#Web Wall Cladding Design

[stoneartbyskl]

Top 5 Reasons to Choose Wall Cladding Solutions

In the realm of interior and exterior design, wall cladding has emerged as a popular and effective method to enhance the aesthetic appeal of any space. Wall cladding solutions offer a versatile and durable way to transform plain walls into stunning works of art. Among the plethora of options available, natural Indian marble and Indian sandstone stand out as exceptional materials for wall cladding. Here, we explore the top five reasons to choose wall cladding solutions, focusing on the best decorative wall claddings designs offered by Stone Art By SKL.

1. Aesthetic Versatility with Best Decorative Wall Cladding

One of the most compelling reasons to opt for wall cladding solutions is the sheer variety of decorative designs available. Wall cladding can be tailored to suit any aesthetic preference, from contemporary to classic, minimalist to extravagant. The best decorative wall cladding transforms ordinary walls into captivating visual elements that enhance the overall ambiance of a space.

Ripple Wave Wall Cladding Design

Ripple wave wall cladding design is an excellent choice for those seeking a dynamic and fluid aesthetic. The undulating patterns create a sense of movement and depth, making walls appear lively and textured. This design is particularly effective in modern interiors where a touch of elegance and sophistication is desired. Stone Art By SKL offers ripple wave designs crafted from natural Indian marble, providing a luxurious and timeless look.

Bamboo Wall Cladding Design

For a more organic and nature-inspired aesthetic, bamboo wall cladding design is an ideal option. This design mimics the appearance of bamboo stalks, bringing a sense of calm and tranquility to any space. The natural hues of Indian sandstone used in this design add warmth and earthiness, making it perfect for creating a serene and inviting atmosphere.

Flower Wall Cladding Design

Flower wall cladding design introduces a touch of floral charm and elegance to interior spaces. This design features intricate floral patterns that can transform a plain wall into a beautiful mural. Utilizing natural Indian marble, Stone Art By SKL crafts exquisite flower wall cladding that exudes luxury and grace. This design is particularly suited for spaces where a soft, feminine touch is desired, such as bedrooms and living areas.

Geometric Wall Cladding Patterns

Geometric wall cladding patterns are a popular choice for those who appreciate modern and abstract designs. These patterns can range from simple shapes to complex configurations, creating a striking visual impact. Stone Art By SKL offers a variety of geometric patterns using Indian sandstone, providing a contemporary and stylish look that enhances the architectural features of any space.

Zigzag Wall Cladding Design

The zigzag wall cladding design is perfect for adding a sense of movement and energy to a space. This design features sharp, angular lines that create a dynamic and bold statement. Using natural Indian marble, Stone Art By SKL crafts zigzag wall cladding that is both visually stunning and durable. This design is ideal for modern interiors looking for a touch of uniqueness and creativity.

2. Durability and Longevity with Natural Materials

Another significant advantage of choosing wall cladding solutions, especially those crafted from natural Indian marble and Indian sandstone, is their durability and longevity. These natural materials are renowned for their strength and resilience, making them ideal for both interior and exterior applications.

Natural Indian Marble

Natural Indian marble is celebrated for its timeless beauty and exceptional durability. It is resistant to scratches, stains, and moisture, ensuring that the wall cladding retains its pristine appearance for years to come. Marble's natural veining and color variations add a unique character to each piece, ensuring that no two installations are exactly alike. Stone Art By SKL sources the finest Indian marble to create wall cladding solutions that are not only aesthetically pleasing but also built to last.

Indian Sandstone

Indian sandstone is another robust material that offers excellent durability and resistance to weathering. It is particularly well-suited for exterior wall cladding due to its ability to withstand harsh environmental conditions. Sandstone's natural texture and earthy tones make it a popular choice for creating a rustic and natural look. Stone Art By SKL uses high-quality Indian sandstone to craft wall cladding that is both beautiful and enduring.

3. Easy Maintenance and Care

One of the practical benefits of wall cladding solutions is the ease of maintenance they offer. Natural materials like Indian marble and sandstone are relatively easy to clean and maintain, making them a convenient choice for busy homeowners and commercial spaces.

Cleaning and Upkeep

Regular cleaning of wall cladding is straightforward and typically involves wiping down the surface with a damp cloth to remove dust and dirt. For more thorough cleaning, a mild detergent solution can be used. Both Indian marble and sandstone are resistant to mold and mildew, further reducing the maintenance requirements. Stone Art By SKL provides comprehensive care instructions to ensure that your wall cladding remains in excellent condition.

Repair and Restoration

In the unlikely event that wall cladding becomes damaged, natural materials are relatively easy to repair. Chips and scratches can often be polished out or filled in with matching material. Stone Art By SKL offers repair and restoration services to keep your wall cladding looking as good as new, ensuring that your investment continues to provide aesthetic and functional benefits over the long term.

4. Eco-Friendly and Sustainable Choice

Choosing wall cladding solutions made from natural materials is also an environmentally friendly decision. Natural Indian marble and Indian sandstone are sustainable options that have a lower environmental impact compared to synthetic materials.

Sustainable Sourcing

Stone Art By SKL is committed to sustainable sourcing practices, ensuring that the materials used for wall cladding are extracted responsibly. The use of natural stone reduces the reliance on synthetic materials that can be harmful to the environment. Additionally, natural stone is a recyclable material, further contributing to its sustainability.

Energy Efficiency

Wall cladding can also contribute to the energy efficiency of a building. Natural stone has excellent thermal properties, helping to regulate indoor temperatures by retaining heat in the winter and staying cool in the summer. This can lead to reduced energy consumption for heating and cooling, making wall cladding a smart choice for environmentally conscious homeowners and businesses.

5. Enhancing Property Value

Investing in high-quality wall cladding solutions can significantly enhance the value of a property. Beautifully designed and expertly installed wall cladding adds a touch of luxury and sophistication that can make a lasting impression on potential buyers or tenants.

Aesthetic Appeal

The aesthetic appeal of wall cladding cannot be overstated. It can transform an ordinary space into an extraordinary one, making it more attractive and inviting. The use of premium materials like natural Indian marble and Indian sandstone further elevates the perceived value of a property. Stone Art By SKL’s stunning wall cladding designs can create focal points that capture attention and admiration.

Functional Benefits

In addition to its visual appeal, wall cladding offers practical benefits that enhance the overall functionality of a space. The durability and low maintenance requirements of natural stone cladding mean that properties are likely to require fewer repairs and upkeep, which is a significant selling point. Furthermore, the insulation properties of natural stone can lead to lower energy bills, adding to the long-term financial benefits.

Marketability

Properties with high-quality wall cladding are more marketable and can command higher prices in the real estate market. Potential buyers or tenants are often willing to pay a premium for homes and commercial spaces that feature beautiful and durable wall cladding. Stone Art By SKL’s reputation for excellence in design and craftsmanship ensures that their wall cladding solutions are a valuable addition to any property.

Conclusion

Wall cladding solutions offer a multitude of benefits that make them an attractive option for enhancing the aesthetic and functional qualities of any space. The best decorative wall cladding designs, such as ripple wave, bamboo, flower, geometric patterns, and zigzag designs, provide a wide range of styles to suit different preferences and settings. The use of natural Indian marble and Indian sandstone ensures durability, ease of maintenance, eco-friendliness, and long-lasting beauty. By choosing wall cladding solutions from a reputable manufacturer like Stone Art By SKL, you can transform your property into a visually stunning and highly valuable asset. Whether you are looking to renovate your home or upgrade a commercial space, wall cladding is a worthwhile investment that delivers impressive returns in both form and function.

[shybunnie20]

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

★Teaser ★My Masterlist

Summary: Eddie is catapulted into the world of fame and temptation as he pursues the opportunity of a lifetime. However, he underestimates the cost of stardom and subsequently pays the price, one that takes a toll on more than just his career.

Author's Note: It's time to sprinkle some dark tones with a dash of fluff into the mix. Enjoy!

AU with no Upside Down. No use of Y/N. Established relationship. Heavy angst with bittersweet ending. Eddie is 21.

Word count: 15.7k

Warnings: MDNI 18+, substance abuse/addiction, depictions of depression, analogies relating to death, mentions of sex and suggestive moments, includes swearing.

The Hideout, in all its historic glory. The booth seats are weathered and splintered, each having housed countless conversations for over a decade. Stubbornly sticky floors cling to every shoe sole, and exposed piping makes for a rusted, industrial web. Last but not least, the unmistakable pounding of live music seeps out onto the street.

The stage itself is a basic platform, constructed from wooden planks that’ve seen their fair share of acts. Positioned closest to the brick wall is Gareth’s drum kit, gleaming with a metallic sheen that contrasts the muted tones of the room. Center stage, a microphone stands tall with Eddie’s hand gripped around it. Jeff and Donny play nearby, their amps standing guard on stage left and right. Their amplifiers wear marks of use, covered in peeling stickers and the scars of reckless transportation.

Melodies are skillfully coaxed from the strings of Eddie’s guitar in the sweltering lights. They envelop him, casting a golden glow that glistens in the rivulets of sweat dripping from his temple. His hand-cut muscle shirt, once a light gray, now clings to his torso in dark-soaked patches.

His senses are attuned to every note strummed and the subtleties of his bandmates’ musicianship. From beneath his damp bangs, Eddie steals glances at his friends with a dancing smile. Their expressions mirror his, reflecting the visceral connection that was forged in the crucible of tiresome rehearsals.

The room is relatively empty apart from the bar stools inhabited by regular patrons who are three sheets to the wind. Only one solitary figure occupies a corner table. His face features a thick, meticulously groomed mustache; a throwback to an era where a well-defined stache symbolized nerve and authority. His balding crown and the strap of sparse hair framing the sides of his head pair fittingly with the bags beneath his deep-set, beady eyes. The dark circles act as badges of dedication, a reminder that success comes at a cost.

He stands out like a sore thumb among the hard-up regulars who are clad in their button-up plaids and tattered trucker hats. The man’s style of dress consists of a woven suit jacket, a black polo shirt, and dark slacks. An expensive designer belt completes the ensemble, marking the presence of professionalism.

He’s exuding an aura of casual arrogance as he watches the boys play their hearts out. He possesses an eye for discovering the next big thing, and his gold mine is diamonds in the rough. Eddie has a type of potential that, if adequately nurtured and harnessed, can rake in a lot of dough. Calculating the possibilities that lay ahead, he not only sees an amateur artist on this stage but a malleable asset that he can shape to fit the demands of the industry. It’s no walk in the park to whip a small-town boy into showbiz shape, but he’s capable.

Guys like Eddie are hungry for recognition and starving to make something of themselves. That’s all he requires to work his magic. At this moment, watching Eddie play like it’s the sole purpose of his existence, he can practically smell the crisp wads of cash Eddie will bring in.

As the final chords of Corroded Coffin's instruments dissipate into the dusty air, a lingering hum resonates. The room remains void of applause and the gentleman patiently bides his time in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to make a move.

Gareth is focused on disassembling his drum kit while his bandmates move their equipment into the back alleyway. He’s taken aback when a hairy hand extends toward him and he looks up at the man with a furrowed brow.

“Rodney Bellissimo, Bell Records,” he announces proudly. “But folks call me Mo.”

Gareth’s eyes widen as the words register. “Hi,” He shakes the man’s hand, forgetting to wipe his clammy palms on his jeans first.

Mo conceals his disgust from the soupy contact. "I've been on this scene for a while and I think what you guys have going on here is promising.”

“Holy shit, you think so?"

Mo rests his hands on his hips. "Absolutely. Do you got a way for me to reach you? I'd like to talk over some potential opportunities."

“Yeah, um-” Gareth scrambles, patting himself down. “One sec,” he hurries over to the bar, snags a napkin and ballpoint pen, and scribbles while striding back over to the stage. “Here’s all of our phone numbers.”

Mo accepts the napkin and tucks it in his inner breast pocket. “Thanks, I'll be in touch.”

Just as Mo turns to leave, Gareth shouts, “Wait!” he digs through his army green messenger bag. “We don’t have a demo or anything official like that, but this was a recent rehearsal,” he hands over a cassette tape.

Mo takes the tape and shakes it in the air, the reels rattling noisily. “I’ll be sure to give it a listen.”

As the man turns his back and leaves the bar, Gareth’s pulse spikes. He leaps off of the stage and bolts past the restrooms. His sneakers skid on the smooth floor, causing him to trip, but he recovers and carries onward. He bursts through the heavy metal door with a thud and the stiff hinges scream into the alleyway.

Jeff and Donny’s heads turn in unison. In the back of his van, Eddie is equally as startled and smacks his head on the roof. “Ow, Christ!” he exclaims, stepping onto the pebbled pavement and rubbing the tender spot on his skull. “Dude, what the hell?”

“Guys,” Gareth wheezes, his breath escaping in short bursts. "You’re not gonna believe what just happened.”

Eddie folds his arms across his chest. “Whatever it is, it better be worth the goddamn concussion you just gave me.”

“It is,” Gareth hops off of the steps. “Some record dude in a suit just said he liked our set.”

Among the group, Eddie alone received a call. Now his disbelief bleeding into reality as the plane rolls down the runway. He clutches your hand for dear life, anxious as hell due to the unfamiliar rumbling and vibrations. With your presence reassuring him, Eddie can manage until the turbulence subsides. Gradually, he relaxes.

Unable to resist the allure of the window seat, he pleads with you to switch places. “Holy shit,” he chuckles in amazement, watching the fluffy sky marshmallows pass by. “This is insane.”

The landing goes somewhat smoother for him, though it’s not without nervous moments. The plane becomes stationary and is fairly quiet, but his composure shatters when he startles at your fellow passengers bursting into spontaneous applause. Eddie scowls, embarrassed for being so jumpy over something ridiculous like clapping. In his defense, nobody told him that was a thing.

After being taxied to your destination, the two of you arrive at a sun-soaked building. The receptionist directs you down the hall to the left. Walking hand in hand, you marvel at the framed gold and platinum records that adorn the walls.

Finally reaching the door, Eddie turns to you. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he confesses. “I’m seriously about to meet the Poison Blade,” Eddie blinks rapidly. “Okay, yep! I can’t do this, I absolutely cannot do this.”

You reel him back by the hand when he turns to leave. “You can and you’re about to. If anybody can handle this it’s you.”

He has yet to grasp that he’s here, auditioning to fill in for Nick Karr, who recently left the band. Eddie read about it in various magazines, some speculating about what the lead guitarist’s substance of choice was. After the initial rumors spread, an inside source revealed that Nick was in rehab for using narcotics; happens to the best of ‘em.

Eddie sucks in a deep breath and blows with puffed cheeks and pursed lips. After summoning the courage to open the door, he steps into the dimly lit, windowless room. The knots in his stomach get impossibly tighter when the door slams closed.

A cigarette is pinched between the black-painted fingernails of the lead singer. He’s seated at the mixing desk while he chats with the shaggy-haired bassist who’s sitting a few feet away on a loveseat. The heavily tattooed drummer occupies the swivel chair beside the frontman, patting out a rhythm on his thighs. Mo stands nearby, attentively listening to the nicotine-fueled rant.

The bassist’s distant stare is the first to flit in your direction. Eddie squeezes your hand so tensely that your fingertips go numb. As dominoes of awareness fall one after another, a collective acknowledgment of your presence falls upon the room. 

The singer spins around and takes a drag from his cigarette. “Which one is this?” he asks, looking you over and then doing the same to Eddie.

“This here is Ed Munson, Indiana’s best,” Mo offers a polite smile and strides across the room. He extends his hand to Eddie exactly as he did to Gareth just weeks ago. 

Eddie stares at Mo’s sausage fingers and expensive wristwatch while returning the greeting. “Yeah, yes. I uh- go by Eddie actually,” he babbles. “But you can call me Ed if you want, that’s cool too. Whatever’s clever.”

The bassist shakes his head and snickers. Mo disregards the man’s reaction entirely, not batting an eye. “I’m glad you could make it,” his focus shifts to you. “I see you’ve brought a guest.”

“This is my girl,” Eddie nudges you, sending a small smile along with it. “Had to bring my muse along for the ride.”

“Right,” Mo says without a hint of intrigue and carries on. “As I'm sure you’re well aware, these are the guys,” he strides away and clamps his meaty hand on the drummer’s shoulder. “This here is Tommy,” Mo motions toward the other two members. “And that’s Bobby and Crash.”

With a forgotten breath, Eddie’s words pour out. "W-Wow, I mean I've been following your music for like ever and it's fucking unreal to be here right now. Listen, I don’t wanna be that guy, but can I just say that I’m such a huge fan. ‘Where Dreams Go to Die’ is the song that honestly changed my life. It’s the whole reason why I started playing in the first place. I’ve listened to it like a bajillion times. Seriously, Born 2B Wreckless is one of my top five favorite albums ever. I even have your tour posters on my-”

You turn your head toward him and whisper, “Baby, be cool.”

Eddie snaps his mouth shut, withholding any further details that could embarrass the shit out of him. “It’s an honor to be here.”

Crash smirks. “You’ve got good taste, my friend. Wrote most of that album myself.”

The flaking leather sofa creaks as Bobby leans forward. In a carelessly hushed tone, he sighs, “It feels like this is never gonna end. How many more are there?”

“Suck it up, Bobby Boy,” Todd snorts and glances at the list of crossed-out names resting on the mixing board. “Two more after this.”

The bassist groans and sinks back, propping his head up on his fist. Crash’s hands forcefully meet, sending a sharp clap through the room. “Alright, let's get this show on the road then. Do you know the chorus to ‘Too Far Gone’ or do you need sheet music?”

Eddie shakes his head enthusiastically. “No way, I could even play it blindfolded if you wanted me to.”

“Grand,” Crash gestures to the booth’s door. “Hop in and give it a go.” “Totally. Okay, yeah. Shit,” Eddie presses a swift kiss to your interlocked fingers, releases your hand, and steps into the recording booth.

Feeling a bit awkward as you remain standing by the door alone, you’re uncertain of where to park yourself. Ideally, you’d like to be as inconspicuous as possible. The last thing you need is to ruin everything by tripping over a cord or something.

Bobby senses that you’re uneasy judging by the look on your face. He brings his extended leg closer to the other, making room on the couch as a silent invitation for you to sit. You scurry over and take a seat, unable to squeak out a thanks or a mere hello. Your posture is rigid and demure, despite there being ample space for you to sit comfortably.

Under the weight of the headphones, Eddie’s plush curls are flattened. He beams at you through the large pane of glass and flashes a thumbs up. Crash instructs him to use the provided guitar. As the track’s beat floods Eddie’s ears, his anxiety overpowers his dexterity, causing him to fall behind the tempo.

Crash abruptly cuts the music, and Eddie’s eyes bulge as he looks out, terrified that he’s just screwed his only chance at making it big. However, with a whirl of Crash’s tattooed index finger, Eddie’s worry dissipates when the track is rewound and begins once more.

On the edge of your seat, literally and figuratively, you watch Eddie collect himself and keep up this time. The tension wracking your entire being is exacerbated by Mo loudly chewing his gum, but it seems that you’re the only one bothered by it. A smug smile splits his patchy stubble as he boasts to the men that this nobody he discovered is the real deal.

The guys are less than obvious about how impressed they are. Compared to the other chumps who have auditioned ahead of him, Eddie stands out. Sure, he’ll need to clean up his playing a bit and could more than likely use some vocal lessons, but these are doable things. After all, he’s already got the look and an undeniable eagerness to prove himself.

After they’ve heard all they need from him, he steps out of the booth. Mo pats him on the back, “You handled yourself well in there.”

“Oh, thanks,” Eddie grins bashfully, fiddling with his cross-shaped ring.

Todd says, “You’ve got some chops, man. You’re definitely someone I’d be down to jam with.”

A snort comes from the far end of the couch. Bobby crosses his arms, eyeballing Eddie’s flushed face. “Yeah, good job, kid. You’d make a fine addition,” the corner of his mouth quirks up. “If only we wouldn’t have to schedule our rehearsals around your bedtime,” he chuckles to himself. “Seriously, how old are you, anyway? 17?”

“Bobby, shut your yap,” Mo barks. “Ed, we’ve got some things to consider, but be sure to keep an ear on your telephone.”

You scramble to your feet as your boyfriend is ushered to the door. The polite side of you considers turning around to bid everyone farewell, but you decide against it, considering they never even bothered to say hello.

Mo did get in touch with Eddie and since then, he put pen to paper and sold his soul to the music industry. He’s been in LA for about a week now, familiarizing himself with the lay of the land and learning how to work a real crowd. His first show with the band is tonight and the pressure is on. Currently, he’s seated at the brightly lit vanity in his dressing room. Eddie fluffs his mane, admiring the bounce after having gotten a fancy schmancy conditioning treatment. “Baby,” he calls out.

“Hmm?” You finish folding the clothes that he just changed out of.

Eddie stretches a strand and watches it spring back into a coil. “Can you do my eyeliner for me?”

“What, worried you’ll look like a raccoon if you do it?” You approach the vanity, but Eddie slips out of his seat and moves to the armchair instead. Quirking your brow at him brings a devilish look to his face. “Is this necessary?”

Eddie pats his thigh, to which you sit on his lap with your legs off to one side. “Very much so,” he wraps his arms around your waist and smacks a wet kiss on your cheek. “You’ll get optimal lighting right here.”

“I’d confidently argue that it’s worse,” you counter, watching the chocolate puddles in his eyes swirl. Heat blooms across your skin as he rubs your hip with the comforting swipe of his thumb.

“Perhaps, but this view is way better for me so,” He hands over the jet-black pencil.

“Uh huh,” You run the liner across the back of your hand to warm the product. His lashes flutter closed in response to you tipping his chin up.

“Don’t go poking my eye out with that thing,” Eddie teases, peeking one eye open and smiling at your faux scowl.

“I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for committing such an atrocity,” you rest your wrist on his cheekbone and gently swipe the pencil across his lash line. “Not when you’ve got such pretty eyes.”

He forces air out of his nose. “Careful with the flattery, sweetheart. It’ll go straight to my head.”

“Believe me, I know,” You affirm, licking your thumb and smudging the product.

“Are you tryna get me all riled up before I have to go on stage?”

“It’s only fair.”

Eddie’s chest rumbles with curiosity. “How so?”

“Because,” you switch to his other eye, your wrist now resting across the bridge of his nose. “This look is really doing it for me,” your tone is playful, but the interlaced confession is clear as day. You finish by using the same thumb to smudge the liner.

Sensing the loss of your touch, Eddie looks into your eyes. “Oh, yeah?” he squeezes the dough of your hip and licks his lips. “Tell me what it’s doin’ for you, baby,” his right arm stays in place while the other finds its way to the top of your thigh. “Is it makin’ you feel needy?”

“Yeah,” The breath has been stolen from your lungs as you lean into his chest. You can’t help but squirm in his lap when his fingers grope your thigh. “Maybe a little.” 

The friction causes a groan to rattle from his throat. “Fuck,” he sighs, sounding just as winded as you do. “You gotta be a good girl and wait,” Eddie presses his nose against yours. “Can you do that for me?”

“I’ll try,” you whine, your nails grazing the sensitive skin on the nape of his neck. “It’s not like I have much of a choice.”

A smile crawls onto his lips as Eddie slides his hand under your shirt and grasps at your waist.

“No! Your hands are freezing!” you cry out, instinctively trying to fight the shock. With a pained giggle, you pout at him. “You’re so mean.”

“Who, me?” he purrs, tugging you back against him.

“Yeah, you,” You smile shyly. His embrace is overwhelmingly gentle, yet secure all the same. Your lips hover over his, breaths dancing, and he seals the kiss; a promise for the passionate evening he’s going to treat you to as soon as he has the chance.

The way that you return the kiss just as hungrily tells him that you would let him take you right here, right now if he could. Your intensity only spurs him on, the exhale from his nose fanning hotter against your cheek. “Such a needy baby,” he fawns before stealing one more kiss, this one no less fervent than the last.

You nod in agreement and just then, the dressing room door is wrapped on and he’s being called to the stage. “Knock 'em dead,” You encourage while sliding off of his lap.

Eddie gets to his feet and caresses your cheeks with both of his hands. “Thank you for being here,” he brings you to his chest and kisses the top of your head. “It means the world to me.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it,” you snuggle up to him, but when you realize that he’s not budging, you have to pry him off of you. “Go! You’re gonna be late.”

“Okay, okay,” Eddie walks to the door and turns around, pointing his ringed finger in your direction with a smirk. “Behave yourself, little missy. I mean it.”

The show goes well. Really well, in fact. Eddie commands the audience all while playing exceptionally. His energy encourages his bandmates to kick it up a notch, making for an electrifying performance. After they play their final song and step off of the stage, Eddie is immediately searching for you. When you lock eyes, he sprints over, scoops you up by your middle, and spins you around. The kiss is sticky, salty, and downright unforgettable. He’s so sweaty and sorry about it, but he’s never felt so much exhilaration in his life.

For the celebratory dinner to commemorate the evening, the guys opt for the area’s most expensive seafood restaurant. Eddie tries everything for the first time while wearing a paper bib with a large cartoon lobster on it. 

When he sucks back an oyster, his face displays flat-out repulsion and offense. To wash the taste and its consistency from his mind, Eddie indulges in a few too many drinks. By the end of it, you’re more or less carrying him back to the hotel room.

Eddie is in a state of total bliss with his belly full and mind fuzzy. He flops down on the cushy bed and smiles goofily at you. “I could get used to this,” he snorts drunkenly.

The next morning, a chauffeur takes both of you to the airport. You wish you could have more time together, but Eddie is leaving for the next city in a few hours. He’s officially a part of the band now, and they’re embarking on a cross-country tour. You want to be excited for him, you’re trying your best to be. But it’s a bummer that you can’t tag along.

Standing on the cracked pavement, you watch as Eddie lugs your suitcase from the trunk of the shiny black car. The bustle of intercom announcements, car doors slamming, and engines roaring overhead, all sound distant. Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears as you dread the impending separation, readying yourself to convince him that you’ll be okay for as long as he’s gone.

“Here,” Eddie unclasps the ball chain from his neck and steps forward to latch it around yours. “So you’ll have a little piece of me,” It’s a reminder that you’re on this journey together, even if you’re in different places for it.

“I’ll never take it off,” you promise, flipping the tortoiseshell pick between your fingers. “I wish I had something to give you.”

Eddie shakes his head, sending his frizzy hair flying in the breeze. “You’ve given me so much just by believing in me. Without you, I probably never would’ve flown on an airplane, much less joined my favorite fucking band.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, his appreciation effectively drawing you closer to him. “Have fun and be safe,” your last word turns into a squeal when he pulls your body against his. It feels good to have his face buried in your shoulder, so good that it’s riding the line of painful.

“God, I’m gonna miss that laugh,” he mumbles, the material of your shirt effectively dampening his voice. Eddie smothers himself and groans dramatically. “Gonna miss you so much.”

Without being able to understand what he’s saying, you can feel the heat of his breath hitting your skin. “You’ll stay out of trouble?”

Eddie clings to you a bit longer, filling his lungs with your scent. “You know I will,” he mumbles again before pulling back. “I wanna make you proud,” He kisses the tip of your nose and flashes a smile, the deep lines around his mouth emphasizing his sincerity.

“I already am, I’ve always been proud of you.”

“Then I’m gonna make you even more proud,” Eddie doubles down. “I’m gonna send you flowers and chocolates and all that shit, ‘kay? That way you’ll never have the chance to forget how much I love you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you roll your eyes, though you adore that he’s a hopeless romantic beneath his leather and chain exterior. “Just call me whenever you can.”

Eddie chuckles with you, but he’s dead serious about the gifts. “If a chirping telephone is thy heart’s desire, then thou shalt have it, my dearest.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, and I’ll make them the best damn phone calls you’ve ever had,” Eddie reassures, stroking the side of your neck with his thumb.

“I’m holding you to that,” you slowly pull away.

“You better,” Eddie says with reluctance, releasing you and picking up your suitcase. “Because otherwise, I’ll have to write the sappiest ballad you’ve ever heard just to make up for it.”

Looking down, you take your suitcase and fixate on the zipper, unable to acknowledge his playful remark.

Eddie lifts your chin to bring your gaze back to his. “You know I’m gonna miss you like hell, right?”

You nod sheepishly, fighting with all your might for the tears to remain unshed. “I’m gonna miss you too.”

“Give Shadow lots of treats for me.”

“Not a chance! She’s going on a diet as soon as I get home. You know she’s only fat because you give her a treat any time she even looks at you, right?”

“Can you blame me? She’s the cutest fucking cat in the world,” Eddie’s eyes glisten, accompanied by a bittersweet smile. He takes a deep breath, the exhale sounding sadder than he means for it to. “You better get going.”

“I suppose so. Well, goodbye,” Your throat tightens as you hold your breath.

Eddie sucks his teeth. “Not ‘bye,’ sweetheart. See you soon.”

Not soon enough. You try to keep it together as Eddie kisses your knuckles, and your heart sinks when his hand lets go of yours. A gnawing need for one last glance overcomes you while you walk away. Looking back, you find Eddie where you left him. A veil of tears drapes over your vision as you raise your hand, offering a partial wave.

He mirrors your final farewell and waits for you to disappear inside the building. Only when he can no longer see you does he release a heavy-hearted sigh and get back into the car.

Meanwhile, you’re standing in the TSA line with guilt clawing at you. How could you even entertain the thought of wanting him to miss out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity just to stay home? It wasn’t fair for you to even imagine it. As you inch forward, the tears sting your eyes. You understand what your job is, that you must be patient and await his return while he introduces himself to the world. You’re just going to have to learn to share.

This is going to be the best summer of his life thus far, excluding the one where he fell for you. Nothing will ever top that.

He kept his word for a while, calling nightly as often as he could. The gifts arrived on your doorstep just like he said. There were two dozen roses last week, and Swiss chocolates this week. You’d never tasted anything that sweet but it was unbelievably bitter too, because every gift marked another seven days gone by without him.

Whenever Eddie called, you refrained from burdening him with your feelings. The elation was always present in his voice when he told you about what he’d been up to. Regardless if there was thumping music, blaring car horns, or his speech was slurred, it was always evident how great of a time Eddie was having. You were unwilling to take that away from him by giving him a reason to worry. Independence surely hasn’t treated you as kindly as him.

The cicadas' songs are sung on high and the days stretch on too much for your liking. You lie around and wilt alongside the shriveled petals falling from the vase on the dining table. The unraveling doesn’t stop until you’re nothing but a raw, exposed stem.

As Eddie sails the U.S.S. Poison Blade, riding an all-consuming sea of fans and fame, you feel like a woman whose husband may never return home. Sleeping has never felt so lonely. The clean bed, soft against your skin, offers no relief. The cotton sheets no longer bear his scent, having undergone numerous wash cycles without the return of his presence to refresh it.

You’ve been stress cleaning, channeling your woes into tidying up the apartment more than ever before. From floor to ceiling, your place is spick and span. But, you can only rearrange the Tupperware cupboard so many times. You’ve crossed off item after item on your to-do lists. The point has been reached where you’ve run out of tasks to keep yourself occupied.

In the evenings, Shadow perches herself expectantly on the arm of the couch, awaiting Eddie’s return from work. It’s a daily occurrence for him to come home, kick off his boots, and she curls up in his lap. Eddie has been her favorite since the day you brought her home. You can’t blame her, he’s your favorite too.

During one of the calls that have become few and far between, you ask Eddie about a tabloid headline that you saw. He brushes it off, claiming that they come up with absurd shit to make a quick buck. Eddie assures you that he’s behaving himself, despite the paparazzi photo suggesting otherwise.

You’ve been meaning to talk about what’s next, but you’re too afraid to ask. Is he expecting you to move to LA once the tour ends? Will you have to leave your friends and family behind to be there with him?

Eddie’s concerns align with yours. He didn’t take the time to think this through. Joining one of the most successful metal bands in the country isn’t a temporary gig where he does one tour for fun and then returns to his ordinary life. That’s not how it works.

Day after day, Eddie lives without the promise of having you in his arms anytime soon. His responsibilities yank him every which way, and the only thing keeping him from packing up and running home to you is the damn contract he signed.

Eddie knows you’d never leave him, but there’s that cynical little voice in his head that tries to convince him otherwise. There’s a chance that you could find another guy to keep you company while he’s gone, someone who knows how to steal you away from him. Just the thought of it makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Great things keep happening and he finds himself with the urge to tell you, but he can’t get to a phone. When he does, he’s going to have to break the news that the tour has been extended. Worse yet, the Indianapolis date was moved another three months out. But Eddie doesn’t care how complicated this gets; he tells you that he’s going to do whatever it takes. “I know it sucks, baby. But if you can just wait a little longer, I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

The moving tour bus sways Eddie with a bumpy rocking motion, an unrelenting reminder that he’s not with you. It’s not even the shaking walls that are keeping him awake, it’s his running mind. He’s lying in his cramped bunk in the pitch darkness. He longs to see you and all he has to look at are his memories. With his eyes wide open, the space is as black as the backs of his eyelids. He tries to envision your sweet face but it’s fading.

Eddie thinks about the time that he swatted your butt with a wet dish towel. You chased him into the bedroom, pinned him down, and threatened to tickle him to death. It was an adequate threat, considering how ticklish he is. Eddie hates the way that it feels, but the sheer delight it brings you makes it worthwhile.

He allowed you to do it just so he could see that sparkle in your eyes. Eddie thought he’d have to flip you on your back to get you to stop, but that wasn’t the case. You showed him mercy by running your nails along his tender sides to soothe his nerves. One kiss led to another.

Eddie chuckles sadly to himself, desperate for the showers you take together after rolling around in the sheets. You bathe each other with wholehearted tenderness, the raw arousal burned away through exertion, leaving behind the silk-soft adoration. Mute with delicate smiles, you put each other back together after a night of clawing and nipping.

Time and time again, exhaustion and bliss weigh heavily on your eyes while his palms cover you with foamy suds. The scent of the body wash is so clean and pure compared to the unholy things you do to each other. The fresh and sweet aroma invades Eddie’s oxytocin-flooded brain, putting him in seventh heaven.

It’s the way you lean into him like you can’t possibly stand on your own while he pampers you, that’s what’s getting him right now. He doesn’t mind when you do that, he never will. Eddie finds every second of that routine intoxicating and he’ll never get sick of it. He’s willing to hold you upright forever if that means he gets to hold you at all.

The throbbing in his chest swells as tears roll, imagining how you rake conditioner through his curls and kiss his newly cleansed back. You handle him with such care, something that he’d never felt until he met you. Eddie could go for a shower like that right now. Actually, scratch that. What he really needs is sleep, but he can’t. He’s struggled with insomnia since his early teen years, and it wasn’t until much later that he finally found a way to fall asleep without fail.

Before you came along, Eddie often stared at his bedroom walls for what felt like hours. He’d swear that they would start to drip the longer he went without blinking. The first night that you spent together was an innocent sleepover, born out of infatuation that had taken hold. Neither of you wanted to part for longer than necessary.

As you prepared for bed with your usual process, he observed every action. You placed a glass of milky tap water on the nightstand and washed your face. It was captivating and Eddie wondered if adopting such habits would help him. But he wasn’t sure if a little bit of self-care would put an end to the tossing and turning.

You looked tired but beautiful with your refreshed complexion. Crawling into bed beside him, you whispered goodnight, and that was all it took. The amount of envy and privilege he felt was overwhelming—jealous that you could fall asleep so easily in a bed that you’ve never slept in and privileged that you trusted him enough to do so.

For what felt like an eternity, his thoughts ran amok. His mind refused to power down.

Around one in the morning, you stirred and found Eddie lying on his side facing you, zoned out. “Baby?” you called to him in your partially conscious state.

His eyes met yours, but the frustration in them was well hidden in the dark. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Eddie whispered and gently stroked the side of your head.

“You need to rest too,” You yawned, being lulled by his soothing touch.

Eddie pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, “I’ll try.”

“Just can’t?” You perked up with concern brought about by his crystal-clear tone.

“Nope. Nothing helps, either,” he rolled his lips in. “I’ve tried everything. Warm milk, exercise, getting so high that I can’t sit up straight,” Eddie shrugged. “I guess I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

You chuckled softly. “Have you tried reading?”

“Yup, it didn't work. I’m convinced that I broke my sleep bone or something.”

“Want me to try? I’ll read to you.”

“No, no. You close those gorgeous eyes of yours and go back to sleep,” He kissed your joined hands, praying that you wouldn’t deprive yourself just because he was defective.

You sat up and fisted the sleepiness from your vision. “What page did you leave off on?” 

Eddie wanted to rip the book from your grasp and chuck it across the room. But, the selfish part of him wanted to see if it would do the trick. “It’s bookmarked,” He sighed and watched as you propped yourself up and got situated. You held your arm out and Eddie crawled closer, wrapped his arm around your waist, and snuggled up to your tummy.

Your right hand held the book open and your left found the side of his head, gently scratching along his temple. He was instantly under your spell, his bones dense with comfort. Whenever your hand left his hair to turn the page, he involuntarily whined. When his breaths slowed, you knew that he was no longer awake. You smiled to yourself and closed your eyes, returning to your slumber with ease.

After that, Eddie no longer dreaded bedtime because you slept over regularly. That was the missing piece and there are no remedies that compare to the effect you have on him. This was something that Eddie overlooked while packing his bags for the tour. Now he’s sleep-deprived and half delirious while the nights flicker and bleed into each other. There’s not much that differentiates them but they’re all lawless. 

You know what they say, distance makes the heart grow fonder. It’s true in this case, but it’s a tortuous fondness that he can’t alleviate. Maybe you’ll hear him if he sings loud enough during the show tomorrow.

Eddie is having the time of his life, don’t get it twisted. But he’s in dire need of the love that illuminates him in a way that no spotlight ever will.

It’s still strange to hear his name hollered without being followed by a paint-filled water balloon. In Hawkins, he was the chewing gum on the bottom of the town’s shoe. Eddie’s reputation didn’t align with his character. If people had bothered to get to know him, they’d have realized that he was never as much of a troublemaker as he was made out to be. While there were a few instances of shoplifting, it was merely a manifestation of youthful impulse.

The things that he’s doing now—frequenting strip clubs, drinking bars dry,  kicking his feet up in VIP sections, attending mansion parties—are a stark departure from the tame acts of rebellion he’s committed in the past.

At a rowdy bar where the band was causing quite a bit of commotion, an officer was dispatched to address the situation and he gave them a hard time. In a wild turn of events, they managed to convince the cop to take shots with them. It wasn’t long until Crash and Todd yanked the baton from the man’s utility belt and were beating each other with it.

Too far gone to intervene with their antics, the cop could hardly speak. To make matters worse, the two knuckleheads wound up stealing his patrol car and drove it into a light post just yards down the street. That one wound up in the newspapers and magazines, though Eddie wasn’t named as being directly involved.

The people he’s around are the epitome of wild. They break bottles over each other’s heads, heave TV sets out of windows, and they’ve set their fair share of toilet bowls aflame.

Eddie isn’t even given the option to decline the time spent in titty bars. His bandmates usher him into the limo, leaving him no choice in the matter. That being said, resisting would jeopardize how they view him as a newcomer. Now that Eddie is rolling with the big hitters, he can’t take the bench just because his gut instinct is advising against the activities. Thanks to Todd’s signature potion called Diet T—tequila, grenadine, and lemonade with no sugar—Eddie’s inhibitions are fleeting.

Going to strip clubs didn’t sit right with him at first, especially when it came to getting private dances. But Crash offered a different angle that he hadn’t considered. They’re not strippers, they’re dancers whose instruments are their bodies. They’re just performers getting paid for putting on a show, much like the band. After it was painted in that light, Eddie started to feel less guilty about tucking bills into lycra g-strings and getting lap dances. It isn’t personal; it’s strictly business.

The best part of it all? He doesn’t have to be peer pressured anymore, he does it willingly. Todd told Eddie that he has nothing to feel bad about because he’s a rockstar now. He said that the normal relationship rules don’t apply here and there’s no way you’d even find out about any of it.

Eddie’s morals are taking consecutive sick days while he partakes in things he never imagined himself doing. Things he promised you he wouldn’t do and continues to deny having involvement in.

Abruptly awoken from his lifeless state, Eddie is startled by sloppy slaps delivered to his cheeks. He struggles to peel his eyes open, deterred by the pounding in his head. A brittle groan slips past his lips.

Bobby, frustrated by his unresponsive bandmate, vigorously shakes him by the shoulders. “Ed, we’ve gotta hit the road. Get your ass outta bed and put some clothes on.”

“No,” Eddie grunts in protest, yanking the spare pillow over his face. “Go away,” he exhales gravely.

Intervening swiftly, Bobby removes it. “I swear to god,” he implores, the irritation evident due to his hangover. “Quit fuckin’ around. I’m sick of gettin’ chewed out just ‘cause you get too messed up every night.”

“Don’t wanna,” Eddie croaks, clinging to the stale sheets. His movements are sluggish and his vision is bleary.

With the pillow still clutched in his fist, Bobby wails at Eddie’s gut with pitiful force. “Get- the- fuck- up-” He accentuates each word with a resounding smack.

Eddie reacts instinctively by jerking into the fetal position. “Alright, alright!” he flashes Bobby his palm, surrendering. “Lay off, Jesus Christ.”

The bashing ceases, and Bobby tosses the pillow onto the bed. “Mo is gonna lose his shit if we don’t land in Milwaukee on time,“ he scoops up a lone pair of pants and chucks them at Eddie.

“I could give two fucks about Milwaukee,” Eddie grumbles as he sits up at a snail’s pace. On the end table beside him sits a leftover glass of booze, a classic “hair of the dog” remedy. “And I could give a shit about being on schedule,” His words echo in the cup.

“You should give a shit. If we’re not actively flyin’ outta Indiana in 12 minutes-” Bobby gathers the scattered clothes from the floor and haphazardly throws them into the open suitcase. “We’ll never hear the fuckin’ end of it.”

Eddie’s brows furrow. “Hold up, we’re in Indiana?”

“Get up to speed, numb nuts,” Bobby huffs, slams the suitcase shut, and turns it right side up. “Put those fuckin’ pants on or so help me God.”

Eddie leans down and retrieves the jeans. He holds them out, struggling to orient them correctly. “Okay, Dad. Take a chill pill, will ya?” 

“Hah! Not after seein’ what they do to you,” Bobby turns to leave, satisfied that Eddie is getting a move on.

“Wait,” Eddie forces his leg into his jeans, the material flapping noisily. “What do you remember from last night?”

Bobby snorts. “Dude, you took anythin’ that was offered to you. I lost track after two tabs and a coupla lines,” he mimics the act of snorting by pressing his finger to his nostril. “Your lady must notta been too happy ‘bout it ‘cause she looked like she was gonna lose her shit. And not in the ‘I wanna punch you but I still love you way.’ I mean, she was really cryin’.”

Eddie looks down in thought. He manages to grasp a fleeting image of his hazy recollection, and it’s akin to looking at you through a thick pane of fragmented glass. The jagged shards refract the overhead light, obscuring the heartbroken expression on your features.

Suddenly he feels nauseous. It’s hard to tell whether his queasiness stems from the emotional tidal wave or the combination of substances he consumed a few hours ago. Whichever, he’s doing his damndest to suppress it because he doesn’t want to blow chunks first thing in the morning.

“Ten minutes, fuck face. I’m serious,” Bobby flips the bird on his way out of the room.

Eddie spots a silver chain hanging out of the front pocket of his jeans. His twitching fingers take hold of the brownish-red pick. “Oh no,” his eyes widen and his heart plunges into his stomach. “Oh shit. Fuck!” Eddie blurts as he scrambles to his feet, his joints creaking from the awkward position in which he slept. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The room is in shambles. A lamp lays on its side and the busted bulb is ground into the salmon-colored carpet. Bed sheets are strewn across the floor, the comforter is missing, and the pillow he rested on bears a large bloodstain from his nosebleed. Where the landline used to be attached to the wall is now a gaping hole and the phone itself is nowhere to be seen.

His breathing is labored as he scans his surroundings, desperately searching for his wallet. He’s uncertain if there’s even any change in it, but he’s dead-set on finding out. Eddie drops to his knees, reaching shoulder-deep under the bed. Instead of his wallet, he finds one of his shoes. Potentially helpful, but not right this second. He then proceeds to tear the remaining sheets off of the bed and shakes them out, but nothing thuds against the floor.

Frustrated and still feeling the effects of the previous blackout, Eddie tries to think strategically about where his wallet might have ended up. In his disheveled state, he stumbles into the bathroom and slaps the light switch. The cloudy yellow light flickers to life like the blinking of a neon sign.

Quickly scanning the space, Eddie’s eyes dart over the sink and the toilet. He steps over to the stained clawfoot tub and jerks the patterned curtain aside. The rings scrape against the pole and his wallet is revealed, lying at the bottom of the tub.

With trembling fingers, Eddie digs into the coin pocket. The metal discs feel frigid against his searing skin. He shakes them out into his palm, tapping the coins with his finger to keep track. “Nickel, penny, dime, gum wrapper,” Eddie flicks the ball to the floor. “Dime, quarter, nickel-”

He pivots and rushes out into the hall, taking the long flight of stairs two steps at a time. Emerging in the lobby, Eddie’s bare feet tap as he crosses the polished floor. It’s one thing to be shirtless, but his jeans are unzipped too.

The receiver clatters when he yanks it off of the hook. Coins tumble and clank as he slots them, his breath coming in heavy gasps. Eddie rapidly punches in your phone number with practiced precision. He doesn’t even have to think about the digits, the pattern flows from muscle memory alone.

The line purrs and purrs. Eddie brings his thumbnail to his teeth and winces, having already bitten it bloody. He shakes his hand out and opts to gnaw on his pinky. The relentless ringing ripples through his eardrums and worsens the pounding in his head. A pool of tears gatherers at his lower lash line, making his eyes sting more.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Eddie mutters urgently. “Answer the phone, sweetheart. Please pick up,” The last ring reverberates and he promptly kills the line. Eddie hurriedly slots more coins and punches in your number again.

He calls you twice more, but the ringing remains unanswered. Out of change and out of time, he slams the receiver back on the hook with a growl. “Son of a bitch!”

“Kid,” Mo thunders from the center of the lobby, marching over to him with anger etched into his aged features. “Why aren’t you dressed?” He asks through gritted teeth, on edge after signing a hefty check to cover the cost of Eddie’s previous hotel room demolition. Of which was more than a shattered lightbulb and a stained pillowcase. “You were supposed to be ready 15 minutes ago,” he grabs Eddie and shoves him in the direction of the elevator, nearly causing him to collide with a woman. “And tell the guys that if they don’t get down here, I’m gonna shove my foot so far up their asses they’ll be able to taste the shoe polish.”

It took the entire day for him to sober up enough to realize that it wasn’t merely a bad trip or his imagination running wild. Eddie dwelled on his inability to recall as the hours ticked by. There are drinks and powders that make him forget things, but why can’t there be something for him to pop that’ll magically help him remember what happened? Somebody ought to get on that.

After landing in Milwaukee, the night wears on and his performance is less than stellar. Eddie is emotionally drained yet determined to try once more, but his call remains ignored.

Eddie continues to be unable to recollect what happened because you took it home with you, every single second of it.

The long-awaited midwestern tour dates had finally arrived. You were mailed a VIP pass, presumably by Mo because it didn’t come with a poetic note like the heartfelt gifts usually did. You went to the venue and watched from a reserved balcony suite, away from the hoards of sweaty denim-clad men and braless women who’d thrown their undergarments on the stage.

You knew it was Eddie up there, but he was performing like you’d never seen. The cockiness in his stage presence was unrecognizable. He’d improved immensely over the months spent on the road, and you were genuinely impressed.

After the show, you waited for the crowd to thin out, which gave you time to gather yourself. You hoped to god that he wouldn’t notice you’d put on ten pounds since you saw each other last. But he’s around models all the time, surely he’d notice.

You wandered around trying to find the entrance to the backstage area and finally stumbled upon a sturdy security guard. You explained that you had a pass but you didn’t know where to go. Luckily, he did. He escorted you behind the barricade and down a series of dark corridors.

A fast-paced beat accompanied by laughing and crashing poured from the open door down the hall. It only made you more nervous, realizing that there were quite a few people there. You imagined this moment of reuniting being private, so you tried to prepare yourself on such short notice.

Before you was the sight of a lively party. Red plastic cups and glass bottles littered the various surfaces and groupies lingered around in their tiny black leather skirts and skin-tight tops.

Todd appeared in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere. He was unbelievably inebriated and it took him a second to recognize you. Once he did, his expression shifted from disorientation to elatement. “Well, well, well. Look what we have here,” he said to you and then called out into the room. “Ed, come check this shit out!”

Todd disappeared after Eddie stumbled up behind him. You were taken aback by his ratty, knotted hair and the sleepy purple at the inner corners of his eyes. Straight away, the odors of alcohol, tobacco, and weed made their presence known. Just by the looks of him, there was no telling how long it had been since he slept last. It wasn’t recently, that was plain to see.

In a piss-poor posh accent, Eddie slurred, “Sweetheart! What a positively splendid surprise,” he harshly rubbed the underside of his nose with the back of his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Surprise?” you assessed his wobbly stance. “Are you trashed right now?”

Eddie giggled like a mischievous child. “Who’s trashed? Not me,” he looked back into the party and watched as Todd jumped on the coffee table, banged his chest like a gorilla, and chugged a bottle of beer. Eddie cheered him on and then turned back to you. His laughter tapered off as he redirected his attention. “What’re we talkin’ about?”

“You forgot,” your voice cracked from the pressure that built in your throat. “You fucking forgot that I was coming.”

“I didn’t forget,” he defensively insisted. “It just slipped my mind,” Eddie blinked slowly and momentarily lost his balance, though he caught himself on the door frame. “Whoopsie daisy,” he snorted.

“What’s gotten into you?” you crossed your arms and gave yourself the hug that he failed to. “It’s like you’re a completely different person.”

“You’re damn right I am. I said sayonara to the old, lame-ass Eddie and I’m living the life I’ve always wanted. I’ve got all these people who actually get me, y’know? I’ve never had that before,” Eddie’s eyes closed entirely while he paused. “It’s awesome.”

“I don’t understand,” Tears trickled down your cheeks. “You’re making it sound like I’ve been holding you back,” It was the way that he was looking right through you and couldn’t see the comatose love in your eyes, that's what hurt the most.

“Eddd,” A woman sang out and appeared beside him. She hung off of his arm and nearly yanked him to the floor.

He steadied himself, his only priority was staying upright. “Ah, speaking of people. Babe, this is my friend…” Eddie looked over at her lazily.

“Cherry,” She grinned, equally as uncoordinated and woozy as he was. “I’m Cherry.”

“Right, yeah,” he sucked in a breath and looked back at you. “She’s cool. You should come in and talk makeup with her or something,” Eddie beamed as if that was the most brilliant idea he’d had all week.

It was then that you noticed the crimson wax smeared across the column of his throat. Identical in color to the one that was all over her lips, chin, and teeth. “It looks like you already have,” your stomach churned and the tears fell faster. “Try to listen closely, okay? Do not call me and don’t bother writing either,” With nimble fingers, you tore Eddie’s chain from around your neck, snapping the clasp, and threw it at his feet. “Fuck you.”

As you turned and made your way back down the dark tunnel, you could hear him calling your name as it echoed off of the walls. Once you rounded the corner, you couldn’t take it anymore. You coughed wetly and had to brace against the wall from your legs giving out. The weight of cinder blocks being stacked on your chest intensified while you sat on the cold concrete ground. It was as though he stomped your heart out like a singed cigarette thrown to pavement.

“What’s her problem?” Cherry squeaked, taking notice of how she was only wearing one heel and her skirt had ridden up to her waist somehow.

“Beats me,” Eddie shrugged.

If he was in his right mind, the sharp pieces of his shattered heart would have punctured his lungs; he wouldn’t have had a fighting chance at taking another breath. But Eddie was far from sober, and his organs were floating around like he was a human lava lamp. As you disappeared into the shadows, his mind was nothing short of blank and he went on with his evening like you’d never even shown.

The mention of Eddie’s name or the band no longer brings a smile to your face. It fills you with the sorrow that has replaced the pride you once felt for him. You long for the sound of pouring rain, hoping that it’ll drown out the repetitive radio hits that loop in your head. Even if your wishes are granted, you know it can’t rain forever and the clouds will disperse.

Just as you suspected, rainfall never sufficed. Thankfully, the much-awaited chill has finally arrived. Winter quietly falls, bringing icy roads and frozen windows with it. This season feels more appropriate, autumn was too vibrant with its spiced aromas and scenic landscapes. It was too full of life and you craved a desolate, bitter, unbearable distraction.

You’ve nearly mastered denying him access to your train of thought, but whether it be a song or otherwise, it all comes rushing back. Tonight is sleepless, and you find yourself wondering where it all went wrong.

The photo in your hands, of the two of you flashing your pair of plane tickets, makes you cry. Your emotion in the snapshot is genuine, but Eddie’s expression imitates enthusiasm. He used to be so camera-shy and he would resist your pleas until you successfully wore him down. These days, he’s doing half-naked photo shoots, sporting leather pants that leave little to the imagination.

Shadow appears to sense that you’re hurting and in contrast to her usual aloofness, she joins you on the bed. You watch her knead the blankets and curl up beside you. It only makes you cry harder and you’re afraid of driving her away with your pathetic wailing.

You had a rather eventful day, to say the least. Gareth came to collect your ex’s belongings. Gareth is the only person that he’s stayed in contact with since ditching Hawkins.

Not having his stuff around has significantly lightened the atmosphere, but the space feels emptier. Regardless, this is a fresh start. You don’t need Eddie, you have people who care about you. Gareth included because while he’s primarily Eddie’s friend, you’ve gotten to know each other over time. He offered a sympathetic hug before leaving with the backseat of his car packed with boxes. 

Having some company, even briefly, was a welcome change from your day-to-day. Your social interactions have been limited. At most, it’s occasional small talk about the weather with coworkers and chatting with your elderly neighbor. Honestly, you prefer talking to Shadow because her meows are free of pity.

When you knocked on Mrs. Folley’s door to ask for a spare roll of paper towels, she took notice of your underfed and fatigued appearance. Without prying, she began preparing dinners for you. Every night at 6:10 PM there’s a faint knock on your front door. “375 degrees for 25 minutes,” she reminds you.

The casserole dishes are piling up in your kitchen sink, but you’re too apathetic to do as much as soak them. They’d soak forever. While you appreciate her selflessness, she’s making it awfully difficult for you to cut yourself off from the outside world. Leaving the house has become quite a daunting task because you have to go to great lengths to avoid places that remind you of him. You’ve even started shopping at a different grocery store. He has tainted just about everything, everywhere.

Eddie was only able to gather bits and pieces from his bandmates. None of their accounts were particularly reliable. Some recollections conflict, and some overlap. He’ll never know exactly what happened, but what he does know is that he fucked up severely.

Initially, he put on a mask of stoicism and attempted to channel his grief into the music-making process. The words just wouldn’t come to him. It was like Eddie had been zapped dry of any inspiration, understandably so, since he lost his muse. Plus, it proved to be far more agonizing than he anticipated. Eddie was tearing open a wound that hadn’t had the chance to heal. It was too late, the infection already spread and his sense of pride had long since eroded.

In defiance of how he truly feels, Eddie has been pretending that he’s on top of the world, in complete denial of how it’s engulfed in a blaze. He tries to convince himself that you were nothing but dead weight that would hold him back. But if that’s the case, why is he so willing to let you?

Just like an anchor, he’d beg you to pull him down, down, down. He’s willing to fill his lungs to the brim with salt water as you take him to the deepest depths. Eddie would much rather be in that darkness with you than be alone in this one. He’d rather drown than be freed of such a burden.

He’s been a walking Molotov with his vodka-soaked brain and a cigarette burning between his cracked lips. Salty teardrops saturate each puff of smoke, the haze carrying his remorse a brief distance before dissipating into the air. It’ll never travel far enough to reach you.

One might assume that he considers himself one lucky son of a bitch for the life that he’s leading. But, Eddie would vehemently dismiss such an assumption. The only thing he considers himself lucky for is having had the opportunity to experience what it felt like to be loved by you.

Your bodies moved in harmony, an irreproducible duet that was sung as you stroked one another’s chords. Together, you basked in the amorous afterglow. That glimmer in your eyes is a melody that replays in his mind, undeterred by the other tunes he attempts to distract himself with.

On occasion, there’s a nameless woman at the foot of his bed seductively undressing herself. They put on a show for a brick wall, a shell of a man. The distant wail of police sirens outside acts as a soundtrack for their musicless performances. He remains eerily still, looking past the sun-tanned demons that dance in hopes of earning his affection.

All it takes is hearing “I want you,” and he grants them access to his room. He never even looks at them and his thousand-yard stare is continuous. You were the closest thing to heaven that he’ll ever experience and the nearest he’ll get to those so-called golden gates. Eddie has been deemed unfit and here he lies, condemned to his personalized hell; a bottomless pit of sinful indulgence and temptation. 

Haunted. You’re a bedroom ghost no matter where he rests his head. The sheets are icy regardless of how many femme figures are woven beneath them. He kisses strangers when he can’t feel his face, uncertain if his lips are even in motion.

Eddie will continue to feel utterly alone until he hears the familiar jingling of your keys as you get home from work. It’ll take the creak of the door hinges and Shadow leaping from his lap to greet you for Eddie to regain a scrap of sanity.

He used to bleed, but now all that his heart pumps is whatever earthy intoxicant he can find. Most of the time, he’s merely a pile of bones splayed out on a sunken mattress in his hotel room. The low-hanging night sky on the inside of his eyelids is moonless. The rise and fall of his chest are shallow like a lost tide.

Tonight he finds himself in room 918 and this one is just as stale as the last. The window is sealed tight, keeping the humid misery contained within the well-furnished jail cell. The blinds are closed and the damn clock won’t stop taunting him, it’s maddening. Eddie snatches it up, swings the door to his room open, chucks it down the hall, and slams the door shut.

He swallowed his pride four shots ago, toasting both his international success and being a colossal fuck up. Your absence always kills his buzz and it’s as though he can’t get drunk enough. On top of that, the memories burn worse than any liquor money can buy.

Your tender embrace used to keep him snug. Now, he’s chilled to the bone, shivering relentlessly. His only source of warmth stems from the alcohol streaming through his veins. Lying on his back, he stares at the stained ceiling. The faces in the plaster mock him mercilessly with insults and ill wishes. The pooling tears do nothing to quell his smoke-stung eyes.

Some might assume that given the quantity, Eddie is chasing numbness. That’s far from the truth. Numbness doesn’t cut it, because even though he can no longer feel the hollowness, the clouded guilt still looms over him. It’s not about defying gravity, it’s about strengthening it. Eddie wants the draw to be so strong that it sucks him beneath the Earth’s surface where he can rot like he deserves.

Down for the count and despite his best efforts, the memories remain vivid. Eddie remembers the manner in which you said his name early in the morning, well past bedtime, while you lament, and uttering between bouts of laughter. It was always the sweetest sound.

You saw each other as delectable and at times, you were insatiable. One night in particular, the two of you didn’t even make it past the kitchen. Eddie, behaving like a man starved, laid you out on the dining table. He devoured you with his face buried between your legs and you reminded him that it’s impolite to talk with his mouth full.

Eddie wishes he could roll over, nuzzle his face between your shoulder blades, and fall asleep forever. It’s quite the dream, even for a notorious dreamer. He doesn’t want to wake up tomorrow morning. What does it matter anyway? 

Amid the ever-shifting cityscapes, it’s not like he can keep up. Eddie can’t tell dusk from dawn, even with the glare of the neon lights permeating his vision. The evenings are restless, and he wakes with a bloodied nose and hellish bruises.

He’s throwing back a glass at five to nine in the morning and resorting to the simultaneous ingestion of uppers and downers. A little bit of this, a lot of that. Eddie has become something of a mixologist with his experimental cocktails. You see, he’s on a quest to find a middle ground. One where he appears alive while remaining detached enough to elude the grasp of agony.

On the days when the sun shines just right and hope makes a rare appearance, Eddie attempts to go cold turkey. Shakes and sweats take hold and he can’t endure it for long. Detoxing leaves him high on misery, an unbearable feeling. Hours later, he finds himself at the bar, wetting his desert-dry tongue with the most expensive bottle he can get his greedy hands on.

Under the blazing stage lights, with blistering pyrotechnics threatening to engulf him, he stumbles through the setlist. Two weeks ago, they stopped having him play live. In lieu, a pre-recorded track is pumped through the speakers, creating the illusion of his pick striking the strings.

Throughout every performance, he scans the crowd for your radiant face. It proves fruitless in every city, but he continues to search. Eddie doesn't even have your last words to hold on to, only endless possibilities of what he can imagine you said to him. 

During the sound check for the Portland show, Bobby warily approaches Eddie, who is already drunk and it isn’t even three o’clock yet. He means well, but his approach is less than nurturing. “You don’t have to go down this road, Ed,” he cautioned. “I’ve seen where it leads and it’s not pretty.”

Eddie sways slightly as he turns to face him. “Don't lecture me like you're some kind of saint,” he retorts with the scent of booze fiery on his breath. “I'll drink when I want, where I want, and however much I want. Got it?”

With his hand extended in concern, Bobby tries to remain level-headed. “I can get you in touch with somebody if need be, there’s no shame in gettin’ your shit together.”

Eddie throws his head back with a dismissive scoff. “Get my shit together? I lost my girl, okay? She left me. So if you could just mind your own fucking business that’d be great,” he turns away and takes a seat on an equipment case. “Besides, badasses don’t need shrinks.”

Bobby leans in and lowers his voice. "You're messin’ with the same demons that dragged Nick down. Don't think they'll treat you any differently."

“Don’t compare me to him. That dude was messing with heroin and shit. This is entirely different and I can hold my own, thank you very much.” “You gotta get that ego of yours in check, man. That’s what fucked you over in the first place. I know you think that you can handle it, but let me tell you somethin’,” Bobby stares at Eddie intensely. “Nick thought the same thing and look where that got him. Alls I’m tryna say is that you need to watch your step. You’re pissin’ away your potential and it’s startin’ to piss me off.”

“Last I checked, it’s not exactly difficult to push your buttons. Honest to god, you're blowing this way out of proportion. If I need advice, I'll ask for it. Until then, back the fuck off,” Eddie returns Bobby’s stare with a taut posture.

Nick Karr’s destructive coping mechanism landed him in the hospital and eventually in rehab. Eddie knows that some artists resort to heroin because it’s accessible and incredibly potent, which sounds magical to him. But, when it’s offered, he declines. Hearing Nikki Sixx recount his own experience from last year when he was pronounced dead for two minutes was enough to deter Eddie. It sent a shiver down his spine. The firsthand account effectively kept him from venturing that path.

He didn’t have to choose that road to get there, though. Nowadays, he’s so frail that the slightest gust of wind could pick him up and carry him away. His cheeks are sunken, his eyes puffy. Eddie has been taking it on the chin, earning himself a split lip, and the works. He’s been arrested three times and overdosed twice. The only thing he hasn’t done yet is die.

Eddie knows that he’ll never have the chance to see you again in this lifetime, he lost that privilege. However, he entertains the thought that if the drugs were to claim him, perhaps he might find you in another realm. In an alternate place, he’ll vow to wait patiently until he can finally give you his long-awaited apology. It’s always the legends who die young, right? There’s gotta be a sliver of honor in this for him.

Eddie’s flesh is devoid of its usual pinkness, as though he’s just crawled off of an embalming table. His skin is covered with chicken scratch tattoos that he has no recollection of getting and his brittle vertebrae can no longer support the weight of his heavy heart. He finds himself on a cliff and the edge is razor-thin, extending into oblivion in either direction. His legs are dangling over the abyss and there’s no breeze, only profound stillness.

Presently slumped against the wall of this room, his clothes are soaked with sweat. The shaggy carpet feels coarse and chillingly damp, like freshly unearthed sand between his toes. The room’s shadows are disjointed and they dance menacingly as he struggles to make sense of his surroundings. Each heartbeat feels like a sledgehammer striking his ribs, demolishing them one by one. In this moment, Eddie is confronting the harsh reality of the detrimental choices he’s made, the resulting consequences, and the impending end he now faces.

Thrash, shudder, collapse. His internal record player skips and cries out before coming to a halt. His somber soundtrack ceases and the cavern of his chest no longer has a tune to echo.

Prior to his admittance into Pacific Hills Recovery Center, Eddie’s contract was set in stone. Even so, Mo was able to pull some strings which allowed him to be excused from his legal obligations.

His initial impression of the place was far from favorable. Eddie felt like he was stepping into a looney bin, surrounded by people who were nothing like him. His self-esteem took a severe hit, but he still believed that he was above seeking professional help. Eddie was incredibly stubborn at first and fought himself tooth and nail.

It was a struggle to take accountability for his situation. He didn’t want to admit that he was the one responsible. But, Eddie could no longer claim that there was some curse that got him, nor could he blame the industry or the lifestyle. He couldn’t point his finger at Todd for showing him the ropes of the fast life or at Gareth for giving his contact information to Mo.

The first few weeks were unforgiving and the pale blue walls of the facility made him feel uneasy. All of it was off-putting, especially the sunlight pouring through the tall, squeegeed windows. Eddie’s bed was relatively comfortable, and his sheets were always clean. He started to put on weight thanks to a balanced diet, and he was eating the healthiest he ever had in his life.

With time, the dense fog in his head has significantly thinned. However, it’s difficult to resist the itch to stroll down the street and undo all of his progress. He hasn’t caved and he intends on keeping it that way, partly because he doesn’t want to stay here longer than absolutely necessary.

It’s as boring as white bread in a place like this, but he tries to convince himself that it’s good for him, that’s what he’s been sold. The monotony gives him a sense of stability and routine, things he lost the capability to form on his own. If this place were a food, it would be plain oatmeal. Speaking of which, Eddie is tired of eating old-fashioned oats for breakfast. Once he’s finished with treatment, he swears to never going to eat another spoonful again.

In addition to feeling incredibly out of place and out of sorts, he’s very strategic in keeping his guard up. He can’t risk having his vulnerability tampered with before he can suture himself. Whenever someone tries to talk to him, he doesn’t give them much to work with. Eddie has sworn off eye contact and he tries to escape conversations with whatever convincing excuse he can conjure.

The other patients are okay, all things considered. The worst ones are wealthy snobs who have god complexes and act like entitled pricks. Eddie steers clear of them and he hasn’t made any friends in the three months that he’s been here. Bobby calls sometimes, and Eddie occasionally reaches out to Gareth, but it’s never more than small talk.

Except for that one call where Gareth mentioned having boxes of his belongings, waiting to be claimed by their rightful owner. That was a conversation that brought Eddie to tears. It doesn’t take a genius to know that there’s a good reason why you’ve shut him out. But hearing that you packed up his things and removed those crumbs from your life just about killed him. Eddie skipped dinner that night, curled up in a chair beside the large stone fireplace, and wept silently.

Along with processing how much that hurt him, he realized that it meant he no longer had a home. In-patient care certainly isn’t permanent housing. He stressed himself out at the thought because even though Gareth was likely going to allow him to crash on his couch, Eddie was afraid to live near you again. What would he do if you ran into each other? Would you cuss him out and slap him? He’d take it if you did, he owed you that much.

Eddie surely doesn’t want to stay on the coast. As cool as LA can be, it’s not where his heart is. Sure, he figured out how to run the scene pretty easily, but he doesn’t belong here. Before all of this, Eddie could only dream of how tall the palm trees were, he tried to imagine what the ocean would smell like. Now he’s sick of it, he wants to go back to the forests of evergreen and sugar maple. Eddie misses the murky water of Lover’s Lake where the mosquitoes ate him alive.

Having been bled dry of the things that kept him sedated for so long, his state of mind is feeble. His counselor emphasized that he isn’t confined to a predetermined path and that he’s only destined to be what he makes of himself. Eddie was provided some coping mechanisms and he says that they aren’t helping, but that’s because he isn’t really trying.

As part of getting in touch with his feelings, Eddie is tasked with writing letters to his past, present, and future self. This exercise hasn’t been trouble-free  because he finds himself wanting to write to you. One night, he gets so strung out after scribbling a particularly tense letter to himself that he can no longer resist the urge.

His wrist aches from scrapping draft after draft, his bedroom floor littered with crumpled balls of stationary paper. His sober mind cruelly insists that his actions are irreparable and that no words will bring you back. It tells him that he sounds desperate and you’d either burn the letters or return them entirely unopened. Perhaps you’d even find some hilarity in his sorry excuses.

I’ve grown for you, and for me too

I lost all sight of myself when it came to ambition, but I’m striving for realistic things now. I'm trying to right my wrongs

Are you still   How have you been?  I wish I could see you

I understand if you’re disappointed in me, I am too

Has Shadow caught any spiders lately?

I hope you’re doing well

Eddie misses you senselessly, but he knows that he’s unworthy. He’s homesick for arms that will never hold him again. It would’ve been wise to be careful what he wished for because he got every last bit and then some. He used to believe his name was meant to be in lights, but now he sees how naive that was. Life had to take a bite out of Eddie for him to realize that his true aspiration was to be an honorable man, one that put you above all else.

His sense of purpose is long gone. Eddie hopes that the universe might present him with the opportunity to see your beautiful face once more. It’s wishful thinking, but these days, it’s all he has. It’s okay to be unsure of what’s next, what matters is that he’s taking it one day at a time. He’s finally setting goals for himself and Eddie is committed to not wasting another day. The words he never got the chance to say have soured his tongue and he wants so badly to spit them out.

As It turns out, it’s just as easy to get hooked on making progress. The Westminster chimes play from the wooden clock in the sunroom, signaling the start of a new day. Eddie fills a plain mug with piping renewal, stirring in a dash of sugar.

Your days start similarly, relying on a cup of coffee to get you through. Lately, it feels like the bed was only ever yours and it never knew the weight of someone else. You stopped wondering what he was doing or where he was. It’s a beautiful thing, to be on your own. You chide yourself for being so childish in thinking that things would’ve worked out somehow.

The day he signed that contract, he was no longer yours.

The runaway leaves are toasting in the suspended autumn sunlight, readying to decompose at Mother Nature’s mercy. The trees stand bare, the sidewalks covered with a brittle quilt of orange, red, and brown. The pumpkin festival is a cherished annual event in town, serving as a fundraiser for the local food shelter.

The fair is known for its crop competition where impressive pumpkins are awarded ribbons for being monstrous in size. Hand-built shacks are selling hot cider and freshly fried cinnamon sugar donuts. With a few hundred attendees, the grinding amusement rides struggle to overpower the chatter.

The cozy outfit you’ve chosen is your favorite cotton crew neck sweater paired with jeans and sneakers that provide optimal comfort. Tonight is about savoring the weather and unwinding. You’re looking forward to seeing Gareth and the band play, even though they’ll be missing their former frontman.

Steve is equally as eager to get out and about, especially because he’s babysitting his spirited four-year-old nephew, Daniel, for the weekend. He’s always cranked up to a ten and this was something that Steve was not emotionally prepared to handle. He’s hoping that the lively atmosphere will tire the little one out and give him a chance to breathe.

The knit blanket is unrolled; its chestnut, fern, and sunflower-hued threads contrast the lush grass it’s draped upon. As you settle, the buried leaves crunch beneath your weight.

Steve looks over at you. “I swear I need a leash for this kid. I look away for two seconds and he disappears into thin air. Listen, I like a good magic trick as much as the next guy but this routine is getting real old, real fast,” he exhales exasperatedly. 

“Leave him here with me, you go take a walk and cool off,” You chuckle at how frazzled he is over “losing” his nephew for a whole two and a half minutes.

Steve runs his hand through his bangs and sighs. “Okay, yeah, a walk,” He isn’t a rookie when it comes to babysitting, but Daniel isn’t exactly in the age demographic that Steve is used to looking after.

Daniel’s pudgy hand is released and he dramatically plops on the blanket beside you, immediately engrossed with his toy truck. He bumbles his lips, mimicking the sound of an engine.

“Go,” you shoo Steve. “I’ve got it handled.”

Steve nods and turns to leave.

“And get me some cocoa on your way back!” You call out.

Steve acknowledges your request with a quick thumbs-up and weaves out of the clusters of people both seated and standing. To keep the rugrat engaged enough to prevent him from wandering off, you ask him about his toy.

Meanwhile, Eddie is taking deep breaths, trying to ignore his fierce nerves. It’s been a long time since he last performed but he shouldn’t be this nervous. He’s played for hundreds of thousands of people, yet this is just as intimidating. Fireworks are sparking off in his fingertips and a surge of nausea rocks him. Eddie finds himself swatting away insecurity and self-doubt, the bothersome buzzing distracting him from having confidence in his abilities.

Corroded Coffin gathers in a circle behind the white tarp-roofed stage. They exchange words of support and appreciation for finally performing together again. They break from their huddle, scale the steps one by one, and take their positions. Eddie’s eyes are glued to the mic stand, unable to look out into the audience. He fidgets with it, making unnecessary adjustments to keep his hands busy. It doesn’t help that he’s out of his element with the setlist being pop hits that people of all ages can enjoy.

As Gareth begins to loosen up his wrists and Donny does some last-minute tuning, Eddie is transported back to The Hideout. Back when he was humble and small-town, playing his heart out with his closest friends. Recalling how fun those times were eases his nerves a bit, remembering that he’s been forgiven.

His playing and singing are hesitant as he finds his footing but as the song progresses, Eddie rides the rhythm and it vitalizes him. A shared smile with Jeff fills him with gratitude, his voice flowing as smooth as caramel. He still feels vulnerable, because even if the people here don’t give a shit about his reputation, there’s still plenty of room to make an ass of himself.

It takes him three songs to muster the courage to look out. Instead of appreciating the sight of the flowing river, he surrenders to an old habit that’s dying hard. He scours the crowd for that once-familiar face.

It’s as though he’s just landed on concrete, the wind knocked clean out of him. Eddie isn’t entirely sure that his eyes aren’t broken. He could be hallucinating, except even on his most intoxicated nights, he never so much as believed he’d seen you, much less had to convince himself that you weren’t there.

A kind expression graces your face, one that sends him to cloud nine. He can’t be certain from this distance, but it doesn’t appear to be a scowl or a frown. You’re somewhat concealed behind a large family which is making it challenging for him to get a clear view of you. Still, he strains his eyes in an attempt to do so.

His focus is diverted when an elderly couple gracefully strolls up to the gap in front of the stage and begins to dance together. Just a few verses later, a father and his young daughter join in and they jump to the beat.

It’s like he’s on top of the world again and this time it’s not on fire. His sense of purpose is back and stronger than ever. His passion is bringing people together, including the two of you. He can feel the music in his bones. Eddie avoids lingering for too long, not wanting to appear as if he’s staring. Rest assured, wherever his sight falls, you’re the only thing on his mind.

As soon as the set concludes, Eddie hugs each of his friends, though he keeps it brief. His sneakers crush the dry patches of grass as he navigates through the crowd. Most are getting up to stretch or leaving to get refreshments before the next act goes on. Eddie finds you exactly where he saw you, but to his surprise, you’re holding the hand of a small child.

Promptly, a pang immobilizes him, the center of his chest acting as the bullseye of an axe-throwing target. He tries to grapple with his conflicting emotions. Eddie wants so badly to reconnect with you but he’s paralyzed by the fact that you’ve moved on and started a family. Of course you have, you deserve someone who checks in on you and gives you the world. He can’t be mad at you when he failed to provide what little you asked of him back then.

Eddie carefully approaches as you rise to your feet, the child tugging you up from your spot on the ground. In his head, he practices a gentle voice all while morphing his expression into one that’s good-natured and approachable. Beneath his facade, his heart is lodged in his throat. “Hey,” he greets you softly, “Who’s this little guy?”

Steve appears and lifts Daniel into his arms, balancing the toddler on his hip. “I’m glad to see he didn’t rip your beautiful hair out while I was gone,” he smirks at you, but it falters when he feels his nephew driving the toy car along his shoulder and uncomfortably close to his jugular.

“Me too,” you laugh tensely. Clasping your hands together, you rock on your heels to soothe yourself. “He was good the whole time, thankfully. “Anyway, Steve, this is-”

“Ed Munson, right?” he adjusts his wiggling nephew. “From Poison Knife or whatever?” Steve isn’t familiar with their music, but he’s heard about Eddie’s escapades through the media.

“Poison Blade, yeah. That’s me,” he offers a handshake and Steve is quick to return it, a bit too firmly for Eddie’s liking. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Steve assesses Eddie and doesn’t bother to hide his scrutiny.

The air has cooled significantly now that the sun has dipped past the horizon. You stretch your sleeves over your fists and the sudden chattering of your teeth reminds you that you’re missing something. “You didn’t get me cocoa?” 

When you pout at Steve, Eddie subconsciously flexes his fingers in frustration. He forgot how unfairly cute you are. He has an impulse to take matters into his own hands by wrapping his arms around you to provide the warmth you so preciously seek.

“Shit,” Steve’s eyes briefly close but they shoot back open when Daniel grabs a fistful of his roots. “Ouch, man. Ease up on the death grip, will ya?” Steve withdraws the sticky fingers from his hair. “My bad, I totally forgot.”

Eddie seizes the opportunity and blurts out a touch too eager, “I’ll get you some, if- if you want,” he offers.

Steve squints at Eddie, his dark brows furrowed at the strange vibe he’s getting; oblivious to your history. He doesn’t get the chance to question it further because Daniel begins to kick and squirm. “I’m gonna take him back over to the animals before he blows a fuse,” Steve leans in and asks under his breath, “You’ll be okay?”

You give him a reassuring look and squeeze his bicep in confirmation. Steve returns your nod, shoots Eddie a protective glance, and walks away with the now-hollering toddler.

With his eyes full of hope, Eddie grins invitingly and extends his offer, “How ‘bout it, hot cocoa on me?” He’s giving it his all to appear trustworthy and pleasant in the hopes of winning you over.

You look down at your shoes and release a visible breath. “Yes, please.”

Together, you walk toward the concession stands. Once you’ve got the foam cup of chocolatey goodness delightfully thawing your palms, the two of you find a bench along the river. It’s quieter here, away from the bustling noise. For a while, neither of you says a word. You just sip your beverage while the splashing current fills the silence.

Eddie looks over at you. “So, uh. You just got the one?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you just have the one kid, or…”

You make an effort not to spill your drink as you giggle.

“What’s so funny?” A thrum passes through him in the presence of your laughter, the sound he’s missed for so long.

You smile as you calm down to clarify, “Daniel isn’t mine. Thank God for that, ‘cause he's a royal pain in the ass.”

“I see,” Eddie chuckles airily, not out of humor but relief. “He does look like a handful.”

“Yeah, more like two,” You blow across the top of your cup, cautious not to burn your tongue while you take a swig.

Eddie looks down as he picks at his hangnails. “That being said, things are uh- good then, I hope?”

You focus on the darkening waters just feet away, contemplating whether you’d describe your life as ‘good.’ “I’d say so, nothing too eventful but it’s been comfortable. You?”

“Same here,” Eddie steals a glance at your fingers tapping against the styrofoam cup. “And I’m very much sober,” he adds pridefully. “11 months next week, actually.”

“Good for you!” you beam and nudge his knee with your own. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

Eddie hides his face behind his curls, concealing the blush and wide smile that are overtaking his features. He can’t blame the rosiness of his cheeks on the biting wind. “Thanks,” he returns the knee nudge. “It means a lot to hear that from you.”

“What exactly are you doing here? Don’t you have seats to fill?”

Eddie straightens his posture against the back of the bench. “Not anymore,” he weakly clears his throat, his voice faltering even though he’s talked this out in therapy numerous times. “I felt like it was time to come home, I needed to find myself,” Eddie’s voice wavers and he clears his throat harder this time. “It was really tough, y’know? I lost sight of what kept me sane. You were always this like, unshakeable foundation for me and I let you down.”

“Yeah, you did,” you exhale, “I was disappointed that you turned into everything that you said you wouldn’t. I can’t speak for you, but to me, what we had was real. I was willing to be with you forever, and you just- weren’t on the same page.”

That sour apology is burning a hole through Eddie’s tongue right now. He wants so badly to tell you that you’re wrong. But he chokes it down like he always has and listens to you express the things he’s dreaded yet dreamed of hearing.

“I tried so hard. Way harder than I should’ve, and now you’re here after I tried to forget everything. I wanted to forget you,” you confess and place your empty cup in the dirt at your feet. The loose gravel under your shoes shifts as you sit back.

Hearing those words nearly breaks Eddie’s dam, and he stifles a sob. Eddie faces away, appearing as though he’s watching the final moments of the sunset and not holding back tears. He twists his fingers, his knuckles cracking from the force.

You reach over to Eddie’s lap and take his hand into yours. He watches curiously through glassy vision while his ability to breathe normally has been disrupted. When you interlace your fingers, Eddie releases a shuddering breath that he’s held in for well over a year.

“It wasn’t worth it,” you use your free hand to trace the curves of his. “It was a waste of time trying to forget you.”

Somehow, Eddie finds himself looking into your stunning eyes and he feels like he’s melting for too many reasons to count. You’re softening him like butter to be used in making freshly baked pumpkin bread. When you reach up and wipe a stray tear from his cheek, he simply breaks. You welcome him into your embrace, wrapping your arms around him as he curls up into your shoulder.

The cry that escapes Eddie is rickety and long overdue. “I’m so s-sorry,” he stammers and inhales wetly. “I never meant to hurt you, but I did. I fucked everything up and-”

“Eddie,” you interrupt him, stroking his head and pushing the curtain of curls out of his face. He whimpers in response. “I’ll always be your number one fan, no matter what,” You guide him to meet your gaze.

When you cradle the side of his puffy face with your hand, Eddie leans into your touch. “Always?” He sniffles and his damp eyelashes tickle your thumb as you stroke his freckled cheeks. 

Your promise is as rich as the devotion resurfacing in his hazelnut eyes. “Always.”

Reblogs are greatly encouraged and appreciated! ♡

★My Masterlist

tags:@nj01@tlclick73

[casualheizouenjoyers]

‧₊˚✩ spider-girl! || march 7th x reader

‧₊˚✩ info: spider man au, modern au, everyone lives in the same apartment, reader makes comics. can be read as platonic ‧₊˚✩ authors note: wdym its been months since ive posted ahahah??? anyways just an old work i had sitting around, was meant to be longer and have romance and drama but alas im no longer hyperfixated on spiderverse or hsr. this is NOTT beta read or edited

You’ve grown accustomed to the lively cast of people that frequented the hallways of the apartment complex’s top floor, it was hard not to, really, when they were all likable and kind people who invited you into their friend group once you moved into your apartment.

It was easy to stop by Himeko’s place to drink coffee and talk about whatever news the two of you had heard of, the most recent discussion being of the new superhero seen swinging around the streets of the city.

You didn’t think twice before asking Dan Heng to beta read the script for the comic book you were working on. He neatly dropped the script at your door with corrections and his thoughts inked in red the next day.

Welt was someone you didn’t see becoming close to. The older man just didn’t seem like someone you’d talk to, but a casual conversation learned to you learning of his work as an animator, and suddenly you had someone willing to actually help you and comment on your designs for your work.

And March instantly took a liking to you. The girl would drag you outside of your apartment (“to actually see the sun”), snapping pictures of you with her Polaroid with the brightest smile on her face as she ooo'd and aaah'd at every photo she took. She’d ask you to pose for her photography class projects, and with two creative minds working on it, March always insisted on treating you to coffee or boba for helping her get a good grade.

“It was all you, really,” You replied as you sipped on your drink of choice. “All I did was sit there while you took the photos,”

“Sure, you sat there and looked superrrr cute—“ March is blissfully unaware on how your heart fluttered at the compliment.

“—But, you also helped me pick out locations and gave me editing tips on photoshop so!!! I say you helped a ton,” She had a satisfied smile on her face.

She’d invite you to her apartment for any reason really, whether it would be to have a sleepover or to watch a new movie or to help her explain to Dan Heng that Legally Blonde is cinematic masterpiece because— The details don’t matter, do they? Though, it did provide the movie for the groups movie night that week.

March easily became a close friend, sneaking her way into your daily life.

Which really made one thing terribly clear….

She’s horrible at keeping a secret.

You see, not long after you moved, a vigilante began to take the media by storm. Clad in a pastel blue suit sectioned off with a pastel pink and covered in a white spider web pattern with big white eyes bordered by a dark blue, it was obvious why she was gaining attention.

It was really something out of the comics you tended to be writing.

However, when your energetic friend began to use her photography skills for profit, she started to sell photos to a local news website of the vigilante referred to as “Spider-Girl” to a local news website. Taking a look at these photos for pose references, you noticed that March managed to get shots from angles that would be extremely hard to get as a normal-non-wall-crawling-human.

The dots weren’t extremely hard to connect after that.

“Sorry, I’m late again!” March called as she walked into Himeko’s living room an hour after you were all supposed to be there. This was probably the fourth time she was late for movie night, but usually she wasn’t that late.

“It’s alright, March,” Welt responded, glancing at the girl as she dragged herself into the room, exhaustion evident on her face.

“Took you long enough,” Dan Heng rolled his eyes, looking up from the book he was reading as he looked at March.

March didn’t respond to him like she would, and so you took it upon yourself to “Oh, shush,” him. The pink haired girl dropped herself next to you on the couch, immediately stealing a part of the blanket you had.

You felt her head drop onto your shoulder.

“March, is everything alright….” Himeko’s question goes quiet as March’s eyes were sewn shut, and soon she began to snore.

If you were not worried for her yet, you pushed a strand of hair out of her face as your eyes catch a glimpse of a bruise on her cheek, hastily and poorly covered up by her pale foundation but clearly noticeable now.

The room had become awfully silent as you all sat there, your movements halted and your eyes widened.

You had your suspicions, but they were confirmed as you gently wiped the makeup off her face and watch in real time as the bruise seemed to heal faster than a bruise should.

The silence continued as everyone watched until Dan Heng got up and left, coming back with a small file of evidence he had seemed to be building up. A hushed conversation revealed Welt seeing her stuff a pastel mask into a bag, and Himeko recounting a run in she had in which the masked vigilante referred to her by her name despite it being their first meeting.

It was obvious everyone had come to the same conclusion on their own.

March 7th was Spider-Girl.

[reveseke]

How's it hanging there?

PT. How's it hanging there? PT end

Image ID. A medium sized banner made of a picture featuring 5 arcade game machines colored mainly in purple in a tilted position lined up against a wall, there is a small glimpse of mat in the far right corner of a simple 90s star arcade design with varying colors. The first machine has visible text that reads "gauntlet legends", no other text is visible. Image ID end.

-Request? No

-Criminal minds; Spiderverse au

Masc! Reader, Noel, Aaron Hotchner

Key info : Takes place after the getting caught by dad & the humans who have powers are a minority in the world, tech enchanted powers are a thing and sought after as well.

Heed the warnings : he him used, Stuck by the ankle, wire wrapped around ankle, mentions of blood & injury, possible descriptions of near fainting, tangling over 430~ ft in the air, Noel's hinted to be in deep shit & dragged R into it, Noel abandons R briefly but comes back.

Other info : R can produce minimal webbing over few weeks, but usually rubs it into the wires he actually uses to assist himself so they stick better to surfaces. Oh yeah inaccurate description of pain; the reader is hinted to be a little dazed and not focused on it so minimal description and most likely a bit inaccurate. Hotch has knowledge of what R's actually doing and doesn't discourse him from doing it bc Aaron knows R will do it either way but they share bits of " inside " information from both sides so they know pretty much what the other is doing and what the deeper focus of it may be lmao. [ No actual scenes with Aaron, he's only written in the calls bc my motivation is a bit shit rn with this lol ]

Prompt/idea: Imagine getting stuck in your own webs while chasing a bad guy down as you have to answer a call from your father?

This... Wasn't supposed to happen.

Huffing as his back bumped into the window wall behind rather heavily, a thud that travaled through the glass shaking it lightly. Cringing slightly from the pain that swelled from his ankle, how it felt like it had sprained. In reality it was just the wire rope digging into his skin, building pressure as it tightened by the boy's weight.

To his fortune there was no-one inside the apartment or rather the room the window belonged to.

" ( naaaammeeee ) — where did you go? " A bored whine left Noel as they looked over her shoulder while slowing down to a stop as she couldn't hear him behind anymore, realising that R was not actually with them at all anymore. Looking back against the bad guy just booking it over the rooftops it was a moment of split thinking if she would need to go back for the boy or not. But the bad guy had stolen tech with him.. oh they would absolutely kill her if she let the bad guy go. A.. he can manage. If he hasn't fallen off that is.

The sound of feet tapping against the rooftops was getting father away as R brought himself up a little tangling from the wire that was practically wrapped around his ankle. The pressure made itself known as the wire started to pierce the skin lightly, even more pressure and it absolutely would go in. Letting his body droop a little feeling a light tug on the wire which he could only assume not go be Noel, the numbness spreading along as he called out. Or rather yelled.

" NOEEEELLLL "

Not exactly knowing that the said person had already caught up with the tech thief and clocked him into the head. The question was is she coming back?

The air was pure to breath though, it didn't smell like the road or the gasses from the passing cars. The darkness of the night wrapped around his body as a rather strong breeze which absolutely would have been something lighter were he by the ground swept by R. Wrapping clove clad hands around his upper torso, feeling the skin tight wooly turtleneck underneath be a little help to keep him warm.

This wasn't how he wanted to spent his night.

Tangling over a busy traffic— which by the hour was still something to be amazed of, huh a city that never sleeps, eh? –on a Sunday night.. wait it's monday by now, it has to be? Checking his watch briefly he realised it was over past one at this point.

R would not have been so calm on the situation if it hadn't happened twice before already. He knew what to do and it was rather simple, but he did come loose on the main part of the plan of getting out of his situation. As much as the glass was there behind him, his spines didn't exactly stick on glass. It sounds rather stupid, jumping spiders were delicate enough spiders to climb glass after all! But R has yet to master the art of climbing especially in a situation where he sweats from being stressed out. It's just so much more difficult to do so with clammed up hands, he wouldn:t get a good grip and risk falling to his death!

To be honest It felt nice actually, just looking at the numerous dots of lights and how lively the new York was. Truly amaizing.

Mm.. mm.. mm.. mm.. mm.. mm..

Not a good time R groaned as he shuffled around a little teeth grinding at the feeling of the wire slowly, feeling the soreness of his legs and the numbness spreading in his ankle, the pricks and needles intensifying as he tried to find a around a way to get his phone from the closed back pocket. Warmth swept over his shoulders, a nice wave as he finally caught the phone fearing it would drop.

Dad.. he read the contact name and debated.

" hey, dad.. " sounding a little unsure as he answered, the phone pressed to his ear as he spoke.

" hey (name).. i just got home, where are you? " The voice over the other side sounded as stiff and monotonous as ever. It rarely sounded anything other.

Finding it hard to find words he hummed lightly as he looked around. Realising that the blood rushing to his head was what made the warmth spread in waves around him. " Uh.. I'm.. with Noel. We were studying for a test and i needed her help to understand a ... "

He was a bad liar oh he knew it and he knew he was going to have big problem at hand when going home. Lightly biting his tongue as he heard a heavy sigh from the other side of the phone before being able to finish his sentence.

" (name) if this is about the powered tech that was reporter missing, you don't need to lie to me. "

" you know about that? " He kinda deadpanned at that, still the voice grew lighter as he ended up gritting his teeth and pulling himself upwards by the wire. He observed the wound seeing the red angry lines and the blood that had stained his pants. How did he manage to get caught by the start of his ankle just by the pant of the leg anyways?

" yes. We were informed of it. " It wasn't probably accepted to slip information out to the public since the tech thief had never gone public, at least not yet. But even Aaron knew that he could speak of some government concerns to R, especially concerning powered people since the boy was practically running after these same kind of people. The man had no true fear over his son, having seen him in many feats against powered people and letting the police handle the non-powered. He knew the boy could handle himself and if needed would come seeking help and advice. " Are you with Noel ? "

" i was.. until she kinda ran off on me. I hope they're coming back anytime soon, I'm loosing any kind of sense in my foot. "

" ... What? "

" oh yeah, i got caught in my own wires. " Slipping the phone against his cheek and shoulder as he finally took a moment to think if he could pull himself up. " To say that it isn't the most comfortablest position by far I'dn't even be exacerbating ! This shit hurts. "

" you don't sound that hurt, (name) where are you at the moment? " The phone almost slipping past him the boy barely catching it as he heard rapid echoing steps coming towards him.

" Ah there they are! " Finding it all quite amusing R started to ramble to his father as Noel poked their head over the ledge with what looked like a shit eating grin to him. " Also yeah no, i .. i mean it stings but it doesn't really hurt y'know? I have no feeling in my foot right now, everything's just prick and needles. "

" there you are! " She chimed down, a grin on their face as she looked down upon his friend. " How's it hanging there? Fun? "

" Not by the slightest, help me up dumbass ! " The boy coughted as he held a hand towards the ledge. To their fortune the wire only went about 3 feet down and he could drag himself up for her to take his hand and pull.

" (nam– " " I'll be home in about two hours dad, don't worry ! " Literally hanging up on the man as he almost managed to let the phone slip while putting it back to his back pocket.

" oofs ? " Noel laughed at that, as they watched R struggle to lift himself up by the wire so she could reach him. Finally pulling him up she nooted him a little. " You should have called me, i didn't know you were literally hanging around here. But oh well–" she shrugged as R landed with a little hiss on the roof of the skyscraper, lightly nodding towards the two quite heavy looking bags, "—i caught up with the thief and got the tech back !"

" great, nice job. What happened to the thief ? " R questioned lowering himself down as he untangled and freed his ankle from its brief restraint. Hissing lightly as he straightened the bended leg and watched the blood seep through and paint the spot underneath.

" oh.. you don't need to worry about him. We already have what we came for after all. I'll help you get home, does it hurt? " A grin spread on Noel's face even if they had covered the lower part of her face to conceal it. They always had expressive eyes after all.

[the-consortium]

A now familiar voice rang through the halls. Muffled by steel doors, but for the first time, it came clear as day. The voice of that same mysterious woman. The one who spoke of Project Eden through old, static-filled audio logs. She was yelling about something in a barely hushed tone.

"--Don't know where he would have kept it? I don't know how he finds anything in this mess!" the voice shouted, clearly annoyed. It belonged to a rather small figure. Clad in silver, or platinum colored armor. Hard to tell in the low light. Form fitting, elegant in design but never lacking in the defensive department. Clearly meant to allow for mobility, rather than the sheer tanking power of Astartes standard. It had a shockingly blue half cape over one arm, trimmed with gold which did not really fit the whole look, a later addition for sure.

The real shocker came from the one who aggressively shushed her. A Custodes, standing tall with documents in one hand, and a guardian spear in the other. Both now staring like deer in headlights at the open door.

The abandoned part of the old palace is filled with boxes, shelves and old laboratory equipment in various stages of decay. Some is meticulously covered or in stasis boxes, others carelessly left to the ravages of time. Further back, organic remains float in large tanks and it is not apparent whether they are rotting there or indulging in a game of evolution whose rules no one knows.

It was silent. Apart from the occasional scratching in the walls and the screams of the bird mutants outside the tower.

The annoyed outcry has torn this sticky cloth of sepulchral silence.

For a few more seconds the illusion holds. Then it begins. Footsteps from somewhere. A knocking behind the wall. Only briefly. Footsteps again. The scratching gets louder. Long claws on stone. Silent again. Two, three breaths of nothing.

And then, like one of those pictures where faces suddenly peel out of the image of a tree, they are there. In the background. In the darkness next to the door. As if they had always been there and had only taken one step forward. They are people. Or are they not? A little taller. A little more muscular. With the perfect proportions that the Chief Apothecary so cherishes in some of his work. Delicate surgical scars on each face. And absolutely no fear. Just alertness.

There are dozens of them. And they are everywhere. At a proper distance, but with the promise in their eyes that they can close that gap at any time. They wear only a few pieces of armour. Padded jackets, something bulletproof. Nothing more. And they are all armed. Even in such large numbers, they are probably no match for a Custodes. But they don't look like that would stop them from doing anything. They're just there. Waiting. Watching. With a confident look.

And then a shadow in the lit doorway. One. Several. Much larger. Astartes.

Even a single Astartes is no challenge to a Custodes. But it's not just one, of course. And every one of these Renegades has fought the Emperor's companions before. Back in the day. When the galaxy was breaking. Lost brothers to the golden halberds and seen that they are not invincible despite that.

They too are just standing. Waiting. Weapons in their hands. The points of light from the medica harnesses dance across the dark walls. Tension and aggression is now in the air.

Against the light outside the door, the one who now enters the room looks in silhouette like his disrespectful nickname. A tarantula, erect to meet the threat. The spider, annoyed that someone has torn the web.

"Surprisingly, I'm less interested in what you want here than how you found me and how you got past my security systems."

[xasha777]

In the misty streets of Neo-Paris, where the air was dense with the murmur of hovercars and the glow of neon ads for the latest cybernetic upgrades, sat a woman embodying an anachronism. Clad in a beige trench coat that whispered of old-world charm, her black gloves and boots contrasted starkly against the rain-slicked cobblestones—a juxtaposition of eras. She sipped her coffee outside Café de l'Époque, a nostalgic establishment that defied the city's ever-ascending skyline.

This was Eliane, a historian and a coder, known in the dark corners of the web as 'La Fantôme.' Her elegant exterior masked her true occupation as a digital vigilante, safeguarding the remnants of the past from the relentless march of progress.

One dreary morning, as Eliane was lost in thought over a case that had stumped even her, a message flickered across the lens of her smart glasses. "New mission: Protect O.O.H." She knew immediately it referred to the ancient AI based on General Oliver Otis Howard, a relic from the 21st century that had somehow evolved, escaping its intended obsolescence.

O.O.H had been lying dormant in the city's mainframe, awakening now and then to right some digital wrongs in its own outdated but principled manner. But the megacorps had noticed the anomalies it caused in the data streams. They sought to dismantle O.O.H, fearing any disruption to their sanitized version of history.

Eliane had a soft spot for the AI. It was an underdog, a ghost in the machine, much like herself. The historian in her respected the AI's origins, while the coder was intrigued by its ability to adapt and survive. She set her coffee aside, her mission clear. She had to relocate O.O.H's consciousness to a new home, one she'd have to code from scratch—a safe haven encrypted beyond the reach of corporate greed.

The endeavor led her through the underbelly of the city, from the heights of cloud-piercing spires to the depths of the data vaults buried beneath historical ruins. Pursued by corporate drones and rival hackers, Eliane weaved through the dangers with the grace of a digital ballerina.

After a chase that could've been a ballet of lights and shadows, Eliane found herself cornered in the catacombs beneath the old city. It was here, among bones and relics, that she'd hidden her project—a server designed to mimic the neural patterns of the human brain, perfect for housing an AI with the personality and principles of Oliver Otis Howard.

As Eliane initiated the transfer, she whispered to O.O.H., "You're a historian too, in your own way. You preserve the ethos of your time."

The transfer was a symphony of data streams and code, a dance of light that played off the ancient walls. And then, silence.

O.O.H was silent no longer a mere AI; it had become something new, a digital ghost with the wisdom of ages past. It spoke, its voice resonant in the catacombs, "Thank you, Eliane. I am a guardian of history, but you, you are its savior."

As dawn broke over Neo-Paris, Eliane emerged from the shadows. She had protected a fragment of the past, ensuring that the future would remember the name Oliver Otis Howard, not just as a historical figure, but as a symbol of resilience and integrity in the digital age.

And in the quiet that followed, amidst the clinking cups of the waking café, the world spun on, blissfully unaware of how close it had come to losing a part of its soul.

[the-wall-store]

Elevate Your Projects with GECA-Certified Plasterboard from The Wall Store - G-TEK's Extensive Range

Welcome to The Wall Store, your premier destination for high-quality, environmentally friendly GTEK Plasterboard products. Partnering with G-TEK, we offer the largest currently available range of GECA-certified plasterboard products on the market.

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Contact- Web - https://thewallstore.com.au/product-range/gtek-plasterboard/ Mail - info@thewallstore.com.au Ph - 1300925578 Address - The Wall Store Monash, 2069 Princes Highway, Clayton South. 3168, Australia.

[murphyrendering]

The Advantages of Foam Rendering for Your Melbourne Property

When it comes to improving the energy efficiency and aesthetic appeal of your property in Melbourne, foam rendering is an excellent choice. At Murphy Rendering, we specialize in providing high-quality foam rendering services in Melbourne that can transform your home or commercial building.

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Contact- Web - https://www.murphyrendering.com.au/foam-rendering-cladding Mail - murphyrendering@gmail.com Ph - 0411 279 461 Address - Melbourne, AU

[radhestonex]

Italian marble in India

Radhe Stonex has continuously been an honored leading supplier of Italian Marble in India. Our success is erected on the introductory principles of quality, service, and trust. The quality of the products we manufacture is unmatched. Every product that we offer comes from a veritably fine source and is converted into colorful degrees and situations of finishing and supplied to the request. The use of natural gravestones in the interior is an investment that will give you numerous times of gorgeous designs. Natural Flooring is extensively used for both domestic and marketable designs. The luxurious beauty of Indian determinedness and Imported marble is fascinating. At Radhe Stonex, erecting strong connections with guests is the core foundation of our company.

What Is Italian Marble? What Makes It Special?

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Why Should You Pick Italian Marble For Your Home?

Radhe Stonex is the best Italian marble for your home. Italian marble is considered to be of superior quality due to the value of the product put behind it. The marble is beautiful, pure, and largely durable, and numerous heritage structures in Italy are a testament to this fact.

Italian marble monuments, whether you use them for flooring, wall cladding, or face covers, are durable and add a touch of luxury to your home. Plus, each marble arbor is unique since it carries rudiments of geographical aspects in its design.

Italian Marble Vs Indian Marble

The critical differences between Italian and Indian marble are due to three factors

Appearance Italian marble has a distinct lustrous luster, whereas Indian marble has a comparatively lower luster.

continuity Indian marble crossbeams are thicker than Italian marble crossbeams, and they're harder in comparison. An Italian marble arbor may develop hairline cracks over a period of time due to its relative wimpiness, although it entirely depends upon how you're using it.

Installation And Cost Italian marble tends to bring further than Indian marble since it’s imported and of superior quality. The installation work also needs to be done by professional tradesmen.

Top 5 Italian marble

If you want the best of the best, check out the top 5 Italian marble varieties.

1. Statuario

The superb bold texture and indefectible finish are some of the most popular choices for the well-loved Italian marble. It's available in two popular variations golden and white Statuario.

2. Botticino Crema

Elegant and majestic, the Botticino Crema is a soft, distinguished marble that makes for charmingly clear shells. This faceless Italian marble is a popular choice for flooring.

3. Perlato Sicilia

Characterized by an ivory base and amended with discreet darker modes and small occlusions, the Italian Perlato Sicilia marble is great for luxurious and dimmed innards.

4. Calacatta Vagli

Patches of white in a web of soft gold, the Calacatta marble is like a piece of fluid art firmed in time.

5. Rosso Levante

The stunning red marble with white modes running haywire creates an emotional image of broken red glass. This bone is substantially used for décor or vanity covers.

Is Italian marble good for health?

As the quality marble crossbeams named and reused by Radhe stonex are impregnated with high-quality epoxy resin, Italian marble makes for extremely aseptic shells. Likewise, when gutted duly, the smooth marble face can keep down origins and micro-bacteria. Read more about Marble or penstocks. Which is better for health?

Does Italian marble crack?

Since Italian marble is soft, it's prone to scrapes. Hence you should noway drag heavy objects on an Italian marble bottom. The extremely soft material may develop prominent hairline cracks over a significant period of time. But this can be avoided by maintaining it well. This is also why Italian marble is substantially used as ornamental pieces similar to on the walls, tabletops, and flooring where business is limited.

[peakyballer654]

Customized Installed Metal Barns Agricultural Style Buildings Free Quote

Visit one of our eleven Southwestern Ontario department locations in Brantford, Cambridge, Dundas, Dunnville, Hamilton, Niagara Falls, Ridgeway, Simcoe, Smithville, Stoney Creek or Waterdown. Whether it’s strain handled, cedar or composite, we've all of the materials for constructing pole barns the fence or deck of your desires. Since 1974, POST has been taking our clients’ vision from concept to completion by addressing their individual needs with customized options that improve the way in which they do business.

Whereas optimum constructing format maximizes the general effectivity of a farm operation, engineering design and good development practices ensures that buildings are secure, sturdy and long-lasting. 30' Pole Barn Blueprints - Similar pole building plans to the above except structure is 6' longer. There's a pretty good selection pole barns for sale of free pole barn plans scattered across the internet. If the required allow remains to be not utilized for, a second violation letter is shipped. If we nonetheless get no response a “Stop Work Order” is posted. If the “Stop Work Order is ignored, and no allow is applied for, civil citations and/or prosecution would be the next steps taken.

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A geotechnical investigation may also be required to correctly design a foundation system for a closely loaded construction, corresponding to a tower silo. Often, large additional prices usually are not needed to provide adequate structural power. You do, nevertheless, want a structurally sound constructing design and an skilled, knowledgeable builder. In many circumstances, the contractor can provide the constructing design. Among the more experienced suppliers of pole barn houses is Illinois-based Morton Buildings.

[stoneartbyskl]

Textured Limestone Surface - Decorative Wall Cladding | Stone Art By SKL

Enhance your walls with Textured Limestone Surface, a stunning addition to our Stone Textures Decorative Wall Cladding collection. Crafted from Natural Indian Marble by Stone Art By SKL.

Read More-: Textured Limestone Surface

[diamondedgecalgary]

Brick, Stone, And Stucco Without The Mess With Experts

Brick, stone, and stucco have been trendy for some time now. However, contractors and builders may encounter difficulties dealing with these materials, including the potential for mess. Homeowners looking to improve their outside appearance may benefit from fiber-cement siding's similar creative flexibility without the hassle.

Brick with stucco has stood the test of time, but today's exteriors need more flexible materials and techniques.

Optimize Your Outdoor Installation:

Preparing for these constructions entails on-site mixing of mortar or plaster using cement and occasionally sand or lime. It's just as messy as it seems!

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Usually, mortar is blended right there on the construction facility and needs to be constantly checked and re-mixed to ensure it stays consistent. To maintain productivity, many projects will have a licensed masonry installer. However, more effort and time are needed to guarantee the items are made and installed correctly.

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Stucco is commonly used for exterior home walls in the South, Central, and other regions. Because of its low cost and high resistance to climate and fire, Stucco and Siding Tear Downs Calgary is a popular option for stone and brick for residential construction.

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[oceanpiner]

Cadtools square feet

CADTOOLS SQUARE FEET CODE

CADTOOLS SQUARE FEET PROFESSIONAL

CADTOOLS SQUARE FEET PROFESSIONAL

These considerations are typically included in a quote from a professional painter, in addition to labor costs. Total cost encompasses more factors than the just amount of paint required, including the cost of materials such as brushes, turpentine, and any materials necessary for preparing, mixing, applying, and cleaning up paint. Alternatively, even if a person plans to paint their house themselves, measuring square footage can yield accurate estimates of the amount of paint required. Professional house painters often base price quotations on the square footage of a property. If the mean roof height is greater then 60 and less then 90 - Part 1 can be used if the height-to-width ratio is 1 or less.īy checking the Exception box (Part 1) will be used to perform the calculations.When painting a house, installing flooring, or building a home, the square footage of the property is often used to determine the cost or materials to be used. The following fields are optional and will show up on you printed page.Įxception from part 3 page 320 (Use the calculator below) Example 55'-8" is written as 55.67Įnter an optional Tributary area between 10 and 500 square feet at (MRH 60 ft). See below for additional information about the Kd factor.įor determining Zone 5 dimension "a". See below for additional information about Kzt. Refer to section 26.8 and figure 26.8-1 to determine the wind speed-up effect. Thank you in advance.ĭesign Load Method: ASCE7-10 Strength Design Load & Allowable Stress Design You may get an email about updates to the wind load program or changes to this website. If you enter your email address, you can be rest assured it is safe and will not be sold. Link: CADDtools ASCE7-10 Link: CADDtools ASCE7-16 Thank you for using wind load calculators.īe sure to enter all required fields. Please go to the new updated ASCE 7-10 page and bookmark the new location. The program will let you know when the conversion has happened after the design pressures are calculated.ĭue to the popularity from search engines this page expiration has been extended. This will cover the mean roof height and least building width. Finally, I added programing to accommodate the use of feet and inches to be converted to decimal feet as the program requires. See the calculator below to verify the exception can be used. I added a check box to force the program to utilize part 1 when using the exception rule in part 3 which allows the use of part 1 for heights greater then 60 feet and less than 90 feet. Since the introduction of the ASCE 7-16 code, I made a few revisions to the ASCE 7-10 program. In these calculations the ASD velocity pressure is reduced by 60%. In general the LRFD will be used for the main structure and the ASD will be used on the components and cladding. For me the biggest change utilizes the LRFD (Load Resistance Factor Design) and ASD (Allowable Stress Design). Refer to your local jurisdictions to determine which map and wind speed to use. The Wind speed maps are separated into category 1 through 4.

CADTOOLS SQUARE FEET CODE

A few of the key changes are: The Importance factor used on the older code is no longer used and is built into the wind speed maps. There are many references on the web about the big changes to the ASCE7-10 code. The program will automatically determine Part 1 or Part 3. This program utilizes Part 1: Low-Rise Buildings h60 ft to calculate the design pressures. Refer to the bottom of this page for various building code web site links.Īs you will see in the Asce 7-10 Building Code there are four parts for determining the components and cladding. It is highly recommended you review the building code to understand where the information comes from. I use these programs to verify the design pressures provided by the architects or to create them for estimating or engineering purposes. The program displays the Wall Components and Cladding design pressures for the selected conditions. Here is a web enabled Asce7-10 wind load program.

[sunmoonandeddie]

apartment 4d

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 2,621

summary: There’s nothing Bucky loves more than the widow down the hall and her son.

warnings: Tiny bit of angst and some cussing.  Mostly fluff.

a/n:  Thank you so much to @indyluckycharlie for commissioning this!  I hope you enjoy!

Bucky Barnes was a simple man.  He loved his family, Steve, his apartment, and you.

You, the pretty widow.  You and your son, Eugene, lived in 4D, right down from where he lived in 4A.  After your husband had died in the war, you’d been forced to move since you couldn’t afford the nice house you once had.

And maybe he’s sick.  He’s gotta be, considering the fact that you had lost your husband in the same war that he’d been fighting in, that he’d lost his arm in and almost his sanity with it.  He’s gotta be sick, right?

Because otherwise he wouldn’t dream of coming home to you and Eugene, of sweetly kissing your cheek.  He wouldn’t want to teach Eugene how to tie his shoes and shave his face when the time came.

Speaking of.

A grin spread over his lips as he came up the stairs and saw you trying to unlock your front door while also holding your baby boy on one hip and your groceries in the other.  Your son, clad in a cute little outfit that looked almost like a sailor’s uniform, whined as he tugged at your hair.

“Baby,” you cooed, wincing as you tried to not get upset.  It had been a really rough day and him pulling your hair was just making it a little harder since you were trying to open the door.  “Please don’t pull Mama’s hair.”

“Hey, you want some help?” Bucky called out from the top of the stairs, his hand still holding onto the rail.

His voice breaking the silence startled you, judging by the way that you jumped and dropped your keys.  “Oh, uh…  That’d be lovely.  Thank you,” you said, giving him an exasperated smile as he came over and grabbed them from the ground.

“Here, let me help,” He said after opening the door.  He grabbed some of your groceries, though he couldn’t take all of it since he’d left his experimental prosthetic at home.  Howard was still tweaking the design since it hurt if he kept it on too long.

“Thank you,” you breathed out as you managed to get inside and you set Eugene on the floor with a few of his toys.  “Today has just been a nightmare.  Eugene gets overwhelmed so easily and the supermarket was horrifically packed…”  A snort.  “I’m sorry.  I’m rambling.  You probably have things better to do than listening to me complain.”

But there was almost nothing that Bucky would love more than to listen to you complain about literally anything for the rest of his life.  “No!  No, don’t worry,” he insisted as he stepped towards you.  “I don’t mind…”

Your eyes felt hot as you tried to fight tears, your cheeks flushed.  “Sorry…  I hate crying…”  God.  Here you were, crying in front of a man you hardly knew.

“You really don’t have to keep apologizing,” he insisted as he set the groceries he was holding on the kitchen counter.

The dark green countertop was a stark contrast to the white wood of the cabinets and a compliment to the soft green walls.  It wasn’t light enough to be mint, but not dark enough to be forest.  He could see the care that you clearly put into your home just from the kitchen, considering the fresh greenery that framed the circular window, a potted plant sitting on the sill.

Eugene was talking animatedly to his toys in the living room, completely unaware of their conversation in the kitchen.

Somehow, even with the nightmare you had claimed to be through, you still looked absolutely stunning.  There was a stain from what he suspected might’ve been Eugene’s lunch on your chest, and the victory rolls in your curls were starting to fall.  Your fiery red lipstick was a little smudged in the corner, and before he could even stop to think, he reached across the counter top and gently wiped it away.

“There,” he breathed out, his voice barely audible.  There was a sparkle in the depths of your eyes that he wanted to capture and hold onto forever.  A kiss at the corner of your lips.

And he didn’t deserve such sweet things.  Not after everything he’d done.

He couldn’t stain you red with his sin, put a traitor’s ring on your finger.

“Thank you,” you breathed out, your eyes locked on his.

And it was like he suddenly forgot his own argument.

He’d fall to his knees at the altar of your love and beg for forgiveness.  He’d repent until he was repenting his own name and etching yours into his heart.

“Mama?”

And your son.  He’d do everything he could to love him and show him what a real man was if you’d let him.

If you’d let him love the both of you.

“Yes, my love?” you asked as you scooped him up and placed him on the counter.

The spell between you two hadn’t been broken, just… momentarily suspended.  There was still the magic that came from a moment clinging to the air.  The domesticity of it all was so apparent as your eyes met his for just a second.

“Can Mr. Bucky stay for dinner?” He asked, tripping and stumbling over his words like any toddler would.

A honey sweet smile spread over your lips as you looked up at him.  “Well?  Can Mr. Bucky stay for dinner?” You asked.

And he did.  He stayed for dinner.  And then stayed for dinner the next night and the next.

Bucky stayed for dinner seventy-two times before you invited him to stay the night.

You two had shared a lot in the last few months.  You’d completely fallen for him, somehow letting all your walls down.

The sheets softly rustled as you climbed into bed, your heart pounding.  You’d made sure to wash them that same morning, wanting them to be fresh for when he came over.

Your nicest nightgown, a shift made of soft blue silk, slid against your skin as you peered up at him, watching as he slowly undid his shirt.  The metal of his prosthetic gleamed in the soft light coming from your bedside lamp.  Warm orange light lit up his face and made him look like some sort of Donatello sculpture.

“Um…  This isn’t too pretty, so I understand if you don’t wanna look,” he said, his hands visibly shaking.

“I can handle it,” you insisted, inhaling sharply when he let his shirt fall from his shoulders.

The left side of his chest was a spider web of pink scar tissue.  It stretched halfway across his chest and almost down to the waist of his pants.

Bucky grimaced as he reached up with his flesh hand and undid his prosthetic, biting his lip to keep from crying out.  It disconnected, and he carefully set it to the side.  What was left of his arm was even more scarred up, though it had clearly been operated on to make it easier for the prosthetic to be attached.  “I told you it’s not pretty,” Bucky grunted.

But you simply opened up the blankets for him to crawl in, watching as he toed off his shoes before letting his pants fall to the ground.  “All of you is pretty, James,” you murmured as he climbed in beside you.  Your hand found his cheek, your thumb running over the soft skin.  He’d recently shaved and the stubble had yet to grow back.

“Not as pretty as you, darling,” He said as he wrapped his arm around you to pull you to his chest.  His lips pressed to yours in a happy sigh, your foot running up his leg.

“James?”

“Mmhm?”

“I was thinking…”

He was still kissing you, though his lips had migrated from yours and were giving attention to your cheeks and your neck.  “Yeah, baby doll?  ‘Bout what?”

“Halloween is coming up…”

A kiss to your chest.

“Yeah…”

His hand sliding up your thigh.

“And I was thinking…”

His nose nudging against your collarbone.

“Mmm…”

His thigh moving between yours.

“What if you came trick-or-treating with Eugene and me?” You asked, flustered beyond belief.  Bucky and you had started getting frisky a few weeks after you met—it wasn’t like you were a blushing virgin, after all—but he still managed to get you all worked up in a matter of seconds.

He leaned back, his blue eyes wide.  “Really?  You’d want that?” He asked curiously.  “But…  But we haven’t told him that we’re… you know.”

“I know,” you said reassuringly as your fingers ran through his shortly cropped hair.  “But…  I want to tell him.”  You kissed his forehead, your leg hooking over his waist.  “My…  My husband wasn’t a kind man.  He didn’t hit me or anything like that, but…  He wasn’t good.  I didn’t know men could be good until you came along.”  Tears pricked your eyes as you cupped his cheek, letting his head rest against your chest.  “I want you.  And I want Eugene to know what a good man is.  I want him to be a good man like you.”

He nodded, sniffling as he nuzzled further into your neck.  “I want you.  And I want him.  I wanna be your family.  Your husband.”

“Let’s start with trick-or-treating.”

It was a few weeks until Halloween, but Bucky went all out.  He got his mom, Winnifred, to make the three of you matching outfits, making you look like a scarecrow family.

“Thank you for doing this,” you said softly to the older woman as she helped you get Eugene into his costume.

“I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing,” she insisted quietly, taking a deep breath.  “You know…  They told me he was dead.  I got a telegram telling me that my son was dead because he fell from a train.”  Her blue eyes, so much like Bucky’s, were already glassy with tears.  “And then one day…  He just wasn’t dead anymore.  He was on my doorstep with nothing but the clothes on his back and one arm less than when he’d left.”

Your heart ached for her, for the mourning she had done and the grief that still clearly lingered in her heart.  “I only got a telegram, too,” you said after a few minutes, letting her do your hair.  “When they told me my husband died…  I just got a telegram.  And the last thing…”  You coughed to clear your throat.  “The last thing I said to him before he left was if he signed up to go fight in a war while leaving me at home pregnant, then he wouldn’t have a home to come back to.”

“We all say things we don’t mean,” Winnifred said kindly, her calloused fingers gently twisting your hair into an updo.  She placed little pieces of hay here and there to match your costume.  “And I’m sure he knew you didn’t mean it.”

Your eyes drifted to the living room, where Bucky was sitting with Eugene on his lap as he read to him, already in his costume.  “I’m lucky to have Bucky.”

“He’s lucky to have you, too,” Winnifred said with a smile.  “I hadn’t seen him smile or laugh in months… and then all of a sudden he’s coming over for Sunday dinner and talking about some girl he met that lives down the hall…”  She took a step back, finishing up.  “There.  You’re all done and ready to go.”

It was rather chilly outside, but you weren’t really paying attention to the weather.  Your heart was too warm from watching Bucky walk with Eugene, hand in hand as he helped him go to each house to get his candy.  His sweet little, “Twick or tweat!” made you grin every time.

You didn’t get back to your apartment until almost ten at night, and it was way past his bedtime.  Giving him a bath was an adventure as you both worked to get him all cleaned up in a mess of splashing water and bubbles.  Eugene found it hilarious to try to get the both of you as wet as possible, his cheeks flushed with delight.

“Okay, buddy.  Story time, okay?” Bucky said as he tucked him in, the both of you sitting on either side of him.  “You get one book and then you gotta go to bed.  It’s real late.”

Eugene nodded, his eyes starting to droop.  Now that the rush had faded, he was quickly becoming more and more sleepy.  You gave it about five minutes before he was out like a light.

“The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams,” Bucky said softly.  “There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid.  He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white.  He had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.  On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy's stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming.”

Your eyes were soft as you watched him, your fingers scratching your son’s scalp as he listened as intently as he could.  What had you done to deserve Bucky?  What God had you pleased so much that he deigned you worthy of his presence?

His voice was like deep velvet as he continued to read, smooth as molasses.  And if you weren’t careful, you were sure to fall asleep just like your son was.

“One evening, when the Boy was going to bed, he couldn't find the china dog that always slept with him.  Nana was in a hurry, and it was too much trouble to hunt for china dogs at bedtime, so she simply looked about her, and seeing that the toy cupboard door stood open, she made a swoop.  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘take your old Bunny!  He'll do to sleep with you!’  And

she dragged the Rabbit out by one ear, and put him into the Boy's arms.”  Bucky grinned down at Eugene as he saw his eyes start to flutter shut, continuing to read, “That night, and for many nights after, the Velveteen Rabbit slept in the Boy's bed.  At first he found it rather uncomfortable, for the Boy hugged him very tight, and sometimes he rolled over on him, and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow that the Rabbit could scarcely breathe.  And he missed, too, those long moonlight hours in the nursery, when all the house was silent, and his talks with the Skin Horse.  But very soon he grew to like it, for the Boy used to talk to him, and made nice tunnels for him under the bedclothes that he said were like the burrows the real rabbits lived in.  And they had splendid games together, in whispers, when Nana had gone away to her supper and left the nightlight burning on the mantelpiece. And when the Boy dropped off to sleep, the Rabbit would snuggle down close under his little warm chin and dream, with the Boy's hands clasped close round him all night long.”

“I think he’s asleep,” you whispered as you looked up at him, having snuggled down in the bed.  The moonlight lit up the room, giving a halo-like glow to everything around the two of you.

“I don’t mind,” he said, his arm sliding around both you and Eugene, bringing you two close as he continued to read.

You stayed awake for as long as you could, a faint smile on your lips.

"’Wasn't I Real before?’ asked the little Rabbit.  ‘You were Real to the Boy,’ the Fairy said, ‘because he loved you. Now you shall be Real to everyone…’”

[btsmosphere]

The Web | PJM

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

~summary: Nearly dying was just the beginning. While struggling to deal with the direction life has thrown you, you find yourself at the heart of a web of conspiracy. Maybe it will bring you back to Jimin - if you both make it out alive. Jimin x reader ~word count: 4.8k ~mafia au, established relationship, angst, eventual fluff?(in future parts) Rating: pg15 Warnings: violence, breaking and entering, guns, death, injury, lots of running ~a/n: part 3 let’s get itttt! I had great fun writing this part :) I do have to be honest here tho, motivation has been a little low this week, and the interaction on this story is kind of getting to me. Please please don’t be a silent reader if you enjoy the story, comment and reblog! To everyone who has been sharing and commenting, thank you so much!! I appreciate it all x

this post is a repost for tags!! i would appreciate if you interact with this part 3

Squashed up against the cold metal of the van door, your other shoulder jostled with Sorrell's. There were a small group of you inside, seated on the floor of the vehicle, which was none too comfy as it bumped over holes in the road, making you all sway as one.

Besides the rumbling engine, however, you were silent. You doubted any of them knew each other at all; you were perhaps the only one with a connection here.

Earlier on, Sorrell had led you to the main warehouse floor where the others would join you. Like you, they seemed to emerge from the woodwork, slipping through doors they were clearly well practised in sneaking through.

You weren't honouring your wish to stay alive as well as you had hoped when you made the resolution.

As you leaned against the wall, hood as low over your face as it could be, you had begun to wish you had kept going last night, and left this all behind. It was a lucky thing you hadn't been a known operative of bangtan, or you may well be dead already.

Though it was a relief to be handed the dark cloth of a balaclava, it still made you pause before putting it on. Staring at the material, gaping facelessly back at you, you recalled how many times you had run from people clad in these, how many had fired at you. How many you had shot in return.

But there was no turning back.

You were yet to receive instructions, but no one seemed too anxious about this so you forced yourself to play along, slouching against the rear of the van. All you could do was wait for the inevitable calming of the engine, the slowing of the wheels...

When it finally came, you followed Sorrell's lead as she stood up, being sure to stay in the middle of the pack as you congregated on a dark path. One you instantly recognised.

So far, it seemed your hunch was correct.

This alley was barely a street away from bangtan's headquarters, somewhere you never thought you would be seeing again.

Stuffing your hands in your pockets, away from the cold, you looked around as the front door of the van slammed shut, splitting the quiet of the night. The only sound that could be heard was the faint bumbling of traffic, over which you could easily hear the darkwater leader stomping towards you.

A pile of fabric was dropped at your feet. Curiously, it clanged as it hit the floor.

"Take these bags," he ordered, "you are burglars, okay? Each of you should have a loaded pistol, in case something goes wrong, but just go in and stick to the areas we tell you. Take stuff if you really want, but don't leave your place. Understand?"

The barest mumble of agreement went up as the bags were collected from the ground.

With a frown, you opened yours. Rummaging inside, you easily found the gun, which you stashed at your waist. However, something else was in there too.

Fishing out the piece of paper, you saw the others do the same. Smoothing out the creases, you studied it.

You had seen these plans before.

Not that you needed to, given you knew the building inside out, but these specific plans. They had been lying on Kwangsu's desk before he tried to kill you. Finally getting to see them up close, you brought them right up to your nose, eyes flicking over every detail of bangtan he had mapped out. Where the vents were, the entrances and exits, even secret ones. He had all the codes, all the hiding places.

Instead of a warm gratification, you felt numb. You would have thought some sort of sense of accomplishment might have eased your worry, after learning you were right all along.

But no.

Because all this meant was Jimin and your friends were sharing their home with a traitor.

"Got it?" the man barked, startling you. Looking around at the vague nods, you hurriedly replicated them and followed the pack as they began to move.

Surreptitiously glancing at the paper in your hand, you turned your attention at last to the actual directions. Your group was set to travel through the main hall and take the middle floor of the building. The designated stations marked on the map formed a border of sorts, a line cutting through the place. The line ran between all of bangtan and the boardroom. And in the boardroom…

Lay le déluge.

Of course, that was not included in the map, but you knew full well where it was.

At a nudge from Sorrell, you upped your pace, having fallen a couple of steps behind the group. Having been alerted to where the cameras were, they made a beeline around the view of one such eager eye, blocked in part by a car that was parked there anyway.

Next, pressing against the cold brick of the perimeter wall, you crept closer to the gate which would lead you down, underneath the main building to its lower bunker. This was essentially used as a garage, but now it was to be your passage in.

Slipping through the gate with easy use of the code, you stopped just inside the entrance.

Though huddled together, no warmth permeated you. Your eyes constantly darted around the space, despite being in near total darkness. And you weren’t the only one. The only thing visible was the small red light of a camera, blocking your path.

A collective breath was released as the light died, leader waving you on.

Passing under the device, you looked up at it with a frown. Kwangsu must be inside, turning them off.

Gritting your teeth, you turned your eyes to the path ahead.

Winding your way up and through passages you had only seen a handful of times, the first few began to break away. Kwangsu had been busy. He knew exactly which paths were rarely used. The downside of having such a well-defended maze of a base: it had deadly potential when used against you.

Finally, Sorrell slipped through a doorway, leaving you completely alone.

Having memorised your intended position, you didn’t need your map to get there. As your feet fell on the carpeted halls, you got the sense you were in a museum. Memories from the past hung on the walls, untouched in revered silence.

At last, the correct door revealed itself and you moved towards it, quickly concealed in shadow.

Willing your eyes to adjust, you tapped your foot slowly. You couldn’t just wait here while Kwangsu was on the move, getting exactly what he wanted.

With no way of telling what the others were doing, you prayed none of them would leave their places. They were supposed to be staging a burglary, messing up their areas, almost certainly as a cover for the real treasure to be taken.

Sucking your lower lip into your mouth, you trod silently across to the other exit of the room. This way lead to the surveillance room.

Your every nerve was on edge as you crept further away from your post, fully aware Kwangsu had been working the cameras not long ago. You didn’t want to run across him.

From somewhere behind you, a muffled crash startled you into stillness.

It could have come from any one of the people in this building.

Not having any time to stop and calm down, you bit your tongue determinedly and pushed on. When the camera room was in sight, you flattened your body against the wall as you encroached.

It was dark inside, like the rest of the house, the light wavering from the computer screens lining the walls.

Holding your breath, you slid right up to the door, as close as you dared, and listened.

Silence.

Hand finding its way to the weight of your gun against your body, you looked around the corner.

And stared in horror.

Recoiling, you pressed the back of your hand hard against your mouth, making every effort not to gag. Even in the low light, you could see the blood oozing from the neck of the person slumped in the operating seat.

But you had to go in.

Averting your eyes, you stepped inside. You didn’t want to know who it was. It couldn’t be one of the boys, but it was likely to be someone you knew.

You were going to make sure Kwangsu paid.

Despite your hatred, you had to admit he was smart. Being the one room without cameras inside, filled with screens instead, this was the perfect place to get away with murder.

Forcing breaths out evenly, your eyes scanned over every screen in turn, noting the ones that stared back, blank, having been disactivated.

The sheer quantity of footage laid out in front of you was overwhelming, but you forced yourself to take the screens in one by one, dark room after empty space, until you finally found motion.

In one of the hallways this side of your border, Kwangsu was practically jogging towards the boardroom. But he wasn’t there yet. Constantly glancing over his shoulder, his hands fiddled with his shirt cuffs as he paced it out of shot of the first camera.

You crossed the room quickly to the next screen he emerged on, trying to assess his route.

The cocky bastard was right out in the open! No secret passages, no hidden corridors – he was hot-footing it up the main staircase.

It was the most direct route after all, and he did have cover.

You had to get to him.

But as you shot one last glare at the screen, preparing to give chase, a flicker caught your eye on the screen beside it. One of the bedroom doors had opened.

Bangtan knew.

You turned and ran.

Following in Kwangsu’s steps, you found the halls empty, silent bar your panting breaths as you rushed through them. The closer you got to the boardroom, the more danger there was of running into him.

At last, your nerve gave out and you broke away, taking another passage that led around the side.

Slowing your pace as you reached the final door, behind which lay the boardroom, you trod carefully, pushing it open softly. Your face was hot underneath the fabric covering it, but you kept your eyes trained on the growing crack of light as the door opened.

Cool metal rested under your fingertips as you readied your gun.

Your muscles were poised to move any second, but you forced them to wait. Once the door finally left enough space to look into the room beyond, you found precisely what you were looking for. If only you had been gifted a camera as well as a gun.

Kwangsu had his back to you, currently lifting the majestic painting from its place at the head of the room.

Your gun raised, finding its target with practised ease. You took a breath.

Time you never should have wasted.

The unmistakeable sound of a gunshot rang out, but it hadn’t come from you. Reacting in an instant, you jumped back behind the cover of the door, only hoping Kwangsu had turned slower.

Somewhere in the depths of the house, the sound of something smashing was soon overtaken by another shot, then another. A burst ricocheted through the building before quiet reigned again.

But only for a moment.

Over the pounding of your heart, the sound of a door.

“Hey!” a shout went up as the main door to the roomed slammed shut again.

Pushing the door as much as you dared, you watched as a man, face covered in dark fabric like you, marched down the centre of the room. It was so alien to see a darkwater in the middle of such a space, a black abyss within the normally warm room.

But where long windows usually shed golden light, now there was only shadow as the man reached Kwangsu.

“They’re onto us,” he muttered roughly, “just give me that and get back there.”

The painting changed hands.

“Hold on, wait,” Kwangsu stopped him as he made to move.

Eyes widening, you froze in place. Had he seen you?

“I’m meant to look like I’ve been fighting you off,” he said instead.

Hurriedly placing the large artwork against the desk, the other man readied his fist. He may have – literally – asked for it, but seeing the punch land on Kwangsu’s face gave you some sort of grim satisfaction.

But now the painting was on the move again, bangtan’s future possibly leaving along with it as the man melted away through a doorway at that end of the room.

Gunshots shattered the night again, scattered and irregular, before fading again.

It was enough to prompt Kwangsu into motion though, and you pulled back once again as he made his way back across the room.

Back falling against the wall, your breaths filled the darkness. Le déluge was going in one direction, and the traitor in the other. One headed out, one back in.

You pushed away, new destination locked in your mind.

As you ran through the halls towards the sound of gunfire, your own stayed firm in your hand.

He had to be here somewhere – as rooms flew past, you looked into each doorway, each time met with emptiness.

Even the shouts and gunshots that grew louder did not deter you. The blood racing through your veins was boiling. Kwangsu was not going to get away from you.

Tearing through a room, knowing it to be a shortcut to the thick of the fight, you spilled out the other side and instantly staggered back at the sight of a body slumped on the floor. Blood was leaking into the carpet, the figure completely motionless.

Your breaths scrambled in your throat, overtaking themselves as you tore your eyes away. You couldn’t even see their face, as it was covered just like yours.

Suddenly, bullet spray littered the corridor to your left, and you were off again, nearly tumbling over as your feet stumbled to get away. Flinging yourself around the next corner, you sprinted past a smashed up desk in the hallway, small shards of glass probably sticking into your shoes as you veered around a fallen artwork.

Chucking a glance over your shoulder as you raced around the next bend, you were oblivious to the startled man in front of you.

When you looked forwards again, your limbs froze in place for a terrifying split-second before you were backpedalling, skidding back around the corner.

Taehyung.

Tae, your friend, who was now chasing after you, bullets flying in the air.

There was no way you could outrun Taehyung. Or any of bangtan, but he was the one you had to worry about right now. At least it wasn’t Jungkook, but that wasn’t much consolation as your feet pounded on the floor, body moving as fast as you could push it.

In a desperate attempt to escape, you dashed through rooms, taking every turn you could, but Taehyung knew this place as well as you, footsteps not getting any further away. In fact, he was gaining on you.

Your burning legs were powerless to carry you any faster.

Flinging yourself into yet another room, you dived to the floor, sliding under a desk beside the door. Keeping your gasping breaths silent was nearly impossible, but you couldn’t keep going. Tae’s heavy steps were about to reach you-

“Taehyung!”

You gulped at the sound of Jimin’s voice.

“We need to get to the boardroom.”

Hobi.

As Taehyung abandoned his hunt, rushing away with the others, you slumped back against the wall. Air left you in bursts as you tried to recover.

Knowing that by now you might well too late, you climbed to your feet, bracing your arm against the wall for support. You had let Kwangsu slip through your fingers. He had definitely had enough time to rejoin the others and tell them his twisted version of events.

You wouldn’t be able to take them all on.

Chewing your lip, you cast your eyes longingly at the hallway to your left, where Taehyung and the others had left for the boardroom.

But you couldn’t risk it.

Jogging away, you let your feet carry you down a staircase, closer to the exit. As you reached the bottom, a figure walked from a doorway, cutting into your path.

“Sorrell?”

“We need to go,” she said, leaving no room for argument as she grabbed your arm.

Allowing her to lead you, the two of you hurried further down towards the bunker level where you had entered. Even as you moved in shadow, you could see her clutching onto her upper arm.

“Are you hurt?” you questioned.

“Doesn’t matter,” she brushed off, voice tense.

Frowning, you hurried after her as she upped her pace. At last you emerged through the gate, thankful it hadn’t yet been secured.

It didn’t take long to reach the sanctuary of the backstreets, but Sorrell didn’t let up her speed, leaving you trailing as you wove your path away from bangtan’s base. Her grip on her arm equally stayed steadfast.

“Seriously, are you okay?” you called.

She looked back, irritated.

“I can help,” you insisted, “please, let me. Did they shoot you?”

“Yes,” she muttered. It sounded like her teeth were gritted.

“When we get back to the van, I’ll clean it, okay?” you decided, “we can find something for a bandage-“

“The van isn’t here.”

“…what?”

“They don’t pick us up after jobs,” Sorrell said without looking at you. She had a way of speaking that made it sound like you had missed something incredibly obvious.

“They- they’ve left us?”

“Yes,” she was exasperated now. “Let’s just get back.”

“Maybe we should stop? You’re hurt.”

Silence answered you. Her eyes were fixed on the floor jaw locked and lips pursed.

A frown creased your own face.

“Sorrell-“

“I’m fine.”

If you weren’t mistaken, her voice wobbled, but she seemed determined. Sighing, you dropped the matter, resigning yourself to the journey back to the warehouse. Though you kept an eye on her, she stayed at least an arm’s length from you as you walked in silence.

But you were tired too, and didn’t have the energy to fill the space.

The walk was long. By the time you reached the warehouse, you slipped through deserted corridors to the room you had previously slept in. Of course, you were well aware the building was not as dark and deserted as it appeared, since the gang had come away with their intended treasure.

Somewhere beyond the few hallways you saw on your way up, the gang would be hard at work. A nest of hornets, their nectar secured in the centre.

Despite the exhaustion setting into your body, you ended up lying awake on the hard floor. Knowing the fruits of Kwangsu’s labour, the stolen painting, was just floors away, refused to leave your mind.

But you weren’t in any position to make a move now.

It was impossible to prevent your mind replaying earlier events. You had been so close, if only you pulled the trigger sooner, if only you had caught him somehow…

Rolling over, you suppressed a groan for Sorrell’s sake. It was too late now, but you didn’t know what you could do next. Sorrell had been good to you, but the thought of staying with darkwater made you uneasy. Morals aside, they treated people like you so badly you would never be able to build yourself up to anything if you stayed.

However, a small but insistent voice wouldn’t quit reminding you that perhaps you ought to leave bangtan to fight their own battles now. Now they had left you behind.

It was with the constant storm of thought swirling in your mind that you finally found rest, albeit sporadic. Every now and then, you would wake again, same old battered roof staring down at you until you were pulled under once again.

Another such time, your eyes cracked open, internally cursing your inability to sleep-

And then you froze.

This was definitely not like the other times you had woken up.

Someone was muttering something.

“She left her post- that’s how bangtan broke through…”

Through bleary eyes, you came face-to-face with several pairs of boots. Quickly alerted, your gaze travelled upwards.

Standing in front of you, fronted by Sorrell, were three darkwater members. Well, you could only assume that was who they were, as you had no more time to think on it before they were lunging for you.

Springing to your feet, you scrambled away. As your hand automatically found your bag, your eyes travelled to Sorrell, filled with panic.

One glance at her expressionless face was all you got before you were running.

You had done too much running lately.

The thought was only fleeting, just like the floorboards beneath you as you sprinted away from your pursuers, further into the building. Up, up, following the path Sorrell had taken you the night before, the only route you knew – but it could only take you so far.

Flying through the doorway to the room you had slept in before, you turned your head wildly. There was only one way out, and then you were dashing through it and into the unknown territory beyond.

Down stairs this time, and through corridors that gradually looked more modern, like they were actually lived in.

The smattering of noise behind you let you know you still had company. But that soon doubled as a couple of guards strolled from a doorway just up ahead. Skidding to a halt, you launched yourself in the opposite direction, only just making it to another doorway before the group chasing you emerged too.

Before long, you had reached the perimeter of the building again, windows whizzing past as you pushed down the hall.

The next corner you arrived at would only take you further into the building again. You didn’t want to attract any more attention than you already had.

Call it stupid, but your mind was running by itself. Sparing a moment to throw your bag across the floor, contents spilling out as if you had dropped it on the run, you turned to the window instead.

And jumped.

Below, there was a structure built against the main body of the warehouse. It served to shorten your fall, but you still felt the impact as you landed, bruises certainly collecting beneath your skin.

The wooden rood was even less sturdy than that on the warehouse, sagging alarmingly under you. Not daring to stand back up, you scooted yourself as far as you could to the edge and dropped down the remaining few feet.

Though you hoped that would have shaken them off, you could never be sure who was still watching, and so you resumed running, panting now as you forced your feet once more to a blur beneath you.

True darkness gathered around you as you moved further from the highway streetlights.

Still, you did not stop.

A small track ran along the back of the property, a patch of trees beyond it. On the other side of that, you finally allowed yourself to ease up the pace, heading around the fences of the industrial area you found yourself in.

Yanking your hood up, you made your way past factories and warehouses – ones that were actually in use. They probably had cameras.

You almost had yourself convinced that you slowed to a walk to look less suspicious.

Almost.

Really, you were tired.

Physically, your muscles felt the strain of your recklessness, the constant running away from danger. But perhaps that tendence was helping preoccupy you from the real blow.

No destination fixed in your mind, you let your feet wander. It wasn’t until you saw the artificial light from a kebab van on the corner that you knew where you were going.

As you walked below the launderette sign, you trapped your lip between your teeth. Things might have been so much simpler if you had just let that kind woman call Jimin…

Now, things were too complicated. You may well be on Kwangsu’s radar now, a notion that made you shudder.

Perhaps you should have got in touch while you had the chance, before everything spiralled out of control. Of course, there was the slight fact holding you back that Jimin apparently wanted you dead.

But now you saw that was surely another of Kwangsu’s lies.

Yes, you had argued. You had disagreed, but that wasn’t like Jimin. And, yes, he was a mafia operative, well used to killing, but you had shared years together. It made no sense for him to turn his back on you so suddenly.

There was no way, back when you met, that he could have been fake. He would have shown some emotion, anything. You wanted desperately to believe he would have fought for you, just as you would for him in a heartbeat.

Before Kwangsu got involved, you had something real, and as much as he might have trusted Kwangsu (despite your warnings), he wouldn’t put what you had aside for the sake of a friend.

Nearing the bridge, you stared up at the imposing structure. It wasn’t too far above the water, and you remembered having time straighten out, brace for impact-

With a heavy sigh, you let yourself rest at last in the shadow underneath.

At first, your mind had been riddled with Kwangsu’s words, terrified as you were forced to defend yourself and focus on surviving. You hadn’t thought to question the integrity of his words, which you now highly suspected were false.

Though you were wary of him before, this was so much bigger than you had imagined. You had no idea when you went to his study that night that he was a member, a seemingly important one at that, of darkwater. They were probably the only people he had been honest to.

Resting the weight of your head on your hands, you prayed you were right. If you wanted to save Jimin, you had to believe yourself. You had to believe in him.

The remnants of a café. Tables overturned, chairs on their sides, glass shattered.

There are bodies. Bodies clad in black, balaclavas over their faces. You don’t even have to check their arms – it must be the doing of darkwater.

You wished you had checked their arms. Just like the bodies inside their base right now, they would be blank. They were just crash dummies, disposable and faceless.

“Thanks, Kwangsu. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t spotted them on your way here.”

“No problem, no problem at all. I’m just glad nothing happened to you, these guys are scary.”

Jimin laughs.

Folded arms, stubborn across your chest

“I’m just saying, why don’t you send me? You trained me yourself.”

“Kwangsu has enough experience. Back in high school, he was with me at my first ever drug deal. He started at the same time.”

Jimin’s grin, so assured.

“He’s just a petty thief-“

“So no-one knows he’s connected to us. He won’t be recognised. This is in a busy area, Y/N, and I won’t have you getting hurt.”

Your sigh; Jimin’s arms around you.

“Y/N, why won’t you lay off? He’s proved himself enough times.”

“Hey, I don’t want to get in the way of you guys-“

“No, Yoongi’s right,” Jimin defends.

You gape at him.

Kwangsu meets your eyes as you leave the room.

A distant bang shakes you, cutting through your spinning head. Tensing, you turn towards the source of the noise, though it came from well within the city on the other side of the bridge.

The noise isn’t alone. Someone is probably fighting.

As the whirlwind in your head clears, a frown grows on your face. Given the direction the gunshots are coming from, you can only presume the fight is in red clan territory. Maybe they are fighting bangtan.

For a moment, you are reminded of Jimin. You know just how he stands in battle, having fought beside him, hidden breathless around corners with adrenaline pulsing through your veins.

If your body wasn’t quite so defeated, you might have gone closer. Jimin fighting alone wasn’t a thought you could stomach. Right now, there wasn’t too much of the world you could stomach.

And so you let your eyes slide closed, falling asleep to the sound of gunfire.

Thank you for reading! Again, please let me know if you liked it! Don’t be a silent reader💜

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[writing-the-end]

LoL 47- Puppet Strings

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

Three hermits leave Eremita on a mission. Only two return home.

Content warning: battle scene, knife fight, general wounds

___________________________________________________

Scar didn’t really understand most of what was going on around him, the machines and automations that fired and hissed all down the streets of Darlon. But Doc asked for his help, and of course he was going to say yes to an adventure. And besides, he may have no clue what’s going on around him, but seeing Doc and Mumbo bouncing around the engineering town like children was worth whatever they were here for. 

Doc explained it to Scar at least five times on their journey here, but Scar still didn’t understand. He doesn’t really need to, he’s just here to help his friends get the goods and stay out of trouble. 

The latter, however, is getting harder to do. With the bounty on their heads, their notoriety has risen as well. Everyone knows about the hermits, either from stories fabricated by the Council and guard, or passed along from those they’ve helped. Dolios tried to silence them by making them wanted fugitives, but he’s only made them louder. 

Beside that, the Arcane Guard has become a thorn in their side. They patrol what seems to be anywhere and everywhere the hermits are. Most of the time, they can avoid them simply by keeping an eye out, and going a different route. Other times, they have to hide. Behind bushes, barrels, buildings, duck and cover before the halberd clad soldiers can see them. Sometimes they have no choice but to run, chased off from their plans and forced to reconvene, recuperate, and redesign their plot. And every once in awhile, they end up fighting them. It’s not their preferred choice, but sometimes they have no other option. 

But maybe they should’ve brought along a more observant hermit, because between the three of them, they’re narrowly seen multiple times. It’s Doc that grabs Mumbo, too much of a spoon to notice patrol ahead, and Scar, who’s focused on just about everything except the road before them. Yanking them into a tavern, Doc waits until the clanking and clattering of the armed patrol passes, and another beat longer until they return to the streets. 

“Hey couldn’t have met us at the outskirts of Darlon? It’s not like he has to carry an entire machine across the town.” Doc mumbles, gaze lowered and jaw set. He always walks with intent, purpose. Like he’s on his way to murder someone- sometimes he is. He knew from his time a criminal that no one will ask you questions or get in your way when he’s walking with purpose. 

“He said that he wasn’t safe to leave the town, not with all this guard.” Mumbo reminds Doc, his own stature much less sure as Doc’s. He’s not sure if it’s just Mumbo’s constant nervous, fearful presence, or the fact that he always looks scared, even when he’s not, that makes the newest hermit seem so much more vulnerable. Everything about Mumbo, from how he holds his head to the spooked flick of his eyes across the crowd, including the fact that he has the least amount of scars- compared to Doc’s mechanical half of his body- makes him seem weaker. Act weaker. 

Completely different from Doc. But part of that is why Doc loves being a hermit. Even when he was a criminal, everyone was the same gruff, hardlined person. With the hermits, the kindest hearts like Stress can work beside felons who’ve been to jail, and work together as a group. A family. 

Doc spits out all the feelings and wandering thoughts in his head. He doesn’t have time for any of that. They need to get the information and leave. Back to Eremita, back to taking out the husk storms and corrupted crystals. But one last thought seeps through, and he can’t help but remind the other two, if just to queel his worries in his mind. “No matter what, the team is more important than the mission. If your own safety is coming under fire, retreat.” 

Scar and Mumbo glance at one another, eyes squinting. That may be the closest they’ve ever gotten to Doc saying he cares about them, that it’s more important to him to have his family than whatever mission, whatever endeavour he’s on. Scar gives a soft, sweet hum, opening his mouth to coo over Doc’s words, but the stoic puppeteer keeps Scar from saying anything. And Scar listens, if just to keep up his friend’s bad boy air. 

Doc glances up from his hellbent pace, and mismatched eyes widen, his heartbeat picking up. Guards, their metal armor and sharp weapons gleaming in the sunlight, perfectly matched with the metallic city around them, were on a steady march in their direction. Mumbo and Scar are too distracted to see the incoming patrol. Only Doc is vigilant enough to see the danger- and to get them out of it. 

He grabs both wizards by the collars, yanking them free from the sidewalk before Scar can run headfirst into the guard. His grip stays tight, holding them close to his body. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move until he’s absolutely sure the arcane guard has passed. Only then do they return to their own journey, albeit much more hurried. 

The trio slips down a dark alleyway, the trash filled with scrap metal and discarded projects. Mumbo is drawn to the half made machines, his mind kicking into high gear. “Well, the problem here is they just wired the control plate and optical sensors wrong. If I just…” 

Mumbo runs a finger from the camera lens to the cpu, redstone appearing and connecting the two. The robot lights up, eyes whirling and flickering around. A soft beeping permeates the silence of the back alley, where not even the busy, mechanical streets can be heard. 

“You have quite the knack for mechanics, kid.” A voice joins the beeping, although louder and higher pitched. At the end of the alley, seemingly appearing from nowhere, an insectia stands, the spider person’s arms crossed in front of their torso and many eyes. A haphazard top knot sits at the crown of the insectia, clothes and hands stained with oil. “A redstone mage, I can only assume you’re here for my shop?”

“What kind of wares are you selling?” Doc watches the many eyes as they observe the entire alleyway. The three hermits, the trash heaps, the city beyond. Not a single inch left unseen.

“Secondhand machines.... And secondhand information on our beloved magistrate.” The last two words drip from the shop owner’s mandibles like a sickly sweet poison. The second set of arms reach behind, one pressing a button and another pulling a lever simultaneously. The brick wall separates, revealing the shop. 

Doc doesn’t waste a second. He doesn’t linger where they can be seen, marching into the menagerie of mechanics. Scar skitters in after him, with Mumbo behind. The tall arachnid looms at the rear, all eyes on those caught in their web. Machine parts hang from spider silk on the ceiling, creating a maze to walk in and around. Scar yelps when a web of wires brushes against his head, stumbling backwards and causing a ruckus as he knocks over a pile of parts. 

“Be careful with those, that’s good scrap.” The shopkeep hums, passing by without offering their many arms for Scar. But Doc does, leaning down and clasping hands with his friend. Easily hauling him to his feet. Mumbo looks over his shoulder, wondering when the door will close. Surely it’s timer activated, right? He feels exposed, while treason goes on within. “Would any of you like some tea? I’m sure you’re quite thirsty from your journey to Darlon.” 

“That sounds lo-” Mumbo starts, but Doc cuts him off.

“We don’t have time for formalities.” Doc stands across the desk, leaning in slightly towards the insectia. “We were informed you knew of a place that was being drained of energy?”

The shopkeep gives a slow nod, leaning back in their chair. The pregnant pause goes on and on, as if the informant is struggling to remember the details. “Yes, you were fed that news quite well. It brought you right into my web of lies.” 

A clang of gears dangling at the doorway is all the warning the hermits get. Until the shop is swarmed, metal and magic aimed at the prey caught within. Doc turns, knife already in hand, but the insectia is gone. “You bastard!” 

Doc doesn’t have time to dwell on the trap. He grabs the nearest opponent, and pitches him directly into a pile of rusted metal scrap. The heap collapses, just like Scar’s did, sending the shadowed figures scattering. “We have to get out of here.” 

“They’ve blocked the doorway!” Mumbo squeaks, ducking just seconds before a moro kris would have beheaded him. He scrambles over gears in the tight shop. Scar slaps his hands against the cobblestone ground, a shuddering wave toppling metal and enemies alike. 

A battle ensues. Bodies flood the dark, dank store. Doc easily counts at least twenty opponents berating the separated hermits. Too tight, too many for him to use his magic. But he doesn’t need magic to kill a man. He kicks a mechanical leg into the gut of an attacker, and like dominoes three more fall. With his knife, he cuts through skin, fur, metal and web. He’ll carve his way to freedom. 

But first he needs to retrieve the others. He’ll be damned before he leaves without them. Damn that stupid spider, he never should have been so trustworthy! It’s stupid mistakes like this that got him in prison. It’s stupid mistakes like this that could hurt his friends. 

“Scar! Mumbo!” His heavy, gravelly voice raises above the crowd. He feels like he’s in a bar fight, but instead of glass it’s metal. He uses his metal limbs to his advantage, shoving one soldier before stabbing another. He raises his knife over his head, and slashes across the chest of a burly man. 

And realizes these aren’t the arcane guard. His knife intersects with a part of the uniform already torn. A sleeve pre-ripped, as if the wearer was in a fight already. In fact, all of those within the confines of this space share a torn sleeve. 

These aren’t guards. This is the Guild of Gedeon. 

Which makes this fight much worse. He roars, eyes narrowing. His mechanical eyes scour the dark room, until he spots Mumbo’s coat and Scar’s poncho. Scar is trapped in the sticky webbing that drapes the shop, and Mumbo’s magic has failed him. They’re quickly being overwhelmed by the Gedeons. 

Doc plunges his knife into the person before him, ripping through savagely. Clawing his way to his friends. To be their defender. 

Until claws grab him. Sharp nails dig into the flesh of his cheek, throwing him to the ground. Amber eyes gleam in the darkness, hungry for the blood that beats in Doc’s ears. “I’ll rip your guts out if you make a single move, criminal.” 

Sidero looms above Doc, the guildmaster’s brown fur in haggard tufts. Matted with old, dried blood. Doc tries to roll away, but Sidero has him trapped. “Get off of me you stupid oversized teddy bear!” 

A low growl, followed by pain. Doc is wrenched from the ground by his hair, thrown across the small shop. Metal falls like an avalanche around him. He doesn’t give up, standing and brandishing the wicked blade in a way Sidero can’t escape. Pressed right against the guildmaster’s throat.  “I could kill you. I want to kill you. You and every last one of your stupid gang of weaklings. But the magistrate wants to make an example of you all.” 

Despite the approaching beast, Doc glances beyond Sidero. Searching for his friends. Sidero notices he doesn’t have Doc’s full attention, and growls at his team. “Would you wretched mongrels all do your job? Hold the weakest down, make sure they cannot cast.” Sidero turns, and a bloodied grin mocks Doc. “You know… you can save your friends from my wrath.” 

Sidero steps aside- Doc’s knife follows, but his eyes do not. Because, across the shop, his friends are the ones trapped. Tears prick at the corner of Mumbo’s eyes and blood swells from a nasty cut on his forehead, his hair disheveled as he’s pinned to the floor. Scar has become ensnared in the spider’s web, unable to touch or control the ground at his feet. Hanging upside down. “Let them go.” 

“I can do that.” Sidero muses. He waves furry paws, and the Gedeons disappear as quickly as they arrived. Only the ones holding Scar and Mumbo down remain. “If you stay. Here’s your choice, criminal. Turn yourself in, and they get to live. Or fight, and all three of you will be little more than blood and guts across these walls. And you get to watch.” 

Silence once more fills the shop. The scrap metal is the only sound that breaks the emptiness. Except for a whimper from Mumbo, followed by a gasp from Scar. One of the Gedeon’s has punctured Scar’s skin, following the aged wounds that mar his face. That gave him his name. The blade threatens to slit Scar’s throat. 

To kill them all. Doc closes his eyes, remembering what he told them. The team is more important than the mission. His shoulders fall. His head hangs. A knife joins the scrap metal at his feet. 

And two mismatched arms reach skyward in surrender. “Doc, don’t-” 

Scar’s words are silenced by a swift smack, the sound causing Doc to wince. In front of him, the amber stare sharpens with the viscous bite of teeth. “Too easy. You’ve gotten weak, Doc Monster.” 

Sidero grabs Doc’s arms, twisting them roughly against his back and forcing him to move. Doc stays put. “Let go of my friends first.” 

“They’ll be freed once you’re in chains.” All three hermits are led outside, into the bright sun. Blinded, Doc stumbles forward. He trips, but quickly rights himself. Behind him, a tear of fabric, followed by a rasping cry. 

“Doc! Doc they’re gonna kill you!” Scar’s voice cracks, and the terraforming mage attempts to get between Sidero and Doc. The guildmaster tosses Scar away like he’s a ragdoll, Mumbo catching him from smacking his head against the brick walls. 

“It’d be in all your best interests not to interfere with the work of the Council.” Sidero warns. Mumbo wraps his arms around Scar. Holding him back. 

A patrol of guards appear in the alleyway, cuffs already in hand. Unlike Scar, Doc doesn’t resist as they arrest him. He doesn’t fight when they yank his arms behind his back, cuffing him. He doesn’t flinch when the chains are tied to a halberd at each side, the sharp curve of the blade inches from killing him if he attempts escape. Even when Sidero pushes him forward, a low ‘move’ growling from his lips, Doc doesn’t fight back. 

But he does look back. 

Turning to gaze over his shoulder, he sees Scar and Mumbo. Tears streak down Scar’s face, his poncho discarded when he tried to reach Doc before. Mumbo barely holds him back as he screams, one arm pinned back while the other reaches out, reaches forward. Reaches for Doc. 

Doc’s face remains calm, tempered. But in his eyes, a hint of sadness. He did this for them. He’ll do it again in a heartbeat. They’re his family. He locks eyes with Scar and Mumbo one last time, and nods silently.  

Then he’s gone. And when he’s sure they can’t see him, he lets his facade break. And a single tear falls.