushed you-”

You laugh, shaking your head as you feel the tips of your ears warm. “No, no! I just… There’s been a lot on my mind lately,” You offer weakly, knowing by Eddie’s dark gaze that he doesn’t fully believe you, but he doesn’t push it.

“Well, if you’re still coming to hear us shitheads play…Want a ride?” He grins devilishly, twirling his keys.

You nod and walk alongside him in the hallway to the parking lot, gently holding his hand for the first time in almost over a week. When you reach his truck and climb in, your nerves go haywire. Your gut twists, anxious as you realize the get-together is at Eddie’s. In his home. Where he lives. Where he sleeps, eats, and showers. Your brain flashes ideas of Eddie in his house.

Eddie lounging on a couch reading.

Eddie throwing his formal work shirts haphazardly onto a chair to replace them with his comfortable band shirts, tattoos all on display.

Eddie playing guitar while sitting on his bed, biting his pretty lips in concentration.

Eddie hunched over in his bathroom, his muscles under his expansive back and biceps flexing and rippling as he hurriedly strokes his length, his brows creased and his other arm bracing the counter as he-

You stop yourself, realizing that you are practically panting and your entire chest and face is warm. Luckily Eddie can’t hear you over the thrash metal playing through his speakers. However, he does give you an odd and questioning glance occasionally.

You finally pull into his driveway. His house is a simple and small one story in the suburbs, the outside an unassuming shabby white wood with a gray roof. There are two small windows in the front and a little shed in the back.

You steel your nerves, clenching your fists so your nails dig into your palms.

Act normal.

Eddie parks the car, taking his key out of the ignition as he speaks to you. “The guys are getting here a little later, so I can give you a tour of the place, and we can chill out for a bit. That okay?” He questions cautiously, his big brown eyes full of hope.

You swallow, your heart in your throat.

Alone. With Eddie. In his house.

The man you’ve been having wet daydreams about.

But you can’t bear to cause sorrow behind those big brown eyes or be torn from his magnetic pull, so you smile instead. Your stomach twists as your palms get clammy.

“Of course, Eds! Let’s head in.”

You were so fucked.

taglist: @bebe07011@corrodedcoffincumslut@kurdtbean@nerdflash@kimmi-kat@aheadfullofsteverogers

#eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things 4 #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson au #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson wip #stranger things x reader #eddie stranger things #stranger things au #teacher! eddie #teacher! em

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cerise-grenadine · 1 month

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14th of July, 1995 — Place du Trocadéro.

First photo of Severus and his new first girlfriend together.

a lazy sketch — i haven't drawn in a while cause i'm stuck in a phase of nothingness again and thought i'd force myself to do at least a little something.

in my AU this is the day he introduces her to his top secret family, which is why someone is there to take a picture of them. It's Bastille Day, they all gathered in Paris (where his brother lives) to watch the fireworks. it's probably a hot day but that's pretty much the most naked Sev will ever be in public (only two layers and the top button is undone, ho dear). also, he's still recovering from the aftermath of Voldie's return.

can you tell i have no bloody idea how to draw her face T-T poor girl, she's way too cheerful and i don't know how to draw smiles ☠️ (or the eiffel tower, but that was 100% laziness). even when i aim for a light sketch with barely visible features i end up overdrawing her 😩 i like him though.

#SlythenclawAU!Snape #not lily #snape x oc #severus snape #snape #snape fanart #hp fanart #snape au #muggle snape #sketch #like really a sketchy sketch #my art #“art” hahaha

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http-paprika · 4 months

Text

Bite the Hand / Phillip Graves

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⋆★⋆ part five - sun, moon, sky ⋆★⋆ masterlist ⋆★⋆ previous ⋆★⋆ next ⋆★⋆

summary with her mind all over the place, frost goes for a run to free herself, only to come across the source of her problems.

werewolf!au / pairing phillip graves x female!reader / callsign frost / wc 1995 / warning swearing

notes so, my family has covid again which means i have no work and can focus on writing. hopefully I'll be able to write the next chapters before i go back to work. and i was losing my ever-loving mind writing this, listening to the same song on repeat to capture this chapter.

It began in her mouth, the constant uncomfortable dryness and a thirst that no amount of water could quench. She was unwilling to admit that her scent was laced with something sweet, a glow in her face, and the ache in her bones whenever she passed Graves. Like she was losing her mind, she sat hunched over her desk, face buried in her calloused hands.

“Frost?” Lurch stood in front of her desk, staring down at her like she was some bizarre alien creature who’d fallen out of the sky. Her teammates had begun to pick up on her erratic behavior, once or twice she’d heard Dipaolo telling Vance he was glad to be born a man. Not that being a man would’ve saved her from her distress. It was a trouble that plagued many, she was just the unfortunate soul to be struck down then.

“Maybe you should get out, go for a run, go hunt. You’re acting like a caged animal. Your reports have been looking like shit.” To prove his point, he dropped the stack of papers in front of her, Frost was embarrassed by the highlighted passages. It was sloppy and humiliating to read, below her standard. “I’d hate to bring this up to the Commander but if this is going to continue to be a problem, I will.”

“No. No. It won’t be a problem.” She quickly argued, standing out of her seat and yanking up her jacket. The early cold of winter had surprised her that morning, a welcomed relief from the unbearable Texan heat. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

Hurried out of the office, she returned to her room and changed into running clothes, something that Frost wouldn’t mind if it got soiled or stained. She could only pray her run would be long and tiresome enough, there was a hope that it would stop the endless loop of thinking about him. As her hands slid over her body, pulling off her uniform, she couldn’t help but imagine the callouses of his hands replacing hers, a warm breath against her ears.

Her eyes snapped open, and her own breath caught in her lungs. He’d be the death of her, and Graves would never know.

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The smell of juniper and pine trees filled her nostrils as she finally stopped running, having gone to the northern border of the Shadow Company’s hunting grounds. Her chest rose and fell as she stared at the rapid river that divided her land from uncertainty. Frost often wondered who hunted in the lands beyond, and how far she could run without being shot at or entering enemy wolf territory.

Below her skin, her muscles tightened and ached as she dropped to the edge of the river, rocks digging into her knees as she stuck her hands into the cold current. The water tumbled over rocks, and the crickets sang in her ears as the sun dipped further below the pines. Frost would need to plan for the evening, she’d need to eat before tempting to run the miles back to the base. But hunting alone had little appeal, and the exhaustion in her bones dissuaded her from shifting.

She wondered what it would be like to let the rapids take her, if it would drag her south to the sea. If she could disappear like a fossil in the rock beds below the currents. Ancient fossils didn’t have to deal with the pain she felt, the tug in her heart. He was the wrong person, and more importantly, Frost was the wrong girl. It was already luck that had allowed her to cross his path, to speak to him and listen. Then there was the unspoken, fear and experience that had pushed her back into a cage. Venomous words that made her hate herself more than her father ever had.

Frost wouldn’t offer that to Graves, he was already gracious enough as it was. But it didn’t stop her from closing her eyes, fantasizing about showing him every version of herself. Letting Graves take her in his arms, telling her the past didn’t matter.

But she knew better.

“Frost?” She wondered if she had willed him into existence as he stepped towards the river, the hunting rifle slung over his shoulders again. The wind turned in her direction, allowing her to breathe in his smell and let out a contented sigh. “You’re out far, y’know that?”

“Lost track of where I was running, sorry.” She said, quickly standing and trying to dust the dirt off her skin. Ever so slightly embarrassed by her appearance in front of him. Graves had a concerned look on his face as he set the rifle down, an expression she’d never seen that made her breathing hitched.

“Lerch told me you’ve been acting strange. I’m worried about you, is everything alright?” He asked, closing the gap between them until he was standing right in front of her. One of his gloved hands comes up to her face, brushing a few hairs and sweat away with a slow motion. “We’ve moved past keep secrets, you can trust me with anything.”

“There’s a reason they’re secrets, Graves. They’re meant to be hidden.” She said, frowning and wondering if he could feel how hot her skin was or hear the way her heart pounded against her thick ribs. Frost blinks rapidly, trying to keep unforeseen tears from falling. He wasn’t supposed to see her like that, no one was. Staying hidden with her feelings and past meant staying safe.

“Frost, you could tell me you murdered a man and I’d help you dispose of the body. I’m not one to judge.” How familiar his words were to her, like the past was repeating itself just with a different man. A different face, a different heart, a different ending. His hand stayed on her face, brushing the hot tears from her cheeks as he waited, ever so patient.

“I can’t.” She told him, Frost hated to cry in front of anyone. A lesson engrained in her mind from a young age, a lesson she couldn’t easily forget. And crying in front of Graves felt pathetic, it didn’t matter if he was understanding. Didn’t matter how many promises he made to her and her brothers that they were safe in his company. Frost couldn’t.

“Yes, you can.”

“I–” She turned her gaze up to the sky which was a watercolor of violet, orange, and blue as it attempted to hold onto the sun. The knife in her heart twisted further, splitting her in two. All that flooded her mind were broken promises, gnashing teeth, and apologizing over and over again for feelings and things she couldn’t control. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you the truth.”

Graves’ hand dropped from her face, down her shoulders, and arms, and picked up her hands. The leather rubbed against her skin, his thumb brushed over a set of knuckles. It was so caring and gentle that it made Frost want to scream.

“Come on, let’s not stay out. ‘Bout to be a new moon, let’s go into the light.” Graves suggested, still holding onto a hand, another picking back up the rifle before he turned and led her along the riverbank. Soon, they reached a swallow crossing, and she followed him up a rocky path. In the distance through the trees, lights blinked at her in a warm greeting. The trees split apart into a small clearing where an a-frame house stood, and a truck with a Shadow Company bump sticker was parked in front on a gravel drive that stretched back into the trees.

He’d taken her to his home. “Most the boys don’t even know this is where I live. Like to keep it that way, quiet, private.” Graves said to her as he unlocked the house, letting her into the warm interior.

“So I’m special?” Frost asked, a bit of humor in her question as Graves put the rifle up in a cabinet before shedding his gloves and boots.

“Very.” Her heart almost combusted as he flashed a wink at her before walking through the home, moving to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, if you break something, I will make you buy it.”

Frost shakes her head, taking off her stained and ragged sneakers and trying to force herself to loosen up. The house wasn’t what she expected, he kept a large collection of vinyls, and his shelves her lined with books, pictures, and awards from his long life. But somehow, it made sense to her, reminding her of his cluttered office.

“Why me?” She asked suddenly, turning to look at him in the kitchen as he poured himself a glass of bourbon. “What makes me so special? I’m not a soldier who got the medals for being outstanding, was never the top of my class, and I’m nothing to write home about here either. I just don’t understand what someone who recruits some of the most ruthless and talented soldiers and mercenaries there are sees in me.”

“Well, it’s clear we don’t see each other the same way at all. Because you put me up on a podium I shouldn’t be on Frost.” Graves responded hesitantly, looking up at her from the crystal glass. The light danced in his eyes, his brows knit together as he looked at her. A look of a man who was giving her his full attention. “And affairs of the heart have never been logical.”

She could’ve fallen apart right there, hearing the words leave his mouth felt wrong, unnatural. It shouldn’t be happening. Frost’s feelings weren’t supposed to be returned, they were supposed to fizzle away, staying hidden from sight. His admittance was dangerous, how easily it could destroy her, destroy the new life she’d built at the Shadow Company. Graves called out her name, her real name, which yanked her attention back to him.

“You can’t mean that,” Frost stated, backing away as Graves stepped around the counter to her. She wondered if she could find her way back to the Shadow Company base from his home. Maybe it would be better if she got lost in the woods instead, wandering like a forsaken beast. It would be more bearable than letting herself completely fall.

“What are you so scared of, Frost?” He kept his distance, waiting until she was ready to let him in. There was a patience in his tone, something so gentle about the way he spoke that made her knees want to buckle.

“Everything that I’ve lost and can lose again.” She admitted, gripping the wooden countertops. Her breathing had become uneven again, the weight in the air was crushing. Frost could only hope he’d throw her out in the cold, she thought she’d die if he continued to look at her like she was sun shining after a long winter.

“I can’t change your past, but I can shape the future, and I don’t want to hurt you. You deserve everything you want, everything you crave, and I want to give it to you.” Graves was so close to her, but she was the one to reach out now. Resting a hand against his chest, she felt the rhythmic thrum of his heart. The smell of his skin was intoxicating, causing her to swallow hard. He placed his hand on top of hers, the other settling on her waist. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Before she can think or speak, his mouth is on hers. Capturing her in an embrace as her teeth catch on his lower lip. He surrounded her, consuming her senses as she continued to hold onto him desperately and kiss him. The lingering taste of bourbon on his tongue, the sweet smell of pine needles radiating from his skin, and the warmth of his hands keeping her body flush against his.

Frost could’ve died happily there.

taglist (open) @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @delusionally-loveless-by-choice @bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus @anna-banana27 @unicorngirly1

#call of duty #call of duty mw2 #cod mw22 #fanfic #phillip graves cod #phillip graves #phillip graves werewolf!au #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you #call of duty mw3 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty!werewolf au #shadow company werewolf!au #werewolf au #bite the hand series updates #bite the hand series #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic

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shmorp-mcdurgen · 7 months

Text

Home Sweet Home AU: Martyrdom

Thatcher gets a late night call from an unknown number, saying they have something they need to discuss.

TW: blood, mentions of/implied character death

Notes: around 3'800 words long, being the shortest HSH fic so far. I don't have much to add here, but hope you like it!

February 12th, 1995. 10:24 PM.

Thatcher was awoken that night by the sound of his cell phone ringing in his office.

He couldn’t recall falling asleep on his couch, lying on a pile of discarded papers and dirty clothes. If he had to guess, it was due to exhaustion and/or sleep deprivation, though he could barely remember anything aside from staring at the wall for an hour or so. He groggily sat up, holding his head and wincing when an all-too-familiar headache pounded in his skull. Everything felt sore, with his right shoulder feeling as if it was ripped out of socket again. He looked down at his shoulder, pulling away his shirt to see that his collar bone was still pressing against his skin awkwardly, causing a bump in his shoulder. He sighed, remembering the reason he no longer laid on his side as he tried to ignore the deep pain shooting from it.

Oh right. The phone.

Thatcher stood up, letting out a deep, somewhat annoyed groan as he made his way to his office, pushing open the door to see the phone on his desk. He stood still for a moment, pondering whether or not he should simply let it ring and go to voicemail. Despite his best efforts not to care, he sighed in defeat and answered the phone, expecting to hear the sound of one of his co-worker’s voice, telling him to come into the station for some late-night incident or something.

“Thatcher Davis, MCP—”

“I already know who you are.”

A familiar voice, though not one that felt necessarily comforting in that regard.

“Who is this?” Thatcher furrowed his brows, absentmindedly beginning to pace back and forth in his office.

“That doesn’t matter right now.” The man on the other end of the phone stated. “St. Gabriel’s Church, as soon as possible. I need to talk to you.”

Thatcher paused in place, staring at the floor before speaking quietly yet urgently. “…I won’t do that until you tell me who is speaking.”

Silence for a moment.

“You know me.” The man said. “You ruined my life.”

“…I d—”

“Meet me at the church, tonight.” The man commanded. “This is an urgent matter. I’ll be waiting in the west bell-tower.”

The caller hung up, leaving Thatcher in a confused haze as it attempted to figure out who it was, or why the voice was familiar. The man’s somewhat raspy, yet desperate-sounding voice resonated in his head, despite the concern and almost fear of taking the call. He stood in place, staring at his phone before flipping it shut and shoving it into his pants pocket. He took in a breath as he silently approached his desk, opening a drawer and seeing nothing but junk inside. He brushed it all away before he finally found what he was looking for; his pistol. He grabbed it, checking the magazine to see that it was loaded before looking back into the drawer and fishing out his gun holster. He threw the holster over his left shoulder before sliding his gun into it, deciding not to change into a better outfit aside from his worn jeans and faded, oversized shirt.

He walked back into his living room in silence, grabbing his grey, shabby trench coat before pulling it over his arms. He tried to ignore how it too was oversized, nor the fact that he had received it as a gift from a friend, despite it being a reminder of her every time he wears it. Perhaps it was a good thing to be reminded of her. He snapped out of his train of thought, realizing he stopped moving for a second before he finally walked into his kitchen, grabbing a pair of leather gloves to somewhat protect his thin hands from the cold. He let out a deep breath as he grabbed his keys and headed for the front door, pausing as he turned his head to look behind him. He looked towards the dining room table, one that had multiple chairs despite no one coming over. On it was nothing but a single police radio, resting in the middle of it. Thatcher stared at it for a moment, pondering whether he wanted to take it, just in case, before he decided against it. He shook his head, walking through the front door into the night, only hoping he wasn’t walking into another trap.

He at least had some comfort in knowing he had a weapon.

11:03 PM

Thatcher wished the radio in his car worked as he drove down the dark, damp road to the church. The sound of his barely functioning heater blowing through the vents was the only sound that even remotely replaced the music that would’ve been playing, though it wasn’t enough to drown out much of anything. Thatcher stared forward, seeing the snow-covered trees pass by on the sides of the road, along with the snow landing on his windshield. He glanced at his right hand, wishing he could just take a break and scratch where his prosthetic rubbed against his skin under his glove, though he decided that getting the call over with was better; at the very least it meant he could go to sleep earlier.

If he’d be able to go home at all.

After all, he was working off of the assumption that the man on the other end of the phone was a human; a real person that knew Thatcher in the past and genuinely wanted to talk about something important. Thatcher felt a sense of uncertainty wash over it as it turned down a gravel road, wondering if he was going to be lucky again and that if the man wasn’t who, or rather what, he claims to be, the gun pressed against its left set of ribs would be enough to scare it off. Though perhaps Thatcher was stupid to think it was capable of being lucky.

Thatcher slowed to a stop when it saw the tall steel gate that led into the church property, barely seeing the church behind it through the trees and snow. Light from the lamp-posts bled into the gravel lane as Thatcher exited its car, looking around before approaching the gate and pushing it open, happy to see it was unlocked. After he swung the gates to the side, hearing the shrill squeaking coming from its hinges, he jogged back to his car, hopping inside and slamming the door shut. He glanced into his rearview mirror, checking that his back seat was vacant before he drove through the gate, finally driving onto asphalt as he pulled into the large parking lot.

He parked in one of the spaces, seeing a short fence between him and the church in front of his car. He exited his car, locking it before shoving his keys in his pocket and staring up at the towering cathedral before him. It had two large wooden doors at its entrance, along with a giant circular, stained-glass window above it, with many smaller circles surrounding it. A large, metal cross was to the left side of the entrance, seemingly rusted despite the church still being active from what Thatcher remembered. He looked up towards the slanted roof, seeing two giant bell towers, with one to the right, and one to the left, reaching towards the pitch-black sky. Thatcher couldn’t help but notice the pit in his gut he felt looking up at the giant building; it almost felt like vertigo, despite not looking down. He shook his head, letting out a breath as he turned to the right, following the fence towards concrete staircase that led down to the entrance. As he walked, a figure stared at him from the west bell tower, watching him as Thatcher walked towards the entrance, pushing the heavy doors open and walking inside.

The first thing Thatcher noticed aside from the deafening silence was the vastness of the inside of the church. It had a domed roof, with painted patterns on the walls. He looked forward, his shoes clacking against the marble floors as he looked around. Lines of pews ran down both sides of him, all facing a stage to the front of the room, one with a large organ front and center.

“Hello?” Thatcher called, his voice echoing off of the tall walls. “Thatcher Davis, MCPD. You called me here?”

No answer aside from his own voice reflecting back at him. He looked to his left, seeing a few archways that led to other parts of the church, deciding it was the best place to start looking for a way into the west tower, like the man had said to meet him. He walked in between pews and walked through one of the archways, being met with a hall that led into a few smaller rooms. However, when he looked to the left, he saw a stairwell, one he presumed to lead into the tower. He paused, thinking of the inevitable pain his knees were going to feel before beginning to scale the stairs.

He walked, further and further up into the dimly lit tower as he pushed his trench coat to the side, exposing his holster and firearm in preparation in case something other than a human was up there. He could smell dust and an overall musty smell as he pushed open the small door above him that led into the belfry, poking his head into the room to see a small electric lantern in the corner, lighting up the room. Thatcher huffed, pushing the door to the side, letting it clatter off of the floor as he hoisted himself up into the room. The belfry was larger than he expected it would be, with one large, brass bell hanging in the middle of the room. He looked around, seeing a large, arched window in front of him, with the cool wind hitting his face as he approached it.

“You actually came.”

Thatcher turned around quickly, the voice startling him enough to instinctively hold his hand close to his firearm. He turned towards one of the corners, seeing a man leaned against the wall, holding his arms close to his torso, clearly cold despite wearing a thick, turtleneck sweater. Thatcher looked up at the man’s face, his intense stare and low brows feeling familiar, though it took a few moments for Thatcher’s mind to finally connect the dots.

Arthur.

“Mr. Heathcliff.” Thatcher stated, almost surprised to see the man after so long.

Arthur’s eyes had dark rings around him, and his blank, yet irritated stare didn’t wane. “Lieutenant.” He responded, as if saying the word was some sort of profanity.

“Why did you call me here?” Thatcher questioned as Arthur stepped away from the wall, approaching Thatcher yet keeping his distance.

“I needed to…talk about some things.” Arthur said. “With you.”

“How did you even get my number?”

“Asked around.”

Thatcher remained silent, not super confident that who he was looking at was human like it seemed.

“…It’s…quiet tonight, isn’t it?” Arthur stated, looking through the window, past the parking lot and towards the lights in the distance from the town.

“What are you even doing up here?” Thatcher questioned, standing beside Arthur as he stares at the priest with a look of mild annoyance.

“It has the best view.” Arthur stated simply. “I come up here to…get my mind off of things, y’know?”

Thatcher gazed out into the distance through the window; Arthur was right about the view being nice at least, though it was hard to make out anything outside of the light from the lamp-posts.

“Though tonight, I couldn’t help but think.” Arthur continued, turning to face Thatcher with the same, almost angry look in his eyes he’s had the entire time. “…It’s been…what, nearly 3 years now?”

“…Since what?”

“…Since Mark went missing.”

The mention of the Mark Heathcliff case sent a shock to Thatcher’s system, making him skip a breath. He couldn’t respond, with an all-too familiar feeling of dread and guilt beginning to creep up inside of him.

“I’ve…been thinking about it…nonstop lately.” Arthur explained. “And I just…is he…dead, or not?”

Thatcher remained silent, staring at Arthur with a tinge of sadness added to his tired stare.

“…Well?” Arthur appeared impatient. “Is he?”

“We did all we could.” Thatcher stated, trying to cover up the uncertainty in his voice. “We…never found anything.”

“…Of course.” Arthur said under his breath, barely audible enough for Thatcher to hear.

Thatcher felt the weight of the thick air of guilt and anger around him, with the silence making it feel heavier than ever. Arthur crossed his arms, looking through the window as he thought to himself.

“…God teaches to…forgive and forget.” Arthur said quietly. “To love thy neighbor…to forgive thine enemies.” Arthur turned towards Thatcher, his face barely lit by the light outside and the light from the lantern. “But for some reason I can’t bring myself to forgive you.”

“I’m not asking to be forgiven.” Thatcher responded plainly. “…I understand what—”

“No, you don’t.” Arthur glared at Thatcher, lowering his arms as he faced the lieutenant. “Do you know how much I’ve lost? Mark runs off, and because of that, I lose the only people in my life that matter.” Arthur paused, taking in a deep breath. “…Leah and Sarah moved to Bythorne recently, you know that? Left me here…to just…rot. To try and figure out how to…fix all this.”

“I tried to help you and your family the best I could,” Thatcher responded. “I’ve done all I possibly could to try and solve this case, but I’ve already told you, we found nothing.”

“Right.” Arthur nodded, though it didn’t feel genuine. “So you ignoring the many disappearances in this town and brushing everything under the rug is you giving your all?”

Thatcher couldn’t even get a word in as Arthur continued.

“I’ve tried to forget about this; to move on and just live my life the way the Lord above wants me to,” Arthur stepped towards Thatcher, who backed away a few steps. “But it keep coming back to me, ALL of this. I’m trying to keep up a sense that I’m alright even though everything in my life is falling apart, all because you couldn’t do your God damned job.”

“You don’t think I’ve given everything to solving this case?” Thatcher snapped back.

“You failed to find him, Davis.” Arthur accused. “You barely did anything to help aside from twiddle your thumbs and take some of Mark’s junk. At least the other cop tried to help Leah as she went through the worst event of her life; but what did you do?”

“Arthur, you don’t understa—”

“I’ve lost more than you could ever know due to your negligence,” Arthur interrupted, standing in front of the window, the light from outside hitting his back. “I lost Leah, and now I won’t even be able to see my own daughter grow up. All because you didn’t do anything to he—”

“Ruth is dead because of this case.”

Thatcher felt the words leave his mouth, his tone sour and hateful. Arthur appeared to pause for a moment, at least giving Thatcher time to speak. “At least…that’s what everyone else thinks. She…I lost her, and…I don’t know where she went. I tried my fucking hardest to fix things, but now only more people are gone because of it. Arthur, I know what it’s like to lose what’s closest to you because I’ve gone through the same thing.”

Silence fell between the two, leaving them to stare at each other in a hateful silence. At least, until Arthur started speaking again.

“…All I want is to have my family back, yet you won’t even help me with that.” Arthur continued. “If you find Mark…then maybe I’d be able to have it back—”

“You talk about Mark like he’s a burden.” Thatcher stated. “Like he’s just a prop that will fix everything in your life. Do you truly even care about him?”

Arthur stood in shocked silence, staring at Thatcher with an appalled stare for a tad too long for comfort.

“Do you?” Thatcher questioned. “Or did you just want to make another you.”

“I did.” Arthur claimed. “I…I did love him. He was my son; you think I didn’t love my own flesh and blood?”

“I never got the impression that you did.”

“God damn you, Davis.” Arthur said quietly. “I hope God will have mercy on your soul.”

“I’m not religious.”

“You bastard.” Arthur said, his tone hateful as he clenched his fists. “I’ve tried all I could, and I can only hope God will forgive me for having the hate I feel towards you. This town is in shambles because of you! All because you refuse to help those you claim to protect!”

Arthur stepped towards Thatcher, who stood his ground as he grew closer.

“If you won’t do anything, I will.” Arthur claimed. “And I know that God will reign by the end of this! I know that these ‘alternates’ will cower away from his light! And by the end you will be left alone, all because of your own mistakes!”

“Get away from me.” Thatcher growled as Arthur continued to step closer.

“By God, I’ll show everyone just how much of a coward you are!” Arthur yelled. “You failed to help the vulnerable, and now you will suffer the consequences of your actions!”

“Step BACK!” Thatcher shoved Arthur away with one of his arms before turning away. He went to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of a surprised yell behind him. He swung around, seeing that Arthur was gone, leaving only an empty, cold room behind. He heard screaming outside of the window, fading away for a second before he heard the sound of a sickening crack that sent a chill up Thatcher’s spine.

Its wide eyes stared at the open arched window in silence. Its face was a shade paler, with its eyes unblinking and its jaw slack. He couldn’t even believe just what happened, wondering if it was just a dream or nightmare. It went to fast for him to even process the events that transpired, with all that was left being a feeling of pure shock and a rapidly beating heart.

Thatcher couldn’t even bring himself to move as he stared at the open window, with the silence feeling all encompassing, choking out whatever words Thatcher could possibly say. He stumbled backwards, looking down to see the trapdoor leading into the stairwell before he silently, yet hesitantly, began stepping down the stairs, shutting the trapdoor above him.

As he frantically descended the stairwell, only one thought ran through his head, over and over like a skipping record: “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” He couldn’t even process what he was feeling as he entered the auditorium, running into the middle aisle before rushing towards the front doors. He froze when he reached them, staring at the wood before he pressed down his sudden pensiveness and pushed open the door.

He walked out of the church in silence, staring at the pavement, feeling as if he couldn’t even force himself to look to his right in fear of what he’d see when he did. It continued to stare at its feet before forcing itself to look up and forward, his eyes not blinking once despite the growing stinging feeling from the cold. He turned to his left, walking up the stairs to get to the parking lot, staring at the ground as he walked to his car. He unlocked the driver’s side door, opening it and stepping into his car as he silently stared at nothing in particular. He started the vehicle, finally looking out his windshield, staring towards the bottom of the west tower. He froze, staring at the crimson blood dripping onto the pure white snow from above. He quickly looked away, hands trembling as he grasped the steering wheel. He drove out of the parking lot the fastest he could. He knew the guilt of what happened was going to take hold of him later on, but at that moment, he thought of nothing more than going home and trying to grasp the situation.

All he knew was he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon.

February 13th, 7:16 AM.

Thatcher blankly stared forward, his mouth covered by his hand as the light from the television reflected off of his wide open, bloodshot eyes. He sat in a dark living room, all the curtains pulled over the windows and the lights off. He watched, not blinking once as the news program played in front of his face.

“—Right now we are following the breaking news at the St. Gabriel’s church, where the priest of aforementioned church, Arthur Heathcliff was found dead on the property just this morning. Our reporters are at the scene now, with the most up-to-date news on the situation.”

The camera changed to shots of the church from a distance as another broadcaster spoke over the footage.

“We are currently at the St. Gabriel’s church, right on the border of Werksha and Mandela county, where a nearby home-owner reported that they heard screaming at around 11:45 last night. The scene is closed to the public until further notice, with the circumstances of the death remaining unkno—”

Click.

Thatcher shut off the Television, delving the room into near complete darkness. He stared at the black screen, his breath quiet and his mind blank. He was going to be called about this as soon as he went to work; he knew it. He didn’t move from his spot on the couch, instead hunching over and clasping his hair with his hands. He thought to himself, wondering how many more people were going to die due to his own mistakes; how many more people were going to suffer while he was on the force. The image of Arthur’s body, hanging from where it was impaled on a metal cross was burned in Thatcher’s mind, refusing to leave no matter how hard he tried to get it out. He hadn’t slept the previous night, remembering the hauntingly vacant stare and look of horror on the body’s face.

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t handle being the cause of more and more pain and death. The next time he went to work would be his last. Thatcher was a coward, and now, he knew it, so the only option he felt would help people, was to quit. He was sorry; so deeply sorry for everything he did, and everything he failed to do. He just hoped the next lieutenant would be better than he was.

He was no lieutenant, just a scared boy with a gun.

How ironic.

#the mandela catalogue #mandela catalogue #tmc #tmc home sweet home au #arthur heathcliff (tmc)#hsh thatcher #character death tw #blood tw #shmorp writes sometimes #Yippie!! Thatcher has a bad day the au!!!! /VVLH HJ #I feel like this fic speaks for itself so i'm not sure what else to add that won't hint at anything in it- /lh #So. read it. now /LHJ NF

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