#Wind Ensemble AU | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

callsigncurse · 1 year ago

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meet me in the woods (jake seresin x reader)

Evergreen Falls, Oregon. A small town with a mysterious past and strange folktales, surrounded by forest and ocean. You're here because of your best friend, Natasha Trace, but it feels as though something else drew you to this picturesque little town. Pairing: Jake Seresin x Fem!Reader Warnings: This is an AU where mythical creatures exist. Werewolves are the main characters presented, but others are mentioned and may make an appearance later in the series. There are mentions of death (parental; reader's and Rooster's) and use of pet names, such as "pretty girl", "sweet girl" and "darlin'." Words: 4.7K

[part one of the evergreen falls series]

From the moment you crossed the border from California to Oregon, you knew that this was where you belonged. The forests, the skies, and the overall vibe were different from anything you'd ever known, and you wanted more than anything to stay.

However, it was easy to get lost. Your GPS had all but given up on you, and it took you until it was nearly too late to find your exit. It was hidden in the trees, and when you merged onto it, you wondered if this was a mistake and if it was leading you right off a cliff or something.

Despite that, you kept driving. The highway exit ended up leading you to a gravel road, and that gravel road led you to a sign. It was white with dark green writing, pointing you forward.

Evergreen Falls, 3 miles ahead

Population: 5,135.

A Great Place to Be!

You'd breathed out a sigh of relief, because this was exactly where you'd needed to go. You were excited; you had been driving for hours, and your body ached from sitting in your car for too long. You couldn't wait to get to town and get out of your car.

Thankfully, those three miles streaked by, and a break in the trees led you to the most beautiful little town you'd ever seen.

Nestled beneath the Pacific Coast mountain range, Evergreen Falls practically sparkled. The buildings all looked like they'd been freshly painted, with red brick inlay that hinted at them being a little older than this century. The streets looked new, but the streetlamps were definitely older and well taken care of.

The road took you to a street sign labeled Main Street, and you pulled your Jeep to the side of the street to park. After taking a moment to study your surroundings, you noticed the little businesses up and down the street. A boutique, a coffee shop called Top Bean, a realtor's office, and what looked to be a vintage record store. It really was a lovely little town, and you smiled to yourself.

Climbing out of your car, you grabbed your bag and stretched. It was cooler here than when you'd gotten into your car to leave California, but it wasn't too bad. Refreshing, even. It was a change, and that's exactly what you needed. You let yourself relax for a moment, feeling the wind ruffle the skirt of the sundress you'd thrown on back in California.

"Well, I've never seen you around before."

You whirled around, pressing a hand to your chest as your heart leapt inside your chest. You hadn't seen anyone on the street when you'd gotten out of your Jeep, so the voice had startled you.

He's standing with his hands in his pockets, a rather lanky gentleman wearing a godawful Hawaiian shirt over a white t-shirt. The ensemble was completed by a pair of grease-stained blue jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. You knew from your best friend's description of her friends that this was Bradley Bradshaw.

His lips twitched, making his mustache move in an amusing way. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. We just don't often get folks traveling through here. 'Specially not beautiful ones."

Cocking an eyebrow, you studied the man for another moment before you spoke. "So, you're Rooster." You had the pleasure of watching him narrow his eyes, staring at you suspiciously. "Or do you prefer Bradley?"

"How in the hell?" He steps closer, peering at you like he's trying to figure out who the hell you are. "How do you know my name? Have we met before?"

You just laugh. "It's nice to finally meet you, Bradley." You take a look around, your eyes drifting back over to the coffee shop. "Natasha told me all about you and your flirty ways."

"Goddammit, Phoenix. And you," He points his index finger at you and says, "You little shit, you scared the hell out of me." He gripes and then gestures for you to follow him. "She's working at the coffee shop today, and so is Coyote."

He opens the door for you, and you're met with the scent of coffee and the sounds of soft chatter. Natasha is behind the counter, and when the bell above you chimes, she finally looks up, locks eyes with you, and says your name. And then she's coming around the counter to launch herself at you, and the two of you almost tumble to the ground in a mess of flailing limbs and excited screams.

Bradley and the other barista are watching all of this with amusement, and neither man makes a move to get between you two.

"I can't believe you're finally here!" Natasha pulls away first, looking at your face like she's afraid you'll disappear if she looks away. "When did you get in? How are you? I thought you were still in California; you're weeks early!"

"I wanted to surprise you!" You explain excitedly. "I just couldn't wait anymore, so I packed everything up and headed straight here. The movers should be somewhere behind me; I think they said they're like forty minutes behind."

Nat's face is bright; she's basically glowing as she pulls you tight to her. It's the first hug you've gotten in days, and you tuck your face into the crook of her neck. She smells like baked goods, coffee, and the perfume she always wore in college when you first met her.

"God, I missed the way you smell. It's like the best thing ever." You tell her, pulling back so you can see her face again. "I'm so glad I'm here. I missed you so fucking much."

She laughs, and Bradley clears his throat from behind you. When you turn around, his arms are crossed over his chest, and he's looking at the both of you with amusement. "Guessing you two go way back?"

The barista that Nat was working with—Javy, it says on his nametag—snorts. "Obviously, Rooster." He smirks when Rooster's answer is a quick flash of his middle finger.

"We went to the same college." You explain, "Nat was studying business, and I was studying to become an English major. We bumped into each other at the campus coffee shop and became study buddies for the rest of our college years. I recently went through some changes, and I wanted to find somewhere new to live. Start over fresh, you know? So I decided to come here so I could live near my best friend."

Nat's hand slips into yours and squeezes gently. "It's seriously been way too long. That was mostly my fault; I got so busy trying to get this place up and running that I never had time for anyone or anything else."

"I can forgive you if you make me a Red-Eye Special." A concoction the two of you had come up with your junior year, the Red-Eye special was a latte with two extra espresso shots, mocha sauce, and topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

She lets your hand go, a big smile on her beautiful face. "That's actually one of the most popular drinks here. I put it on the menu to make sure I always remember the best friend I ever had."

Bradley huffs indignantly at that, and it sends you both into a fit of giggles. While she goes to make your drink, you move to the bar top to sit and watch her. Bradley follows, taking a seat beside you. "I'll take a mocha frappe, Phoenix."

"You got it, Rooster."

You sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, taking in the coffee shop. It's exactly Nat's aesthetic, you think to yourself. There's band posters everywhere, a vintage jukebox in the corner, and the walls are all painted different and funky colors. The furniture is all well-worn but clearly loved. The pictures she'd texted you when she first opened didn't do the place justice. It was amazing.

"Hey Nat, how come you never told me about your absolutely gorgeous best friend before?" Bradley pipes up from beside you, prompting an eyeroll from you and Nat.

"I've mentioned her a lot over the years since I got back from college, Rooster. You're just a terrible listener."

They were still squabbling amongst themselves when the bell above the door suddenly chimed, announcing the arrival of a newcomer. Curious, you lean back on your chair slightly. Peering around Bradley's back, you catch sight of the person walking in through the door.

He's tall—ridiculously so. Like way over six feet, taller than Bradley's type of tall. His golden hair gleams under the soft light coming in through the windows, and his skin is a beautiful shade of tan. He has a slight beard, and the hair is a few shades darker than the hair on his head. More honey-colored than gold, you think to yourself. He's wearing a gray t-shirt with a dark green flannel; the sleeves are rolled up, and you take a moment to study his strong arms. His hands are massive too, and you know they'd dwarf yours. He's incredibly attractive, nearly angelic in his perfection.

Nat looks over her shoulder, offering a bright smile to the absolute god that just walked into her coffee shop. "Hey, Hangman. Want your usual?"

The man they call Hangman nods as he steps up to the counter, already pulling money out of his wallet. He slides a small stack of bills across the counter to Javy, dropping another bill into the tip jar afterwards.

He doesn't say a word as he passes behind you to the very last bar stool to wait for his order. You can't help but turn slightly in your seat, watching as he walks past you. Something about him seems so familiar to you, but you know you've never seen him before. You'd remember that face.

It's like he can feel your eyes on him because he turns his head, and suddenly you can see his eyes. They're green, a gorgeous shade of worn seaglass, or maybe green like the evergreens the forests around here were thick with. But whatever shade they were, they stole your breath.

He doesn't say anything at first; he just watches you, and the corners of his perfect pink lips lift. He's not totally smiling, but it's enough to get your pulse hammering wildly.

Your own answering smile is sweet, and he swallows thickly as he studies you. He seems to be contemplating something, and then his beautiful lips part. "Hi."

Everyone around you freezes. Bradley and Nat stop their good-nature squabbling, and Javy is openly staring with his jaw dropped. They'd only heard this man talk a handful of times in the last few years, and here you were, the newcomer, drawing him into a conversation.

You're paying zero attention to what just happened around you because you're too busy looking at him to notice. "Hi."

"I've never seen you around before." He remarks, his voice soft. It's got a nice gravel to it, deep and warm. "Are you new to town?"

You find yourself nodding, "I just got here. I came from California. San Diego, to be more specific." Your heart is still thrumming, and it's almost like he can hear it because he smiles. It's wide and boyish, and you're breathless.

"Will you be staying for long?" He gets up from his seat at the end of the bar and moves closer. You have to tilt your head back in order to see his face, but you don't mind.

"I'm moving here, actually." You explain, "I'm now the proud owner of the cottage over by the river. The one on Meadow Lane."

He nods slowly. "I know it. Nice place, not too far from the falls. I remember when the previous owner moved away to a bigger town; he just gave the place to the realtor, Beau Simpson. His office is across the street, in case you need to talk to him about anything."

Nat clears her throat, sliding your coffee across the countertop to you. "That place is nice. But are you sure that's where you want to live? There are plenty of houses here in town that aren't surrounded by the woods, you know? That place is kind of creepy looking at night."

You shrug, breaking eye contact with the beautiful man to look at your best friend. "I fell in love with the house, Nat. It's perfect for me—just the right amount of secludedness, but close enough to town that if I need anything, I can just run and get it. So yeah, I'm sure."

You turn your head again, and he's still watching you. The small smile returns to his lips when your eyes catch his once again. Holding your hand out to him, you say your name, and that smile widens. It's devastating in its beauty.

His hand dwarfs yours when he takes it, and it's unbelievably warm. His palm and fingertips are rough from work, you assume, and you love the way it feels against your soft skin. "Jake Seresin, but sometimes the others call me Hangman. I think I'd like it if you called me Jake."

There's a moment where you're so lost in his eyes that the rest of the world fades away. Something between you snaps into place—something entirely ancient and primal. It almost feels like something is now tying you to him, like a silver, shining chain stretching from somewhere in you to a similar point in him.

It feels like you loved him before, in another life.

"Hello, Earth, to space cadets." Javy is snickering, and Bradley is waving a hand between your faces to catch your attention. "The two of you just went someplace else."

Something that sounds eerily like a growl comes from Jake's direction, but when you look back at him, he just offers another soft smile. He looks suspiciously innocent, but you don't comment on that fact.

Nat comes over just then, sliding a small bag and a to-go mug across the counter over to Jake. "There, here's your order, Hangman. The scones are fresh, just how you like them."

Jake makes a sound like a happy little hum. "Thank you, Phoenix. Much appreciated."

He stands up from his seat next to you, the bag and cup cradled in his large hands. "I have to be getting back now. I'll see you around, right?" He's looking down at you, those bright green eyes searching your face. His expression looks strangely anxious, like he's afraid he's never going to see you again.

"Yeah, of course." You stand too, looking up at him. "Maybe you can show me around town sometime?"

He quickly switches the coffee cup into his other hand, balancing his to-go bag of baked goods on his arm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out what appears to be a partially crumpled business card.

Jake Seresin Woodworker & Carpenter Office: 75 South Pine Ave. Evergreen Falls, OR

"Here, my cell is on there. Call me when you get settled, or if you just get bored and need a break from Bradley's terrible jokes."

Bradley makes another sound from behind you: "Fucking rude."

"That sounds good." You answer softly. "I'll see you around, Jake." Your heart flutters when his smile grows wider, and you think maybe you'd like to keep seeing that smile every day for the rest of your life.

"Bye, darlin'." He murmurs, turning away and making his way out of the coffee shop.

When he's gone, you turn back to the stares of your friends.

"What?"

It doesn't take long for you to receive the keys to your new home. The realtor that Jake had mentioned, Beau Simpson, "Cyclone to my friends," he'd said with a wink, was a helpful guy. He'd made the process of buying your cabin extremely easy, and you'd bunked with Nat for a few days while he got the place ready for you. You had the keys in your hand just four days after arriving in Evergreen Falls.

Night was falling, and you had just brought in the last box of your things from the moving truck. Nat's friends—Javy, Mickey, Bradley, Reuben, and Bob—had introduced themselves to you and offered to help you move in. Even Bradley's godfather—Maverick, he'd told you to call him—had taken a quick look around the place in case anything needed fixing.

Luckily, the place had come somewhat furnished, so you didn't really need to buy anything besides a new mattress. The rest of your stuff from your tiny apartment fits easily in your new home.

Bob and Bradley had already carried your new mattress in; Javy and Mickey were arguing over the way your bed frame was supposed to be put together; and Reuben and Maverick were looking over a leaky faucet in your bathroom. Nat and Maverick's wife, Penny, were putting away dishes in the cupboards of the kitchen.

Bradley was perched on your couch, trying to figure out how to get your WiFi to connect to your smart TV while Penny's daughter watched. She was giggling at him while he was muttering something to himself about 'stupid fucking technology' when your phone chimed.

Jake: It sounds like a circus over there.

What Jake had failed to mention was that when you moved in, the cabin half a mile down the road was owned by him. Not that you particularly minded, but it was nice to know that a friendly face was close by in case you needed something.

You'd texted him your number the night you'd met him, and it was a nice surprise to see him reach out. You smiled to yourself, worrying your lower lip between your teeth for a moment before you answered.

You: They mean well. I'm almost all moved in; I just need to get my bed together and fix the hole in the floor of my front porch, and I'll be all good to go. Jake: I can fix that, if you want. I can drop by tomorrow morning after my run. You: That'd be great! Thank you so much, Jake. Jake: No problem, pretty girl. You: Pretty girl, huh? That's sweet. And thank you again; that was sweet of you to say. See you tomorrow, Jake. Jake: Sleep tight.

The rest of the evening was spent tidying things up, sharing pizza, and goofing off with your newfound friend group. It had been pretty late when they all filed out of your new home, and you'd dragged yourself to your room and onto your new mattress for some rest. It had been a long week.

Maybe it was just the whole 'being alone in a new home' thing making you anxious, but before you fell asleep, you could've sworn you heard howling from somewhere out in the forest behind your new home. Before you can really think anything of it, sleep grabs ahold of you and drags you down deep.

The sound of knocking ends up dragging you out of a dream. You can't quite remember what it was about, but then you remember the howling from the night before, and you wonder if it has to do with that. The sun is filtering in through the window, but from the look of it, it is definitely still early.

You're still sleepy-eyed when you go to answer the door, and your hair is a little messy. You assume it's Natasha, or maybe Bradley, coming over to bug you. But when you open the door, you're met with the strong and tall frame of Jake Seresin, standing right there in your doorway.

Shit. You'd forgotten he was coming over to fix the porch.

You brush a lock of hair away from your left eye and tilt your head back, immediately melting when you see his face. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." He answers. He looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes, but he's smiling faintly. And then you watch as his gaze falls to your shoulder. Your too-big sleep shirt had slipped down, revealing more skin to him. His gaze is appraising as his eyes drift over your form, down to your bare legs. He must've liked what he saw, because the apples of his cheeks were pink now.

After clearing your throat, you could feel your own face heating up. "I woke up a little late and forgot you were coming. Sorry about me looking all, you know, messy."

"You look beautiful." He says in response. "I like this just as much as I liked that sundress you were wearing the first day I met you." He says it sweetly, and you can feel your pulse fluttering in your throat.

"Thank you, Jake." You murmur, "You're very kind." Your face is shy and pink. You wonder where this guy has been hiding himself all your life. "Um, I'll just run upstairs and get dressed. Feel free to come in if you want."

You don't wait for him to come inside; you just open the door a little wider and scurry away toward the stairs. It's not that you distrust Jake—just the opposite, in fact—you trust him a lot. Probably too much, considering the fact that you'd only had 1.5 conversations with the guy. Standing around in your little PJs is probably not the best move. You know you should probably look semi-decent while a man is working on your home.

You hurry into your bedroom, quickly swapping out what you're wearing for a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a t-shirt. It's the middle of summer and warm this time of year, but it's not nearly as bad as California. You hurriedly tug a brush through your unruly hair, trying to get it to settle down, and then hurry into your bathroom to brush your teeth. Your face is flushed when you look in the mirror, and you do your best to settle the sudden onslaught of nerves you're feeling.

When you come back down the stairs, Jake is standing in front of your fireplace with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He's studying the photographs on the mantle above it—the photos of your family. Your mom and dad were in the majority of them, and Jake muses over how much you look like them both.

"Are you close with them?"

Stepping into the living room, you wrap your arms around yourself. It hurts you to think of them; the pain is still fresh even months later. "I was." Your voice is tinged with sadness, and he turns his head when you come up beside him. "They died earlier this year in a car accident. They were on their way home from a concert when a drunk driver hit them head-on."

After a long moment (where you think you've said the wrong thing), he slowly wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently toward him. You go to him without question, resting your head against his chest while his hand rubs your back in slow, soothing circles. You can feel his sorrow; he doesn't pity you, but he is sad for you.

You let yourself be comforted. You've only known him a few days, but it feels like he's always been with you. It's strange and probably insane, but you feel like there could be something there.

You really hope there's something there.

There's a feeling of light pressure against your skull, and you tip your head back so you can see his face. The smile he gives you is sweet, and your heart feels a little less heavy than it had a moment before.

"I should get started on the porch. Maybe after I'm done, I can take you out to breakfast? The hole isn't too big; it shouldn't take me more than an hour to fix it." He's smiling at you, and you can tell that he's nervous, too.

You nod, your eyes meeting his, and there's that feeling again. That pull between you is like a long chain connecting you to him, and it feels like it's always been there, even though you just met him for the first time a few days ago. You can't help but wonder if he feels it, too.

You let him go, and he grabs the tool bag he'd left by your front door. Not knowing what else to do, you drift out behind him with the intention of sitting on the porch swing. You just want to be near him, plain and simple.

You settle down on the swing, one leg bent on the seat while the other works to push you slowly back and forth. Jake is already at work, measuring and cutting things with a precision that amazes you. He's shed his flannel, leaving him clad in only a black t-shirt that looks worn and soft. You watch the way he moves, his arms when he lifts, and the way his chest and back fill out that t-shirt in a way that makes your mouth dry.

You haven't dated in a long time. You had so much going on with school, finding a job in your field, and then your parents' deaths that it was hard to make a solid connection with anyone around you. Plus, a lot of the time, the guys you met were either total jerks or just really weird. But Jake? Jake seemed different. He was quiet, kind, and helpful, and there was something there. Something deep-seated and amazing is just waiting to be unlocked.

Your phone chimes from where it's sitting on the porch swing next to you, and you pick it up to see a new text from Bradley.

Bradley: Hey, you. Are you up yet? You: Yeah, I'm awake! What's up? Bradley: The group is planning on going on a hike this afternoon to the falls, maybe swim a little, and have a picnic. You interested? You: Sounds awesome. Who all is going? Bradley: Everyone, just about. Maverick sometimes tags along, but he's taking Penny and Amelia out for their own day trip. You: Jake's with me; should I ask if he wants to come with me? Bradley: Good luck with that. Jake is kind of a lone wolf. Bradley: Also, why is Jake Seresin with you??? You: Carpenter services. He's fixing my front porch. I bet I can convince him to come with us. Wanna meet up at my place so we can all walk there together? Bradley: Yeah, we'll get there around 12. Javy and I are bringing food; Nat's bringing drinks. Think you could pick up some paper plates and napkins? You: On it.

"Hey, Jake?" He hums, looking up from his handiwork to meet your eyes. "The group is planning on coming over today at noon so we can all go to the falls and swim. Do you think I could convince you to come with?"

He looks like a deer in headlights for a moment, his eyes wide when he stares at you. "You... want me to go with you?" He asks slowly, his tone strangely disbelieving. It was like he couldn't quite believe that you'd extended the invitation to him.

"Well, yeah. Of course I do. And I'm sure everyone else would love to see you, too." You stop swinging, your head tilted in a way that kind of reminds him of a little deer. "Please? It'll be a good chance for you and me to hang out for a few hours. Plus, socializing would be good for you. I hear that you can be quite the recluse."

He snorts but doesn't say anything for a long time. You're almost afraid that he's going to say no to you, and then he sighs. "Alright, I'll go. But as long as you make me a promise,"

"Hm?"

"Never go into Evergreen Forest by yourself, especially at night." He seems anxious when he says it, standing up from where he's been working to cross over to you. "It's easy to get lost if you're not familiar with the area. People have up and gone missing because it's so easy to get turned around in there."

He crouches down, laying his hands on your knees. Even crouching, he's so tall that he's face-to-face with you. You're a little distracted by his eyes, and by the way his hands are deliciously warm and rough against your skin. "It's okay to go if at least one of us is with you, but you should never go alone. Okay?"

Normally, if a man tried to tell you to do something, you'd immediately roll your eyes and do it anyway. But there's an edge to his voice, and it sounds strangely desperate. So you look him in the eye and nod. "I promise."

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun!au

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aziraphales-library · 5 months ago

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hi there,

i was wondering if you had any recommendations for ineffable wives '60s au fics? specifically fluff / angst?

thank you so much!!

Hi, here are some 1960s ineffable wives fics...

girl's girl by orphan_account (G)

Crowley thinks the 60's are her favorite decade to date. She can wear pants as a woman without being shunned from scoiety, She can order fancy little drinks with colorful tiny umbrella's, and she can see Aziraphale in a dress, looking drop dead gorgeous - but not in a romantic way, more like a girl's girl way, definitely.

New York City, 1969 by theparanoidandroid (G)

Oh. Oh, dear. Crowley’s head has turned in her direction. Aziraphale’s forgotten her manners, and now she’s been caught staring. She drops her eyes—far too late, of course—as Crowley levels a red grin at her, and is further mortified when the serpent excuses herself from the bar and saunters over. “Aziraphale!” Crowley’s voice is warm and direct in a way that suggests she’s, shockingly, mostly sober. Her eyes rake over the angel’s ensemble, still terribly old-fashioned despite being of a different persuasion. Stuck in her ways, she is. Crowley perches on the edge of the table she’s sitting at, drink in hand. “Crowley.” She’s awfully unsure of how to act. Crowley’s doing what she does best, acting like nothing happened. Should she follow suit? “You look well.”

when hearts like ours meet by feel_alright (T)

During the height of the second-wave feminist movement, a drunken Crowley causes problems and gets a ride back home.

Letters From Eden by MyFriendsAreFictionalCharacters (NR)

60s Human AU where Aziraphale and Crowley are friends and neighbors but much changes when Aziraphale finds an advice column in the paper from a mysterious Miss Eden.

The Female Experience by SonnetSterling (NR)

Heaven wants to know why the Pearly Gates are opening to more women than men. Hell is almost certain that God is playing favorites. So they send their representatives on a bit of an undercover mission to figure out what *exactly* is going on- what are women doing so much better than men?

The Long and Winding Road by elfbowie (G)

Aziraphale reluctantly agrees to accompany Crowley to a Beatles concert in 1965, resigned to an evening of rowdy music she's certain she'll hate. Upon listening to the lyrics of the songs, though, she finds that some of them are unexpectedly relatable. Will the angel and demon acknowledge the growing emotional tension between them as the night goes on?

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable wives #1960s #through the ages #mod d

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justporo · 4 months ago

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Fouetté

Fouetté: “whipped”, quick whiplike movements in ballet (e.g. for turns)

A/N: So, this is something that came about on a Discord server. Suddenly a ballet AU was born in which Astarion is one and certainly the most tragic and beaten of dancers in Cazador's company. Thanks to @silmaryel especially and some others on the server who gave me this brainworm!

Warnings: implicit/past physical and emotional abuse, ptsd Wordcount: 3k

~~~

The rays of light shimmering through the giant windows were golden in the morning sun. Little particles of dust sparkled, drifting in and out of them. Soft piano music was drifting through the air, setting the background for the dancer twisting and arching in the middle of the studio.

He felt the warmth of the benevolent sun as he turned and turned in the middle of the polished wooden floors, a slight but confident smile on his lips. His movements seemed effortless and elegant, free and perfect. The moment itself seemed timeless, ethereal in its beauty.

But even all good things must come to an end.

The last pirouette was coming to a close. He assumed end position with a content sigh, chest heaving, illuminated by golden light.

Hard work, but the kind that pays off. Pain of exertion that in the end is crowned by reward.

With one knee on the ground and his torso bent back so far it seemed like he’d been decapitated, he remained in his position. Only the rising chest was now a sign of life.

Like a wind up puppet in a music box at the end of its little show, its head already torn off, waiting for someone to wind it back up again or close the box - because there was nothing else it could or wanted to do.

With the loud clack of the door to the studio falling closed, Astarion was violently whipped back to the real world. His head swivelled around to see Petras enter; late as always. His fellow dancer threw him an annoyed look as he caught the other staring. Astarion stared back, nose scrunched up in distaste at the lack of diligence.

Gone was the golden, serene scene in his mind already, replaced by grim reality once more.

He had been up for a good while already. A quick freezing shower after a handful of hours of sleep and it had been back to work: training in the mostly dark studio, only lit up by the emergency lights and his phone flash. Trying to get in as much training before someone else arrived.

Hours later, he was standing at the barre in the windowless room, crammed between the other dancers. The only light source were the harsh halogen tubes up above. Even the piano playing as the ensemble of dancers warmed up for a long day of training sounded shrill, every note a violent reminder of the rhythm they were supposed - no, forced - to follow.

Astarion looked at himself with his hand gripping the wooden bar, stretching to warm up for the ensemble work. He realised the bright relentless light from above cast the circles beneath his eyes even darker than they already were. It fit the drawn down corners of his mouth, the flat look in his crimson eyes and the hollow of his cheeks - all painted in shades of grey rather than gold after all.

He went into another stretch, fingers still tightly around the barre, bending at the waist so his gaze dropped from his gaunt face to his feet.

Better not to dwell on things, neither past nor future. Like dreams he allowed himself to have sometimes, foolishly. Or remembering when the last time was that he had smiled, when he had slept more than five hours or his body had been void of pain.

He stared at his feet as he felt the burn of his muscles groaning under the impossible strain he put them under, sinking deeper into his stretch. Eyes were trained on his feet, trying not to think at all.

But it wasn’t working. Looking at his feet made him self-aware of the constant pain they were in. And what mutilations were neatly hidden beneath the white satin.

Remaining low, he stared at his unmoving feet, not ripping the gaze of his unblinking eyes off them, up until they began burning uncomfortably. He didn’t even know if that or the ache in his toes was the reason behind almost tearing up.

At least this made the pain of other parts of his body disappear for a moment.

With a sigh he eventually closed his eyes, sinking deeper into his stretch still. He tried to ignore his surroundings as much as possible, just like he had done before, dreaming of a better, alternate universe. One in which dancing still brought him the joy he had once felt.

But Astarion’s somewhat tranquil state was quickly disturbed.

Beneath the shrill piano music he heard a familiar, rhythmic tapping. It became louder steadily, closing in.

Immediately, the atmosphere in the studio changed as if a switch had been flipped. Dancers quickly changed out of their street clothes, redid their hair into tight buns, took up a spot at the barre and began stretching eagerly, shoulders squared so much, it hurt to even look at. All conversations had stopped, replaced by a tense, anticipating silence.

Everyone knew what the increasing sounds meant. The polished ebony with the silver tip and the bone handle that made them. And whom it belonged to.

It was the same rhythm every morning, a cruel sort of routine.

Astarion had made the habit of counting along: Tap, one two, tap, one two, tap. At least it was reliable in the cruelty it brought.

Only, today it wasn’t the same rhythm: TAP, one tw-, TAP, one t-, TAP.

This already meant very bad news. Astarion felt the lump that immediately clogged his throat. Still in his stretch his brows drew together. An echo of pain ran down his spine and he felt how, along with his hands getting clammy, his heart began to gallop. His breath became ragged from the tapping growing louder, much more rushed and even more threatening than usual.

The door to the studio flung open with a force that made everyone flinch more than was normal.

In rushed the tall, imposing figure of Cazador Szarr, immaculate down to the last hair on his head. Szarr, known formerly as Vellioth’s star pupil, dancer extraordinaire, light of a new generation of ballet. And now after his tragic maiming injury, famed as acclaimed choreographer and teacher of his own ballet company.

A star, a genius, a legend beyond everyone else’s league.

His dancers and students though only knew him as the thing that plagued them, every night and every day. A constant shadow trying to grip their ankles. Even when he wasn’t there.

But truly it was worse, when he was there. When those eyes bored into you and you heard the clacks of his omnipresent cane. And it was worse still when he was angry. Like today. Or like that night several weeks back, Astarion remembered all too well.

Cazador had taken exactly the right amount of steps so the door fell closed just behind him, the loud noise of it closing almost remnant of the lid of a sarcophagus sliding in place, dooming someone still alive to be forever entombed.

He was wearing a fine red coat today, fur trimmings at the hems, the same colour of his eyes that were already wandering around while his coattails still swung to a halt around his slender form. He had placed the cane before himself, long, spindly fingers wrapped around the bone handle.

The cane had belonged to his “master” as he liked to tell people. Albeit not with this kind of handle. Although, as he enjoyed adding, while watching the listener’s creeping horror, the bone had very well belonged to his own teacher as well. After a bit of stunned silence people then usually laughed uneasily, not deeming it true, while Cazador remained silent, caressing the handle of his stick.

Even with the injury that had permanently crippled and left him needing that cane, Szarr knew how to cut an imposing figure to most and a frightening one to few especially. His tall frame alone, the always perfectly slicked back black hair and the seemingly all seeing eyes, the barely hidden threat.

All his dancers knew this well.

But unfortunately, Astarion, his favourite dancer, his prodigy, knew it all best; from the blazing eyes posing a threat to what could manifest into unbearable pain. He still felt the phantoms of the last time he had to endure it.

Perfectly on time, another wave of aching ran through the pale dancer as he, along with everyone else, was staring intently at his master. Teacher surely was too light a word for the power he held over him and the others.

Cazador kept eyeing his dancers, fingers starting to tap on the bone end of his cane while around Astarion the others got restless, not knowing how to feel about this somewhat unfamiliar silence from their master.

Astarion knew though. It meant trouble.

When eventually someone at the back had the audacity to start whispering, Cazador broke his silence:

“It is only a few weeks until the debut of the production,” Szarr began flatly.

More silence, more tapping of his index on the bone.

“Is there a reason behind why I don’t see you train already?”

A well portioned dose or rage had entered his voice while his brows drew together, eyes glaring. But everyone still seemed under a spell, not daring to move.

“Do I need to lash at your feet before you will start dancing?” Szarr shouted then, making his dancers flinch.

His words stung sharply like a whip - or the end of a cane.

Quickly, everyone scurried around to get into position for training now. Everyone knew exactly with which part to start with, where to stand. Cazador had made sure of it.

While Szarr’s eyes narrowed, impatient about the last people getting in place, Astarion fought with his ragged breath as he assumed position among the others.

It had been weeks since Szarr had entered the training studio with so much barely contained rage. The last time it had meant a visit to the ER for Astarion and flashes of pain down his spine ever since, no matter if he was standing, dancing or sleeping.

Then finally the master waved to the pianist to start with a single twist of his index.

It began.

Astarion immediately forced his mind out of its increasing state of panic as best he could as he followed through his steps. At least he could feel the echo of what this once would have felt like. The stretching, turning and arching, at least it still quieted down his mind as he concentrated only on the music and his body in accord with it. Even if it didn’t gift the same warmth anymore. There was only cold, honed, lethal precision left.

Too late he realised that the music had stopped along with everyone else. Coming out of a turn, Astarion noticed Cazador’s ruby eyes burning into him while he stopped with a jolt. His squared shoulders folded in immediately, slouching, wishing he could disappear instead of having to face his master.

The atmosphere was tense and ready to snap, the dancers awaiting the verdict for their performance.

Szarr’s form of feedback was quite easy to decipher: three taps with the cane “good”, two “acceptable”, one “unsatisfied”, none - there would be consequences.

The silence was deafening today.

Szarr’s eyes wandered over his dancers, while Astarion felt the drumming of his heart up in his throat. The pain in his back was almost unbearable now. But best not to draw more attention to himself.

“Astarion.”

His pulse increased by what felt like a tenfold.

Cazador’s voice was terribly silent, one could have almost mistaken it for something less than deadly.

“Astarion, will you come here?”

It wasn’t a question.

As if controlling himself from somewhere outside his own body, Astarion stepped forward while he heard silent gasps around him. With every step feeling like he needed to rip them off the floor, the pale dancer stepped in front of his master. He saw the small, cruel smile play on his lips while he awaited his pupil. The way his fingers drummed on his stick now seemed almost cheerful.

“Don’t slouch before me, boy, turn around,” Szarr purred when Astarion had come to stand before him. The tone nearly sounded like he was whispering a sweet nothing to him and not a threat. He obeyed immediately, no matter what, feeling more uneasy with Cazador’s threatening presence behind him, but out of sight.

“Remove your shirt, boy.”

The dancer flinched, throat closing up completely as he sensed the intention behind his master’s words. But his arms moved of their own accord while his mind screamed at him to run. But his body was too attuned to obeying blindly by now.

As he pulled up his thin shirt over his head, his mind raced.

Truly, he wouldn’t harm him in front of the others, would he? Usually this part was reserved for behind closed doors. For when he was called to Szarr’s office alone, and the others sent home for the day. Everybody knew what happened behind closed doors. It was just that no one ever dared to address it.

The sigh leaving Szarr’s lips truly shouldn’t have been this content when his eyes fell upon his previous work. Neither should the smile have been as proud as he eyed the scars, the still healing bruises.

“Now, turn again for me. You do that so well, don’t you?”

Barely able to swallow with how parched his throat felt, Astarion turned around again, breathing shallow. But yet again his body was way quicker than his mind. Just obeying, turning, moving, arching, aching - that was what he was best at. It was true.

Cazador welcomed him with a toothy grin. Then he stepped closer. So close, in fact, that Astarion could smell him. The same unpleasant, musty smell that hadn't left his nose ever since that night several weeks ago. The last time Cazador had come this uncomfortably close.

He kept staring straight ahead, trying not to notice how the way his master looked at him had become almost lovingly as he reached out with long, boney fingers, as if trying to reach for his chin. Only shortly before making contact, he stopped. Instead he threw up his cane, catching it again, gripping further down, making Astarion wince.

He kept staring straight ahead, right over Cazador’s shoulder as his master and tormentor leaned to him, even closer than before, musty smell becoming almost unbearable.

But what made his heart almost stop, was when he felt the bone handle wander down his back - and the scars there. Almost caressing past traces of injuries that would leave him marked forever. And fresher ones that still must be a sight to behold. The sickeningly gentle touch made his muscles spasm and burn more than the actual pain from being touched there.

“See how well the little lamb dances?” Cazador spoke silently as Astarion was thrown back to when the cane had last made contact with his skin, albeit with the other end and wholly different fashion. It took every last bit of his power to not collapse. His eyes were torn wide, yet again unblinking and burning.

He was barely aware of his present surroundings by now. Only his master’s voice still connected him to the present, oddly enough, as his mind was doomed to relive a night from before.

“See how well he does after I have given him a much needed reminder of how he ought to be grateful and work hard to achieve his dreams?” Cazador murmured.

Another stroke of bone on skin. Astarion’s back twisted unwillingly.

Cazador cocked his head to the side, noticing his reaction. So he used his cane pressed against Astarion’s back to make him step even closer, leaning down to him. Until they almost seemed ready to embrace each other.

Astarion forced himself to endure it, fearing the consequences if he shouldn’t. He knew this was a test.

And Szarr took his time testing him before he took a step back with a click of his tongue. The master glanced at the rest of his timid sheep.

“You better give me no reason to give you the same reminder,” his master finished, cane withdrawing, taking another step back.

Finally. With more shallow breaths, shoulders slacking and eyes watering so much so he couldn’t see clearly, Astarion couldn’t believe his luck of having gotten off the hook. Until-

“Why are you almost wailing?” Szarr snapped. The edge to his master’s voice betrayed how cheerful seemed to have found something to latch onto after all. Once more he stepped close, noticing his pupil’s state. Cold, sinewy fingers gripped his chin forcefully, bruising his pale skin immediately by how violently he tugged on his jaw.

He didn’t dare breathe as his master leaned close, passing every line from before. Way too close to be anything but desperate love or blazing hatred. Fingers were clawing into his skin.

“Didn’t I just praise you, boy? This is how you thank me?” His voice was almost a growl now while Astarion felt his heart hammer in his throat. The fingers dragged him closer to Cazador’s face until their faces almost touched.

“Look at me,” he demanded. So he did.

Cazador’s eyes were burning. Astarion didn’t flinch.

Through the haze of tears he saw a wild mix of emotions in his master’s eyes: loathing, hate, rage - and deep down, even a kind of twisted admiration? Adoration? He didn’t want to think about it. But he didn’t break eye contact either.

“Ungrateful,” Cazador exclaimed and shoved him away, tone almost unbelieving to Astarion’s own surprise.

“Again, from the top,” he barked at the pianist while Astarion with stiff limbs assumed position again.

Pain kept searing through his back, his scars now on full display for everyone. Astarion didn’t even bother putting his shirt back on. Instead he held his back straight, chin stretched high.

He kept dancing. His own rage was dulled by lingering panic. But it was there. And it kept him going.

Rage and a bit of undying, defiant pride. He felt it as he turned, eyes landing on Cazador with every time he came around again. But his master didn’t dare meet his eyes for the rest of the day.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate #astarion x mc #astarion x oc #bg3 #cazador #ballet au #alternate universe #cazador szarr

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nerdraging4point0 · 3 months ago

Text

Blood of Eden // Bad Omens Urban Fantasy AU (Chapter Sixteen)

Tropes and Tags: MM, MF, MFM, MFM, instalove, too much sex, tattooed men, polyverse, shapeshifters.

CW: 18+ only minors DNI. Urban Fantasy romance, Smut. Angst. Fluff (ish), Story includes D/S themes, mentions of blood and gore, mentions of drug use and distribution, mentions of prostitution, unprotected sex, male receiving oral sex, female receiving oral sex, cuckolding, P/A sex, P/V sex.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Taglist(click to be added): @ladyveronikawrites @mysticdoodlez @poisongirl616 @shilohrosechicken @cookiesupplier @meliferafaerie @concreteemo @itsafullmoon @letmeadoreyoux @transparentwitchnightmare @spicywhenspeaking @somewhere-diamond @iknownothingpeople @darling-millicent-aubrey @somebodyels3 @jakeygvf21 @badomensls @dominuslunae @mountains-to-move @sundamariis @caitcoreeeee @crimson-calligraphyx @darkmxgician

The sway and jostling of the armored truck was enough to make her stomach churn and bile rise in the back of her throat.

The constant lurching and bouncing as the heavy vehicle rumbled over the uneven, potholed roads created a nauseating rocking motion that threatened to overwhelm her senses. With only the meager, bitter-tasting wheat grass shakes she had been subsisting on for days sloshing around in the empty cavern of her stomach, she knew that one more good tossle of the tank-like truck would likely cause her to erupt in a violent display of retching and vomiting all over the armed, imposing figure sitting next to her. The close confines of the armored personnel carrier, combined with the stale, recycled air and the pungent odor of sweat and gasoline, only exacerbated her unsettled stomach and heightened her nausea.

She swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to the overwhelming queasiness, but the relentless sway of the vehicle made it an increasingly difficult battle to maintain her composure. Gripping the edge of the hard metal bench beneath her, she braced herself against the constant lurching, praying she could make it to their destination.

Rosa’s gaze wandered to the tall, striking blonde woman sitting across from her. Her intense green eyes were fixed intently on Rosa despite the sway as they navigated the winding city streets, stopping and starting again with a sense of purpose. Rosa couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease, noticing the occasional flicker of what seemed to be sadness or regret that would flash across the woman's features. Gone were the sharply tailored suits Rosa had become accustomed to seeing her in - instead, she was dressed head-to-toe in sturdy, form-fitting leather, an ensemble that gave the impression she was prepared for battle at a moment's notice. Rosa had been offered the same outfit, having bern in the same clothes for several days with only rags and bowls of water to sponge bathe in, it was nice to wear something clean for a change.

She felt lightheaded, exhausted, but to afraid for her life to sleep. Visions had begun to return, flashes of an old style home that looked like its foundation was cracking and the roof fallign in begain to flash across her mind. She had never seen this place before, but the faces in it were familiar. Jolly, Maria, Oli along with several other guard members and their masters all huddled around laptops and take out containers. They all looked bleary eyed, bags hanging from their eyes boring lines into their cheeks. of Jolly from Noah’s perspective and the glimpses of himself as he’d stare in the mirror made her heart ache. Despite being able to see him she couldn’t connect to him, the shots of poison she’d been given daily by the Magistrate-poison she herself had made-kept her powers limited.

Exhaustion had begun to set in, her head feeling light and dizzy from the ordeal, but the overwhelming fear for her life kept her from succumbing to sleep, lest she leave herself defenseless against whatever fate had in store. Visions had began to resurface, flashing across her mind's eye in vivid detail.

Glimpses of an old, ramshackle house materialized, its foundation cracked and crumbling, the roof sagging precariously overhead. Though she had never laid eyes on this dilapidated dwelling before, the faces of its inhabitants were strikingly familiar. There was Jolly, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a weary, drawn expression, dark circles bruising the delicate skin beneath his eyes. And Maria, her brow furrowed in concentration as she hunched over a glowing laptop screen, takeout containers scattered haphazardly around her. Oli was there too, his posture slumped with exhaustion, joining several other shadowy figures - members of their guard, and their elusive masters - all gathered in this forgotten place, their collective gaze fixed on the technology before them.

It was as if the very walls of this crumbling shelter were imbued with the weight of their collective burdens, the foundation threatening to give way under the crushing pressure. Yet, despite the dismal surroundings and their haggard appearance, there was a resolute determination that burned in their eyes, a silent acknowledgment that whatever task lay before them, they would see it through, no matter the cost.

Her heart ached with a profound, visceral pain as the tears began to well up in her eyes, blurring her vision. The uncertainty of the situation weighed heavily on her, the unanswered questions gnawing at her mind. Would she ever see them again - her friends, her loved ones, the people she had been separated from in the chaos?

She hadn't laid eyes on Nick, since that fateful day, and the haunting fear that the worst had befallen him consumed her thoughts. Was he even still alive, or had he suffered a tragic end?

She couldn't be sure if the images in her mind, the visions of them escaping to safety, were real memories or simply the desperate fantasies of her hopeful psyche. Perhaps they had all been captured, and these flickering, ethereal impressions were nothing more than the mind's attempts to cope with the trauma, to envision a better outcome than the bleak reality.

The uncertainty was agonizing, the not knowing eating away at her resolve, as she struggled to discern truth from fiction, to separate the real from the imagined. All she could do was cling to the glimmer of hope that somehow, against all odds, they had made it to freedom - but the lack of any confirmation left her wracked with doubt and overwhelming sorrow.

As her eyes slowly drifted shut, a kaleidoscope of vivid new visions began to dance and swirl behind her lids. Faded century-old castles, their crumbling stone walls and turrets silhouetted against a sweeping night sky filled with constellations she had never seen before, their strange patterns and unfamiliar celestial arrangements captivating her. Then the scene shifted, and she found herself running breathlessly through a shadowy, labyrinthine landscape, her feet pounding against the ground as she fled from some unseen pursuer, yet no matter how hard she ran, she felt like she was getting nowhere, the scenery unchanging around her. Fragments of her childhood then came flooding back, the old haunting nightmares she used to have as a little girl - dreams where she was always being chased, hunted by some malevolent presence, her friends by her side as they desperately tried to escape, only to wake up in a cold sweat, tears streaming down her face as she cried out that she just couldn't get away. Those had been such frightening, visceral dreams, the kind that linger long after waking.

As she replayed the haunting images of her nightmare, a tiny detail suddenly stood out to her, one that sent a chill down her spine. Among the sea of unfamiliar faces, one of the women's eyes had caught her attention - they were achingly familiar, as if she had stared into them before. It was more than just recognition; there was a profound connection, a glimpse into the very depths of this stranger's soul. Though she had only just met this person a few days prior, the intensity of the eye contact in her dream felt like she was seeing a part of them that she had never meant to uncover. It was as if the veil had been lifted, exposing a vulnerability and intimacy that shook her to the core. It was a tiny detail, easy to overlook, but one that had the power to unravel the very fabric of what she thought she knew.

A sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through Rosa's veins, igniting an intense, visceral reaction within her. Something was undoubtedly off - no, not just off, but something was actively coming, approaching with an ominous and foreboding presence. Sitting upright in her seat, Rosa's heart began to pound thunderously in her ears, drowning out all other sounds around her. A strange vibration reverberated through the air, sending a prickling sensation across the back of her neck as the fine hairs stood on end, her body instinctively going on high alert. Just as she frantically tugged at the seat belt strapped tightly across her chest, a violent jolt ripped through the vehicle, lifting the wheels clean off the ground in a terrifying moment of weightlessness. Rosa's stomach lurched as the truck was violently wrenched from the road, her mind racing to comprehend the perilous situation unfolding around her. Something had gone horribly, catastrophically wrong, and she braced herself, heart pounding, for the inevitable impact that was to come.

The sudden and unexpected reversal of gravity sent the vehicle tumbling end over end, its passengers helplessly thrown about like ragdolls. Rosa felt her body lift off the seat as the vehicle flipped, her arms and legs flailing uncontrollably in the air around her. Weapons and other loose objects scattered chaotically, flying up towards the ceiling before crashing back down in a disorienting display of chaos. The experience was utterly disorienting, like being trapped in a never-ending, dizzying spin cycle. Just when it seemed the ordeal would never end, the vehicle slammed back down to the ground, the roof crumpling inward. Rosa's body lurched forward, and she felt a sickening jolt as her seatbelt caught her, the impact sending a sharp pain through her chest.

As the vehicle came to a rest, Rosa found herself surrounded by the motionless forms of her fellow passengers, one body sprawled across her feet, a trickle of blood oozing from the victim's nose. Dazed and disoriented, Rosa's ears were ringing and her vision blurred, but she could make out shadowy figures approaching the wrecked vehicle. The doors were suddenly wrenched open, and the figures began pulling bodies from the wreckage, climbing into the mangled interior. Rosa's seatbelt came undone, and she felt herself falling forward, only to be caught by the shadowy figures. Blinded by the bright sunlight as she was carried from the vehicle, Rosa let out a small cry of pain, her eyes clamped tightly shut against the glare.

“Easy, sunshine,” the soft tones made her nerves settle instantly, despite her pain she reached out blindly for him. Her hand clasped his warm fingers encasing her weak digits, “We got you now. You’re safe.”

****

As Noah approached the overturned vehicle, his heart sank at the sight of Rosa's limp, battered form. Frail and bruised from the violent accident, her eyes were sunken in and her cheeks hollowed out, giving her a haggard, worn appearance.

What had they done to her?

Noah knew the team had spent hours carefully planning this raid, but he had been uneasy about the decision to flip the truck, fearing the potential consequences. Still, it had seemed the only way to ensure the other guardians would be disoriented enough that they couldn't fight back properly, if they even chose to do so at all. As Noah watched the black box tip over three times before finally righting itself, his stomach turned with a sickening dread. Wasting no time, he tore open the doors and charged inside, desperate to extract Rosa as swiftly as possible and get her the medical attention she so clearly needed.

The normally vibrant, strong-willed woman now looked a complete wreck, her body battered and her spirit seemingly broken by the ordeal. Noah could only imagine the terror and pain she must have endured, and he vowed to get to the bottom of what had happened and ensure those responsible would pay for their cruelty.

Noah's heart raced as he carefully carried the limp form of Rosa in his arms, her body feeling unnaturally light and fragile. With a sense of urgency, he rushed towards the dilapidated safe house, its crumbling walls the only refuge they could find in this perilous world. Gently, he laid Rosa down on the old, bare mattress, the springs creaking under her weight. The mattress offered little comfort, the coarse fabric scratching against her skin, but Noah knew it was the best he could do to keep her safe in this moment.

As soon as Rosa's head hit the mattress, Maria came rushing to her side, her eyes wide with terror and concern. Bending over the bed, she tenderly pushed the tangled strands of hair away from Rosa's pale, lifeless face, a choked sob escaping her lips. "Oh god, what did they do to her?" she cried, her voice laced with anguish.

Before Noah could even begin to formulate a response, Morgan, one of the magistrates who had been on the transport truck, approached them, her expression grave. "It was some kind of serum they created," she explained, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air. Joshua had explained there had been a celestial hidden among the magistrate but Noah had never imagined it would be someone so high up. Morgan had always been ruthless as a leader, angry and fearsome, but only when pressed. Otherwise she would sit silently in the corner. “They seemed to find it in the storage on your computer,” her face turned to Jolly as Noah saw the shadow fall across his face.

“They experimented with it. It was more potent this time around. I managed to sneak in a potion with her food. Without it she’d be dead. But it did very little to combat the serum side effects.” Maria sniffeled as she bent down to kiss Rosa’s forehead.

“What do we do now?” Jolly asked sitting cross legged on one side of the matress taking their girls hand in his.

“They dosed her every morning, she got one just before we packed up. Wait it out for the night. She will need food.” Morgan leaned against the door frame folding her arms across her chest.

“We will take care of that,” Joshua came up behind her, “In the meantime we need to look for a bigger safe house. With the casualties of the accident the magiatrte will be out looking for us.”

The two celestials drifted down the hallway deep in discussion. Their centuries-old friendship was evident in the comfortable ease of their conversation as they exchanged ideas and made plans, their voices a melodic cadence that seemed to reverberate through the very walls. Meanwhile, Oli quickly squeezed past them, his focus intent as he hurried into the room. Without a word, Oli wrapped his strong arms around Maria’s trembling shoulders, offering comfort and support.

"Come on, love," he murmured, gently pulling her to her feet. "She is safe now. And I need your help." Maria nodded mutely, her face streaked with tears, as she allowed Oli to guide her from the room, the couple disappearing down the hall.

Noah carefully crawled onto the mattress, tenderly pulling the unconscious Rosa close to him. Relief and joy etched across his features - she was here, she was home, and heaven help anyone who dared try to take her from them again.

#bad omens #bad omens cult #noah sebastian #bad omens band #noahsebastian fanfic #noah sebastian smut #jolly karlsson fic #jolly karlsson fanfic #joakim jolly karlsson fic #joakim jolly karlsson #blood of eden #urban fantasy #alternate universe #bad omens au #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic

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teejaystumbles · 1 year ago

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Sandmanniversary Day 2 - "Hunt"

(fantasy human AU)

Dream falls against the weathered stone wall with a gasp and sinks to his knees. He cannot run anymore. He knows he has lost. Wherever he goes, wherever he hides, the Hound finds him. He has chased him for days and nights, through dark streets and back alleys, cellars and abandoned houses, under bridges and over rooftops, through the belfry of churches and finally here, up onto the highest tower of the cathedral.

Dream is bleeding from uncountable nicks and scrapes, his black silk and linen garments, made to hide him in the darkness and grant him swiftness, ripped and torn in several places. His mask is hanging in shreds off his face and is no longer doing its job of hiding his face. He suspects his identity hasn't been a secret for a while but he had felt safer with the mask. Now he pulls its pieces off, still panting from exertion. He looks down and sees the red and white coat of the Hound billowing in the wind. He is almost upon him.

[AO3] or under the cut

Dream looks out over the city - his city. His people. The people who don't believe in him anymore. Wherever he has tried to hide, they have shut their doors in his face, too afraid of Lord Burgess' wrath to shelter the famous "Dream", leading figure of the rebellion. Would they have let him in if they knew who he was? Or would they have called on the usurper's men that much faster? They would be handsomely rewarded for handing over the missing Crown Prince Morpheus. Dream scoffs and leans back against the rough limestone, wrapping his fingers around the claws of the gargoyle next to him for support. He watches the edge of the roof for his pursuer to pull himself up. He could try and kick him off. He could... Dream gulps.

No. He couldn't. He can't kill anybody, that's not who he is. And he doesn't want to kill the Hound. He wants...

A hand appears on the edge and grabs onto it hard, before a man pulls himself up and over the edge with a grunt. The Hound, clad in his typical red and white ensemble, now similarly torn and dirtied as Dream's, stares back at him. His breath is fast and his brown eyes are wide. He stills and remains silent for several moments, as if afraid he might startle his prey into running again. But Dream is done. He has wrenched his ankle with the last jump from a roof and this is as far as he goes.

Dream gives a wry smile and rasps, "You got me."

The Hound stares, panting. "I got you," he whispers. With trembling fingers he reaches out and touches Dream's jaw. Dream flinches and shivers violently. He wants to lean into the touch but instead he tries to lean back further into the wall. "Finally," the Hound says, and Dream lets out a wet sigh that sounds more like a sob and closes his eyes, feeling tears spill over his cheeks.

"Yes. I'm done. It's over. Do what you want."

He feels calloused fingers gently cradle his face and he waits for the pain of the killing blow or for these hands to choke him, but then there are lips upon his and he opens his eyes with a startled moan. He surges up but the Hound grabs his wrists and presses him back against the wall. Is this how it's going to go?

He tears himself away from the mouth on his and gasps, "What are you-"

The Hound's eyes are wide and pleading and his grip is strong but not painful. His brown hair is falling into his face, the wind pulling at it. Dream can't help but stare at the handsome face he has seen so many times from afar and only once closer, from across a dining table. Robert Gadling, personal guard of Lord Burgess, and his most skilled assassin, called The Hound, is looking at him like he wants to-

Dream gulps and blushes, feeling his heart thunder in his ears. If this man wants to have his way with him before he kills him... he closes his eyes again and bares his neck, his heart clenching painfully. "Go on then," he whispers, but his captor pulls him into a hug and puts his nose under Dream's ear, making him shiver again. The words mouthed against his neck have Dream go rigid.

"Please, Dream. Let me help."

He pulls back and looks Dream in the eyes again, bringing his hand to his lips, kissing it slowly, with intent. "Let me help you. Your majesty."

Dream raises an eyebrow and stares in surprise, his breath still coming fast, still feeling flushed by the proximity and the prospect of being ravished by the man he has pined over from afar for months. When he finally finds his words he pulls his hand free and pushes a strand of his hair out of his face, tracing Gadling's jaw reverently.

"Has the Hound forsaken its master?"

The man hums and gives him a smile Dream already knows he will become addicted to.

"It has found a better one," he says, his words a vow, and Dream pulls him in for another desperate kiss.

#I had a dream and this is what came out of it #thanks Morpheus for inspiring me #sandmanniversary #hob gadling #dream of the endless #dreamling #the sandman fanfiction #teejay writes #sft

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onlyonetifosi · 11 months ago

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Behind the camera -> chapter 8

<- previous series masterlist my main masterlist next ->

author note1: more yn/joris fluff 🥹🥹 based on charles los angeles vlog here

The warm California sun welcomed Charles Leclerc and his entourage as they stepped off the plane at Los Angeles International Airport. The city's vibrant energy and palm-lined streets signaled the beginning of a much-needed break for the Formula 1 driver and his companions.

"Ah, Los Angeles! It's good to be here," Charles exclaimed, stretching his arms wide.

Andrea, Charles’ trainer, nodded in agreement. "Sì, Los Angeles è sempre bello. È il momento di divertirsi" ( Los Angeles is always beautifuI) (t's time to have fun)

Joris, Charles's best friend and Yn's boyfriend, grinned. "Time for some fun, my friends!"

As they settled into their luxurious villa, Charles couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement. "This is exactly what I needed, guys. A break from the racing world and some time to unwind," he said, a genuine smile on his face.

The group, which included Charles, Andrea, Joris, Charles's girlfriend Alexandra, Riccardo, and his wife Marta, as well as Antoine, Charles's photographer and videographer, headed to their hotel to drop off their bags. Charles couldn't help but glance at Yn, his twin sister, who was engaged in lively conversation with Alex.

"Hey, Yn, ready for some LA adventures?" Charles teased, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

Yn rolled her eyes. "Always ready, Charles. As long as you don't embarrass me too much, big brother"

The group's first activity was a friendly basketball game at a nearby court. Charles, not known for his basketball skills, tried his best to dribble and shoot hoops.

"Mon dieu, Charles, maybe stick to racing, tu es vraiment nul au basket!" Yn teased him, earning a laugh from the others.

Alexandra chuckled, also teasing him, "Yea, mon cher, maybe stick to the racetrack. Your skills on the court are... how do you say... not impressive."

Charles smirked, replying in kind, "Eh bien, at least I'm a world-class driver, not a basketball player. And Yn you think you’re very funny, Yn. Let's see you try" Charles replied, passing the ball to her.

After a few failed attempts, Yn admitted defeat. "Okay, maybe basketball is not my forte either, it's a twins thing"

The group decided to cool off with some ice cream, sharing laughs and stories. Charles couldn't help but admire the way Joris and Yn interacted—the subtle glances, the shared jokes. It was a reminder of the strong bond they all shared.

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

The following day, the group rented bikes and explored the iconic Venice Beach boardwalk. Charles and Alex shared a tandem e-scooter, while Yn sat on Joris's lap and with Andrea on another.

"Vous avez l'air tellement mignons ensemble!" Alexandra grinned. (You two look so cute together!)

Yn couldn't help but giggle as Joris wrapped his arms around her waist. "Looks like you guys are having fun," Charles shouted from behind them, causing them all to burst out laughing.

Yn blushed, playfully swatting her brother's arm. "Ignorez-lui, il est juste jaloux" Joris calms her before the two siblings start bickering (Ignore him, he’s just jealous)

"Bon, let the race begin!" Charles declared, revving the e-scooter engine.

Andrea struggled to keep up, and Yn couldn't stop giggling at his attempts. The Venice Beach adventure ended with a mini-race, with everyone enjoying the wind in their hair.

Next on the itinerary was a trip from Malibu to Universal Studios. Yn couldn't contain her excitement, especially when they entered The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

"Charles, we need to buy wands!" Yn exclaimed, practically dragging him into Ollivanders.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," Yn whispered, holding her wand and exploring the magical surroundings and Charles chuckled, indulging his sister's enthusiasm "You really are a fan, aren't you?"

Yn winked. "Always."

"Charles, you have to try the butterbeer! It's amazing!" she exclaimed, dragging him toward the Three Broomsticks.

"Alright, alright, I'll give it a go," Charles chuckled, letting Yn lead the way.

Meanwhile, Joris and Alexandra rushed behind them, especially behind Yn. "I can't believe we're here," Joris whispered

"Me neither, but it's magical and they seem so excited," she replied, high fiving him.

"Look at her, she's like a kid in a candy store," Alexandra remarked, her arm intertwined with Charles'’ when they finally reached the twins in a merchandise shop.

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

The group also spent another day at Six Flags, where Charles, Alex, and Yn attempted to persuade Andrea and Joris to go on some thrilling rides.

"I prefer the safety of solid ground," Joris insisted, while Andrea nodded in agreement.

Charles, not one to be deterred, grabbed Joris and Andrea by their arms and playfully dragged them towards the rides.

"Come on, guys! Live a little!" Charles exclaimed.

"Non, non, pas question," Andrea protested (No, no, out of the question)

Joris nodded in agreement. "We'll pass, thanks"

"Come on, Andrea, we'll hold your hand the whole time," Yn said with a grin.

Yn, ever the persuader, looked at Joris with puppy-dog eyes, "Allez, mon amour, just one ride!"

"Yeah, come on, guys! It's all in good fun," Alexandra urged, exchanging a glance with Yn.

Joris resisted, but Yn's persistence paid off. Andrea, on the other hand, was tougher to crack. Charles, feigning violence, grabbed Andrea and Joris by the collars, threatening with a smile, "You're coming with us, whether you like it or not!"

Andrea finally relented, and the four of them headed to the ride. As they waited in line, Charles couldn't resist teasing Andrea about his fear.

"Don't worry, Andrea, I'll protect you," he joked, wrapping an arm around his trainer.

Andrea rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the smile on his face.

The group's day ended with a whimsical game at the carnival section of Six Flags. A victorious throw won them two enormous plushie bananas. Gleefully, they engaged in a playful banana battle, filling the air with laughter and the occasional thud of soft impacts.

"Attention! Incoming banana attack!" Charles shouted unexpectedly.

Laughter echoed as bananas flew through the air, hitting targets with precision. Alexandra threatened Charles, "If you hit me one more time, you're sleeping on the couch tonight!"

"Banana warfare!" Charles laughed, dodging plushie projectiles.

And they engaged in a hilarious banana fight, Joris and Andrea being the main targets.

The evening continued with board games and ping pong. Charles and Andrea engaged in fierce ping pong battles, while Yn and Alexandra shared laughter and girly moments.

"Hey, Yn, let's go shopping tomorrow before we leave," Alexandra said, breaking Yn out of her thoughts.

Yn grinned. "I would love that"

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

The following morning, Alexandra and Yn set out for their much-anticipated shopping trip in the heart of Los Angeles. The city's famed boutiques and exclusive shops awaited their exploration. The sunlit streets beckoned them as they strolled, laughter and excitement filling the air.

Their first stop was a trendy boutique showcasing the latest in Los Angeles fashion. Racks adorned with colorful dresses, stylish accessories, and unique pieces lined the walls. Alexandra and Yn eagerly sifted through the racks, exchanging opinions and approving nods.

"I can't believe how different the styles are here," Yn remarked, holding up a vibrant sundress.

Alexandra nodded in agreement. "It's a whole new world of fashion. I love it!"

After finding some stylish additions to their wardrobes, the duo headed to Shepora, that promised exclusive and makeup brands that are not available in Europe.

Yn's eyes widened as she discovered the vibrant array of products, including makeup from House Glass, and other niche brands that had yet to make their way across the Atlantic.

"Alex, look at this! I've heard so much about this and now we can finally try it" Yn exclaimed, her excitement contagious.

Alexandra, equally thrilled, added a few items to her basket. "And House Glass! I've been dying to get my hands on their products. This is like a beauty paradise."

The duo then ventured into clothing stores that were exclusive to the United States. American Vintage, Brandy Melville, and Forever 21 were on their list, promising a unique shopping experience with styles not commonly found in their European wardrobes.

As they explored the racks of clothes and tried on various outfits, the two friends couldn't contain their joy. Yn found a bohemian-style dress at American Vintage that perfectly suited her taste, while Alexandra discovered a trendy jacket at Brandy Melville that she couldn't resist.

With bags full of fashionable finds and exclusive makeup and after a successful shopping spree, the duo met with the rest of the group for a leisurely lunch. They chose a charming outdoor cafe with a relaxed atmosphere, where the California sun cast a warm glow over the scene.The vibrant energy of Los Angeles seemed to follow them, making the meal even more enjoyable.

Charles, Joris, Andrea, Riccardo, Marta, and Antoine were eager to hear about the shopping escapades of the two ladies.

"So, how was the shopping spree, ladies?" Charles asked with a grin.

Yn laughed, "We may have gone a little overboard, but it's all worth it."

Yn and Alexandra couldn't stop sharing their excitement, showcasing their newfound treasures and makeup finds. The group laughed and exchanged stories, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie.

Charles, Joris, Andrea, and the others eagerly greeted Yn and Alexandra, curious about their shopping spoils. The table quickly became a showcase of vibrant fabrics and makeup palettes.

"Wow, those dresses are stunning!" Joris exclaimed, eyeing the bags.

"And look at these makeup goodies! You two are going to turn heads," Charles added with a grin.

"Looks like the shopping trip was a success," Joris remarked, his eyes twinkling.

As they settled into lunch, the conversation flowed seamlessly between bites of delicious California cuisine. Yn and Alexandra recounted their shopping adventures, sharing anecdotes about the unique styles and products they discovered.

"Next time, we're all going shopping together!" exclaimed Marta, glancing at the fashionable purchases.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the city of angels, the group bid farewell to the vibrant streets of Los Angeles. Early the next morning, they would embark on the next leg of their journey, heading to the Vegas Grand Prix.

The excitement in the air was palpable as they boarded the plane, their hearts still buzzing with the memories of the Californian adventure. Ahead lay the glittering lights of Las Vegas, where the roar of engines would once again take center stage in the world of Formula 1.

i hope you liked it and if you want to know more about joris and yn and the adventures they are going to follow stay tuned (drama coming soon)

taglist: @love4lando @gcldtom @im-mi @topguncultleader @celesteblack08 @reblog-princess @sunf1ower16

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crookedfivefingers · 4 months ago

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Of Great Consequence

Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones; Martha Jones/Giacomo Casanova Rating: Explicit Chapters: 2/5 Tags: Romance, jealousy, friends to lovers, smut, angst with a happy ending

Co-written with @pax-in-paradoxo 💜

Note: AU where the Master arc never took place and Martha has continued traveling with the Doctor for over a year post-1969. This is just one take on how their dynamic might have evolved, given time+bonding+healing!

Read our first chapter below (or on Ao3)

In mid-1700s Italy, the Doctor and Martha arrive in Venice for the Feast of the Ascension. During their trip, they temporarily wind up separated, which is how Martha eventually finds herself in the company of an irresistible, if hauntingly familiar stranger… One who can't seem to take his eyes off of her.

"Feeling that I was born for the sex opposite of mine, I have always loved it and done all that I could to make myself loved by it."

-ɢɪᴀᴄᴏᴍᴏ ᴄᴀꜱᴀɴᴏᴠᴀ

22nd of May, 1755

As the sun rises over Venice, the city awakens, its buildings in shades of eggshell and rust bathed in the gentle warmth of late spring. Dozens of charming, arched bridges connect the narrow streets, their graceful curves casting shadows on the rippling waters of the canals beneath.

In an alley as old as Venice itself, the TARDIS materializes early, settling between a weathered brick wall and one of smooth stone. With a creak, the door swings open, and the Doctor and his companion step out into the cool Venetian morning, matching grins spreading across their faces as a gust of salty air greets them.

They’ve timed their arrival perfectly—forty days after Easter, just in time for the Feast of the Ascension. The morning promises plenty of pomp and ceremony, but the solemn rituals will soon give way to a lively afternoon as the streets fill with people ready to drink, dine, and dance.

Martha knows she and the Doctor will spend hours slipping in and out of crowds, perusing countless open-air markets, and laughing as they feast from one square to the next—blending seamlessly with the locals.

Which is precisely why they’ve dressed up.

(And they look brilliant, if she should say so.)

Predictably, finding costumes for their trip had been her idea, as it almost always was. What was unexpected, however, was how the Doctor hadn’t put up a lick of fuss, enthusiastically tagging along to the wardrobe while declaring his intent to track down something ‘tastefully lavish, with an appropriate amount of aristocratic flair’.

After fifteen minutes, he’d finally emerged from behind the paper-paneled screen dressed in a long, silken frock coat in forest green, complete with tails, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp white linen shirt. His scandalously tight breeches, made from the same Chinese silk, clung to his knees, where polished black boots hugged his slender calves.

Once Martha had taken a moment to ogle the Doctor’s (frankly bloody gorgeous) ensemble, she’d helped straighten the tails of his coat with shaking hands, her eyes lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary on his bum before hastily averting her gaze to the floor.

Eager for a distraction from her pulse thundering in her ears, she’d moved on to rifle aimlessly through the racks of clothes, shuffling past poodle skirts and flapper dresses (amongst other more questionable things) before finally settling on an extravagant gown in a complementary shade of sage green. While soft waves of frilly lace drifted from her bust to waist, the snug, corseted bodice highlighted her natural hourglass figure, further accentuated by a fluffy petticoat that had seemed easier to slip on than a bulky crinoline cage.

A pair of wedge sandals, way more comfortable than they had any right to be, gave her a bit of extra height, stopping her dress from dragging on the ground. Even with the boost, she wasn’t quite eye-level with the Doctor, but she was definitely closer to his face than usual when he pulled her in for a hug (one he offered right after helping her with the lace ties crisscrossing down her back).

She hates to admit it, but moments like that—the dressing up together, color coordinating, the simple intimacy of helping each other with the trickier bits—always get to her. Despite her struggle to suppress those feelings, things often felt juuuust dangerously close enough to the edge of that line to give her faint, fleeting little flickers of hope (however deluded they may be).

Martha’s a bright girl, though. Too smart, if she’s being honest, to be so swept up by a bloke with a smart haircut and a well-fitting kit.

(And a bloody time and space machine with the means to show her the vast wonders of the universe, but that's [mostly] beside the point.)

She’s painfully aware that, no matter what she may feel in the moment, the air between them remains at its same static constant: perhaps a shade or two shy of ‘questionably’ platonic at times; but ultimately safe, and—more importantly—consistent enough to adhere to the boundaries of just-friendship.

The Doctor is merely her mate–and nothing more.

Her mate who, on the first day they met, provoked such an undercurrent of sexual tension that his eventual rejection was akin to a polar plunge.

Her mate who, even now, occasionally seems to let his fingers hover too long over buttons and fastens as he helps her dress.

But all the same, still only her mate.

To give herself some credit, she’s long since learned to extinguish any hope as soon as it sparks up, as the Doctor is nothing if not masterful at sidestepping anything that could be misconstrued for ambiguity. The man’s gotten so good at that particular dance that such faux pas and slip-ups rarely happen at all anymore.

Well… Save for those fleeting moments when she catches a glimpse of… something— something dark, raw, and unmistakably hungry—that she almost doesn’t dare to name. It’s usually in the aftermath of a day when her intellect’s really had the opportunity to shine, or right after they’ve both cheated death once again. It’s subtle, almost too subtle, but it lingers just long enough to leave her wondering if she’s imagining things or not.

Back when they first started traveling together, there had been a good stretch where any time the Doctor caught her eyes on him, he’d glance away wistfully—back when she was certain his real thoughts were almost always trained on another woman; rather, a woman’s ghost.

Martha would have even put money on it, were she pressed.

That feels like a lifetime ago now. She knows those wounds haven’t simply disappeared, but they don’t hang over them like a dark cloud anymore. Getting to this point had been no small effort, but now, he could talk about his former companion without it bringing up that familiar awkward tension between them.

Over time, Martha’s learned to keep her jealousy to herself (she’s gotten much better at suppressing it in general), the Doctor’s learned to stop comparing the two of them, and lo and behold, the whole Rose thing gradually became less taboo—leaving a mutual understanding that once felt impossible.

Those ‘glimpses’ of his have changed shape, as well.

These days when she catches him looking, instead of breaking off to stare into the middle distance like he once did, he won’t even look away… More often than not, he’ll just smile at her.

But that’s all it is, of course—a smile.

She’s come to accept that the Doctor’s fond looks are probably nothing more than signs of friendly affection. After all, in the more than two years they’ve been best mates, they’ve been practically inseparable, traveling and living together nearly the entire time. It would be odd—and maybe even more confusing or frustrating—if the Doctor didn’t have some level of admiration for her.

But that certainly doesn’t mean he fancies her.

By way of petty illustration, at no point has he seemed to notice the fact that her tits look bloody fantastic, the fitted bodice of the gown doing absolute wonders to lift and separate her breasts. The rounded beauties are pressed up and together just so–and she’s already contemplating buying a push-up bra the next time she stops home.

But it’s fine that the Doctor is, for all intents and purposes, blind to this part of her. She’s had enough time to learn to expect as much, so she embraces her look privately, enjoying the little self-esteem boost. ‘No use in pining for approval’, she thinks as they stand together in their little alleyway—she knows she looks absolutely shaggable.

Within seconds of stepping outside the TARDIS, almost as soon as they’ve registered the smell of the sea, something else becomes apparent: the song of distant church bells.

The Doctor’s smile immediately downshifts into a grimace.

“Late?” Martha asks with a playful smirk, knowing it’s rare for them to be on time for anything (and certain she can’t remember the last occasion they were).

“Wellll…” Reaching back, he ruffles his hair with his free hand, looking from one end of the alley to the next—undoubtedly trying to puzzle out which route might be quicker. “I’d say we’re not so much ‘late’ as ‘fashionably behind schedule’. Could’ve used more time to get dressed before landing, but”—he grins with a hint of mischief, squeezing her hand— “no matter. Allons-y!”

Then it’s all weaving through alleys, dodging broken carts, and hopping over a series of quaint little bridges as they move at a brisk pace (the best Martha can manage in her shoes) as the Doctor leads the way.

Wherever the hell they’re going.

Panting, Martha calls out, “Couldn’t we just have, y’know… gotten back in the TARDIS? Landed a bit… closer?”

The Doctor scoffs. “And what, miss all these lovely little spots? What sort of Venetian spirit is that?” Turning a corner, they come face to face with another bridge—this one made of red bricks and wrought iron. “This way, you’re getting the proper tour, Martha Jones. The alleys, the bridges”—they both look down to see a long, black boat being rowed beneath them by a man in tight trousers—”the gondolas; this is what Venice is all about!”

“Sure, yep.” Martha’s almost certain he’s just too proud to admit he’s once again screwed up the landing. “Just saying, you’d better remember where we parked,” she adds as they step off the other side of the bridge, turning down the path to their left to slip into a space so narrow, they’ve got to shuffle through it sideways. “Don’t fancy getting lost in all this once it’s dark out.”

Another scoff as the Doctor looks back with a halfhearted glare. “C’mon, Martha. Give us some credit—I know exactly where we are.” His expression twists into a crooked grin. “Got a built-in GPS, me.”

“Riiight, ‘course you do.” They finally pop out the other side—and thank god, it’s a fairly wide street they step onto this time; she can even see the Grand Canal through an arch over the path in the distance—bless. “Suppose I’ll just pretend I can’t remember the ‘Forest of Dreams’ turning out to be the ‘River of Leg-Sucking Frogs’.”

“Oiii, it’s not my fault the TARDIS landed us on the wrong side of the continent!” He clears his throat, reaching (presumably) to straighten a tie that isn’t there, then (presumably) pretending he’d meant to touch his waistcoat. “She was feeling fickle, is all.”

“And the night you timey-wimey-detected us straight into the worst part of London?”

“I had a hunch!”

“That ‘hunch’ nearly lost me my good coat!”

“‘Nearly’ being the operative word.”

“Or breakfast at Tiffany’s?” She meets his gaze pointedly, an eyebrow arched high. “Suppose that was due to a ‘fickle TARDIS’ as well?”

The Doctor’s face falls. “Erm—”

“‘It’s about intuition and imagination, Martha,” she gives her best impression, pressing her hand into the center of her chest. “It’s about feeling your way through the Vortex— oh, wait, hold on—sorry, you’re at the bottom of a swamp!”

With a heavy sigh, the Doctor scrubs all five fingers down his face, head tipping back dramatically. “How many more apologies before you stop dragging that one up? And, must I remind you—we did make it to Tiffany’s eventually. Softest, flakiest croissants in the universe, remember?” He catches her eyes with a pleased smirk. “And your lovely yellow frock?”

Martha cuts her gaze away from him as her cheeks grow hot, pretending to be entranced by a stone archway leading into another footpath marked Ponte de la Guerra.

She hardly expected him to acknowledge it, but yes, of course, she remembers what happened after she’d recovered from the swamp incident.

As if she could ever forget.

The Doctor had ambushed her early that morning (Afternoon? Evening? What even was time on the TARDIS?), interrupting her slow shuffle to the galley to search for caffeine by thrusting a canary-yellow halter dress (the ‘color of nobility’) into her hands, confidently declaring that he’d promised her a date.

Frock didn’t do it justice, though. In Martha’s mind, a frock was one of Matron Redfern’s crisply starched pinafores, a young schoolgirl’s uniform, maybe the frumpy sort of thing a grandmother would wear to faff about the house. The elegant, tea-length cocktail dress the Doctor had hand-chosen for her was slinky and sexy–nothing of the sort.

She’d stood in her bedroom, letting the fabric slip between her fingers as she stared in disbelief at the mirror. The shimmering yellow silk garment fit like a glove, accentuating every dip and swell of her figure. The halter neckline showcased plenty of bare skin, exposing her arms and the graceful curve of her spine, while the bodice cinched just right, emphasizing her waist before flowing sensually to mid-calf.

She’d turned slightly, admiring how the fabric clung to her hips before flaring out just enough to allow for movement. Tied snugly at the neck, the dress uplifted her bust, offering more than a glimpse of décolletage. The yellow hue was bold; vibrant; a color that demanded attention—exactly the sort of thing she wouldn’t normally pick for herself.

But… it worked. It worked so bloody well that she couldn’t help but wonder if the Doctor had pictured exactly what she’d look like in it when he’d made his choice.

Had he anticipated how the soft sheen of the silk would highlight the warm undertones of her skin? Or the fitted cups of the bodice would perfectly cradle her breasts? Martha had bit her lip, trying to push those thoughts aside, but the question lingered in her mind like an itch in the brain.

Had the Doctor imagined her like this, standing in the place where she undressed, feeling both vulnerable and powerful, the dress skimming her thighs as she shifted from foot to foot?

Maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t. But as she’d stood there, the dress fitting her like a second skin, she’d felt that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a reason he’d picked it.

And then, she’d had an existential crisis wondering if he’d tolerate her absence long enough for her to nip into the ensuite and slather her legs in depilatory cream. You didn’t present someone with a sexy cocktail dress and invite them on a breakfast date if pillowy-soft pastries were the only thing on your mind.

No, she hadn’t forgotten the overly decadent and posh meal they’d had on Arkon, where the days were only three hours long and they ate a single sumptuous meal (breakfast) a day.

Or the stroll they took along the pier to watch the two suns set over a glittering sea, the Doctor’s hand finding hers as the last flicker of light disappeared over the horizon.

By the time they’d made their way back to the TARDIS, she would have nearly convinced herself she’d dreamt it all, if not for the effervescent rush of endorphins that had flooded her bloodstream, accompanied by an anticipatory giddiness she couldn’t even try to suppress. And why would she? After all, the Doctor had looked at her—at Martha Jones, the woman who had recently confessed her love to his human self—and handed her a dress he’d picked himself by hand, telling her they had a date. She’d been so certain something was about to happen between them that her bones had nearly burned with it.

And yet, there had been no long, lingering embrace at the end of the night; no handsy walk back to her bedroom. No giggles between soft, shy kisses against a door jamb as eager mouths became acquainted. Certainly, there’d been no trail of discarded clothing leading to where they’d stumbled into bed, his lips at her neck, his breath hot and shuddering beneath her ear as he moved inside of her.

God, how bloody embarrassing that she’d even dared to imagine 1/10th of that.

No—when they returned, all the Doctor had done was throw them into the Vortex, stare at his monitor, and bid her adieu with little more than a flick of his wrist–like they hadn’t spent the entire day doing stuff that would qualify as romantic couple’s stuff were they, in fact, a couple.

And that had been the night Martha stopped hoping.

“I’m just saying,” she adds, forcing some lightness and mirth into her tone, wanting to move past any further discussion of Arkon or Tiffany’s or nearly dying in a swamp. “Would be a nice change of pace to be able to find the TARDIS sometime this century–”

Quite abruptly, an arm is shoved in front of her, the Doctor forcing both of them to a stop when the melodic strains of a softly sung hymn travel through the open calle.

Two cream-colored buildings towered directly ahead, divided by a wide alley and connected by a stone arch. Through this space, flanked by ceremonial guards, a procession of men dressed in their finest red, white, and golden robes solemnly marches past. The soft glow of candles illuminates their path; the rich scent of incense wafts from smoking silver censers carried by two men trailing the end of the line.

Not far behind, a sea of well-dressed Venetians follows, their voices lifted in joyful harmony. Some carry their own candles, flames flickering gently in the breeze; others bear golden-tasseled banners that sway elegantly with the rhythm of their steps, adding to the grandeur of the spectacle.

“Guessing that’s it, then?” Martha glances up to stare at his profile. “The procession?”

“Indeed,” the Doctor murmurs, moving his arm from in front of her to tug at his ear instead. “Erm. Martha?”

“Yes?”

“I, erm. Hadn’t realized you were still cross about that.”

“Cross?” Tilting her head slowly, she wrinkles her brow, puzzling through their conversation. “About what?”

“The swamp.”

Affection swells in her chest as she notes the sincerity in his eyes, and almost as quickly, her heart sinks with shame.

…Why had she felt the need to bring it up again?

Plenty of times since then, he’s mucked up the landing—any number of which were far less serious… Those examples would’ve been far more fitting for the light, playful nature of the conversation they’ve been having.

With a growing sense of horror, she realizes what she’s done. She might not have been outright nasty, but it’s the same pattern that haunted their first year of traveling together—the same insecurity disguised as something else. This time, she’d just buried it deeper.

Sure, she hadn’t meant to do it—and it’d been tossed up in words that, on the surface, had nothing to do with jealousy or Rose or anything resembling rejection—but reflecting on it now, Martha knows better.

And the Doctor had misinterpreted that bitterness as resentment for having nearly cost her her life.

Of course she knew he hadn’t meant to land them on the wrong planet that morning! She can’t begin to imagine the guilt he must have felt when his casual misstep nearly got her killed, landing her unconscious and in hospital.

Even worse: it hadn’t been the only near-death experience during that particular trip; it was just the only one that’d involved her and her alone.

When all was said and done, their breakfast ‘date’ had merely been his way of making it up to her in style, and while she thought she’d come to terms with that by now, somehow she still dared to feel a private tinge of annoyance more than a year later.

Moreover, brilliant as the Doctor is, he must’ve realized on some level that he’d gone a bit further than intended with the blurring of lines that day. That was probably why he was so closed off when they’d returned home that night; probably why he never used the ‘D’ word to describe an outing ever again, even in the aftermath of any of their subsequent near-death experiences (of which they’d had several).

Bringing up that trip again—knowing how traumatic it was for him as well—feels cheap and uncouth, especially when she’d only done it to poke fun at his piloting skills. As much as she’d like to pretend it was all in good humor, the slight flicker of anxiety in his eyes tells her it came out more honestly than she intended.

What sort of a mate does that make her?

Excluding family, the Doctor is the most important person in her life. They don’t need to be anything more than friends—really, they don’t. His platonic love carries a weight and warmth that puts any of the fleeting, half-cocked romances she’s had back on Earth to shame.

But still, there’s something about the way he holds her after a near miss that feels more intimate than sex ever could. Arms tight around her, like he’s afraid he’ll drift away if he lets go. She doesn’t care how cliche it sounds–it feels like their souls are tangled together in those moments, a connection far deeper than physical attraction. That has to count for something.

And God, does it ever. Of course it does.

Besides, she knows she’s the most important person in his life, too—at least for now. And that’s been true for a long time. They’re best mates, absolutely brilliant together. What matters is that they’ve got each other, and that’s more than enough.

(If the cost to see the universe at the Doctor’s side is a bit of hopeless pining with a dollop of unrequited love, she figures it’s well worth the price of admission.)

So, desperate to call upon some levity, Martha grins, giving his shoulder a light shove. “Oh, don’t be daft—‘course I’m not. I’m only pulling your leg!”

The Doctor pauses, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Right,” he says in a tone that makes it painfully obvious he doesn’t quite believe her. He glances away for a moment before looking back at her, his smile now more deliberate. “Okay, then.” Reaching into a hidden pocket in his coat, he points towards the crowd with his chin, his eyes searching her face for reassurance. “Off we go?”

Once equipped with red candles set in fancy silver holders—courtesy of the Doctor’s ever-handy, if baffling, trans-dimensional pockets—they quietly slip around a corner and fall into step with the procession. Their entrance goes largely unnoticed, a testament to the Doctor’s knack for blending in when it happens to suit him.

Strangely enough, although no words are spoken, she notices several men sizing the Doctor up as they merge into the crowd. One grins, another glares with a deliberate intensity, and an elderly woman even blows him a little kiss. Witnessing all of it straight away, a nagging suspicion grows in Martha’s mind that some of these people have met him before. It stirs a different kind of jealousy within her—a quiet, unsettling thought that maybe the Doctor has spent many Ascension Days walking these same steps, perhaps even with the same familiar faces by his side.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken her somewhere he’d gone before ( with Rose, a nagging voice helpfully adds), and she shoves that thought back down deep before it has a chance to get its hooks into her. She’s come too far, putting her jealousy of the other woman to bed, to backslide now.

It’s also worth noting that the Doctor’s a tragically handsome bloke whose presence radiates power and confidence, so it’s only natural that he’d draw such reactions (just as he has countless times before). As usual, he seems blissfully unaware, his eyes fixed on their gorgeous surroundings as if no one else exists.

Martha decides she’s overthinking it.

For the next twenty-five minutes, she makes a valiant effort to mouth along to unfamiliar Latin hymns as the Doctor, ever the show-off, sings every word perfectly (of course). The path winds around some of the most attractive architecture and quaint little canals she’s ever had the privilege of laying her eyes upon, and her attention admittedly strays a bit from the religious procession to the many balconies, alleys, and storefronts, peeking surreptitiously into windows and alcoves to try and imagine the sort of life one might have in 1700’s Venice.

Nothing compares to the site that awaits them, however, as they soon round a corner to find themselves in a massive open square, gazing in awe at the main facade of St. Mark’s Basilica.

From every angle, the building offers a breathtaking display of paintings, statues, and shimmering glass mosaics, every nook and cranny packed with religious art and iconography. Intricate carvings, hand-crafted from patterned marble, showcase colorful imaginings of the lives of Jesus, Mary, and the namesake of the holy church.

Five towering white domes crown the structure, their elegant curves adorned with lines of elaborate gold filigree that climb toward the lanterns nested above. Massive grand entryways— ’portals’, the Doctor calls them—usher the crowd into the cathedral’s stunning interior, and Martha finds herself dizzy as she tips her head back, staring in awe at the impossibly tall, hand-painted ceilings.

Her heart soars.

She’s seen so much with the Doctor, but this? This is something else entirely. It’s breathtaking. The basilica’s intricate details, the vibrant colors—it’s all so beautifully human; all crafted by hand right here on Earth. It’s a masterpiece come to life around her, and she can’t help but feel awed by it; she’s never been particularly religious, but it’s easy to see how people might come here to feel closer to whatever universal threads connect all humans—be that God or nature or whatever.

A hand pressed between her shoulder blades guides her back to the present, and there’s a flicker of embarrassment as Martha realizes she’s wandered away from the main procession. With a sheepish smile, she looks over, fully prepared to be quietly reprimanded—but…

To her surprise, when she meets the Doctor’s deep, brown stare, she sees only fondness there; perhaps a touch of pride. It sends warmth through her chest in a slow surge, and she smiles, the warmth only spreading further as he beams right back at her.

It occurs to her then: it must bring him immense joy to do this; to see human marvels like St. Mark’s through the eyes of another. For all she knows, he’s been to Venice a thousand times, but this is her very first. She can’t really blame him for wanting to relive it all, vicariously experiencing the first time wonder of seeing it through her eyes.

This time, when they slip back into the procession, Martha doesn’t even pay attention to anyone else in the crowd.

In the nave, Mass commences as soon as every pew is filled, hundreds of soft prayers echoing through the cathedral. Amid wishes for health, prosperity, and joy, blessings are bestowed upon Venice and the sea, creating an atmosphere so rich with unity that Martha finds herself overcome with emotion. As the next round of hymns swells around them, tears well up in her eyes.

Sometime later, after following the throng out to a large pier on the Grand Canal, the Doctor and Martha watch as Francesco Loredan—the Doge, or highest-ranking official of Venice—and his clergymen board an elaborate spectacle known as the Bucentaur. It’s a glorified barge, really; a long, flashy vessel with gilded walls and a red, curved roof; one practically sinking beneath the weight of opulent finery affixed from bow to stern.

Propelled by the strength of over a hundred oarsmen, the ship sails off surrounded by dozens of black gondolas and a hodgepodge of private vessels of varying sizes. The crowds cheer in celebration from the harbor, thousands of spectators waving their scarves and ascots as the Doctor tells Martha about the final event of the ceremony: the Marriage of the Sea.

“It’s meant to symbolize the significance of the Adriatic Sea to the city Venice,” he says quietly, his voice warm and close with intoxicating proximity. “They’ll have their rituals out there”—he lifts an arm to point east, his voice growing even smoother, deeper—“in those deep, aquamarine waters near the island of Lido. Then, as they hold a golden ring over the sea, they’ll say a few words to honor their tradition.”

“W-What,” Martha lifts a fist to her mouth, coughing to cover up the evidence of little sparks shivering through her, “what words are those, then?”

“Desponsamus te, mare, in signum veri perpetuique dominii.”

Good god. The Doctor murmuring Latin into her ear is the last thing she needs right now, and she pins her lips together, eyes focused on the departing ship as its shape grows smaller and smaller.

“Well?”

She jumps slightly, looking up at him with both eyebrows raised, as though he’s only just materialized at an inconvenient moment for her to be observed. “Mm?”

“I said, ‘Don’t you want to know what it means’?” He smirks then, and while Martha would have once thought it was a flirtatious gesture, she knows him well enough by now to recognize when he’s just being a smug git.

“Isn’t the, erm, TARDIS supposed to translate all that?” she asks, sounding slightly more breathless than she’d have liked. Certain the sun is highlighting the flush to her cheeks, she turns her head towards the water again, breaking off eye contact to focus on the excitement of the crowd.

“Wellll.” For some ungodly reason, the Doctor leans in even closer. “Not if I’m trying to be very, very impressive.”

Swallowing thickly, she takes a subtle (but no less deliberate) step in the opposite direction. “Never thought I’d see the day you admitted to having to ‘try’,” she quips, crossing her arms, her eyes once again pinned to the gilded barge. “But since you’re dying to tell me—”

“We wed thee, sea, as a sign of true and everlasting dominion.”

Martha scrunches her nose as she finally turns her eyes up to his, then she’s the one to smirk. “Gotta say, that sounded a lot prettier in Latin.”

“As most things do,” the Doctor sighs almost wistfully. Standing up straight, he offers his arm, smiling brightly. “So, Martha Jones—over and onward?”

Feeling the balance has been restored between them, she grins, slipping her arm through his as they turn towards the steady retreat of the crowd. “Lead the way.”

#doctor who #tenth doctor #martha jones #tenmartha #10martha #ten x martha #martha x casanova #casanova #my fics #collab #dw fic #fanfiction

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shybunnie20 · 1 year ago

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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

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catnatch · 9 months ago

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another souyo fic rec list!

this one is exclusively for fics that have never made it off the badbadbathouse/livejournal (to my knowledge/memory). I have my big ass list of every single souyo fill, but this one is curated with summaries, so hopefully it'll be useful to new p4 fans or anyone who doesn't know where to start with p4 on lj!

(these are all from bbbh, so the main post text for all these will be somewhat suggestive, but I will separate sfw fics from nsfw)

SFW fics!

Sunday, 7:43: I've mentioned before but my absolute fav P4 fic <3 even the prompt is the sweetest: a ficcy about the precise moment Yousuke realizes he's in love

Domesticity: Yosuke gets a gray hair :^)

Name That Tune: after Yosuke gives him a mixtape, Souji surprises him with the song he likes the most-- it goes exactly where you think but the buildup is still so good :') this one I feel like I did see on AO3 but I can't find it again if it is

The Frog in the Well (or, Yosuke and the wind.): character study of Yosuke's connection to his element (okay not so souyo but it's got such fantastic use of language...)

Sick Day: good old fashioned sick fic :') actually more of a ensemble fic rather than purely souyo, and the peeks of characterization therein are choice [warnings for vomit]

Cook the Food, Not the Kitchen: teaching the IT to cook- another ensemble fic! but souji def has plans for Yosuke in this one ;) unfinished but very amusing nonetheless

Façade: in order to go out on a public date, Souji elects to disguise as a girl. i like fics where they work thru their issues... but it's still quite fluffy! this one miiiight be on AO3 or ffn

One Way to Start the Morning: Yukiko and Yosuke talk about being in love with their best friends... as much as Yosuke can admit it anyway. realistically awkward but genuine Yosuke and Yukiko friendship, hooray! [warnings for one use of slur]

Whisperwind: Yosuke gains telepathic powers and it's too much (a sorta Carrie au). very surreal but well done horror fic (there is souyo but as you can imagine, it doesn't end well) [no smut but it is very gory so think maybe R? instead of NC-17; major character death]

Contact: souyo's relationship through touch. wonderful sense of tension and space throughout this fic, and i love viewing their progression thru one specific lens

Breaking Up is Hard To Do: Yosuke confesses... the night before Souji leaves. once again the genre is souyo/working on their issues. excellent, naturalistic dialog and not too angsty...

[untitled]: souyo told purely from other character's perspectives. unfortunately unfinished; we really need more outside pov fics !

A Special Report: "I like my women like my coffee" ngl rec-ing purely for Souji's answer ;D (nothing explicit but as u can expect from the prompt, suggestive jokes abound) also sports club trio ftw!!

NSFW fics below cut!

Play Time: Souji likes Yosuke's dick- even outside of sex! i am SUCH a big fan of casual, almost boring intimacy. adult in the best way, funny and so so domestic

The Last Breath We Take: sometime after Yosuke dies, Souji is sure he's being haunted. more bittersweet than outright sad :') (also the nsfw is very indirect and light) [warnings for major character death]

A Night Like This: Yosuke's dad finds out Yosuke's dating Souji and does not take it well. Yosuke isn't a complete pushover (but he is still a sad boy) so that's refreshing! [warnings for abuse]

Bruise My Head: Souji gets a bit fat and meets up with Yosuke years after. flashbacks (one is the short nsfw in this fic) are interspersed in this future fic, and it's an interesting examination how they might change and what stays the same (and how there's always something to work on) [warnings for eating disorders + brief self harm mention]

Technique: Yosuke totally knows what a blowjob is. totally. (smut that doesn't go perfectly >>>>>)

Its a Hard Life: Yosuke falls on hard times, becoming a prostitute and gets a regular who looks very familiar (it's Souji's dad). listen, I'm not gonna pretend that this one isn't carried by pure DRAMA and whump [warnings for dubcon + noncon]

Unfortunate Timing: souyo are having phone sex when Nanako has the WORST timing. Souji's dilemma is supremely entertaining, and we love bratty!Yosuke [warnings for Nanako? she's not a part of/aware of the sex per se but she's in the vicinity if that squicks you out]

Experience: Kanji learns a thing or two from established souyo. the Kanji pov is an interesting angle to view souyo and how well they work together [warnings for dp]

I HAVE NO DUNGEON, AND I MUST TROLL!: Yosuke has a personal blog- very personal- that starts getting hate from one anonymous Souji. this fic is unique for presenting the lj/comments true to life and there's a lovely floaty style to the offline sections; this fic is also an interesting look into Jerkji, who we don't see often in fan characterization anymore [warnings for manipulative!Souji; eating disorders (adjacent); dubcon; suicidal actions]

and finally Sympathy Crime even though pretty much everyone already knows about it AKA the fic where Adachi manipulates Yosuke into a relationship and it takes a tole on the investigation. heed the warnings of abuse, rape, torture, and suicidal thoughts/attempts seriously as the fic goes in depth to depict these, the horrifying effects, and then recovery. It does not pull any punches. The fic really understands how anyone can be susceptible to abuse and how important a support system/lack thereof is. It is incredibly well written- and that is in part because it has a message about horrendous acts of abuse. Additionally, it's a 200k+ (i think) word read so it is A Lot. Sympathy Crime is 100% not for everyone, but if you think you can tolerate reading the subject matter, there is a reason why this is a monolithic fic in P4 fandom history

#souyo #fic rec #very interesting to compare the trends of 2009 p4 fic as compared to 2020s.....

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thelocalmoth · 14 days ago

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Teacher AU

Was feeling like I should probably make something to post soon, so I drew the skrunklies as band directors ! I’m in band, so I took a bit of inspiration from my own experience. I think it would be fun if they co-ran the school’s band together; maybe Jack runs their marching band, Sammy focuses on the wind ensemble/symphonic band, etc…

If anyone wants more from this AU, I’ll totally make more! :3

#batim #bendy and the ink machine #jack fain #sammy lawrence #batim au #batdr #bendy and the dark revival #moth inks #I made this AU 2-3 years ago…

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ari-kari · 1 year ago

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Chicken

Winter, 1996. It’s the semester before graduation, and Adora is bonding over drinks with a few soccer teammates. Out of nowhere, one of them brings up a game that Adora’s never heard of before - “gay chicken.”

Naturally, Adora has questions.

(Catradora Modern AU, 18+ high school setting. Falling in love in the 90s. One shot. Explicit)

Friends With Benefits

Catra has been struggling in the lowest rungs of the Vegas cocktail scene for about a year when she comes across an interesting offer online - $100 to get fed on by a vampire. Sure, Catra’s never actually met a vampire before, let alone gotten her blood drawn by one. But she’s done worse things for less money, and shifts at the casino are drying up fast. Why not let some Craigslist rando suck on her neck for a few minutes?

As it turns out, there are quite a few answers to that question. They’re just not the ones Catra was expecting.

(Big Bang longfic in progress. Catradora Modern Vampire AU. Smut heavy, but fluff coming soon 💕)

Option Two

There are many ways to seize control of a human mind. Hate, envy, thwarted desire - all are powerful tools, and all have been wielded by Light Hope to great effect in the past.

But not this time. This time, Light Hope chooses differently.

(Catradora canon-divergent AU - alternate “Promise” fic. Angst with a happy ending. Non-explicit. Not actually centered on Light Hope she’s barely even in it 💀)

Pinned

Catra flees through the Whispering Woods. Adora chases after her. And instead of grabbing her by the wrists in their final encounter, Adora pushes Catra a bit further.

Things diverge quickly from there.

(Catradora canon-divergent oneshot set immediately following their confrontation in the Whispering Woods. Fluff, angst, and boatloads of sex. Explicit)

Shift

As the war reaches its final days, Catra and Adora struggle to define the boundaries of their newly-restored relationship.

(Catradora missing scene - prefinale. Spiritual successor to “Don’t Go” by annacharlier. One shot)

Vague Notions

When Adora’s lifelong battle with anxiety tips from “manageable” to completely out of control, she winds up in the last place she ever expected; a mental health treatment center, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. And she’s far from the only client here in desperate need of assistance.

(Catradora AU with full ensemble cast. Journal format from Adora’s POV. Very long fic, but worth it. Explicit.)

Wanting

The war is over. Horde Prime’s death has ushered in an era of unprecedented peace in Etheria, with She-Ra and the Alliance at its helm. And against all odds, Adora has feelings for Catra - loves her, even. Catra’s never had more to be grateful for in her life.

Somehow, it’s still not enough.

(Catradora post-canon. Very fluffy “first time” fic. One shot. Explicit.)

Next on the docket: Big Bang 2024, Despara Au, Interdimensional AU longfic.

Thanks for reading ❤️

#she ra #catradora #adora x catra #she ra fic #long fic #one shot

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banzonism · 4 days ago

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I WISH YOU WOULD | CH 02

pairing: idol!jk × painter!reader / interior designer!reader

genre: slice of life, childhood bff au, fluff, angst, touch of fate, slight smut (?)

summary:

I never thought our paths would cross again—not here, not now, and certainly not under these circumstances. Being near him feels achingly familiar, like a melody I thought I’d forgotten but still know by heart. Yet, the weight of his world presses against us, a constant reminder of how far we’ve come and how much has changed. It’s like the line between past and present is blurring, pulling me back to the boy I once knew and forcing me to reckon with the man he’s become.

Can we find a way to bridge the distance, or are we destined to remain on opposite sides of a life we no longer share? I can’t stop thinking of how he looks at me—like he’s holding onto something he can’t let go of. The lyrics echo in my mind: “I wish you would come back, wish I never hung up the phone like I did.” because deep down, I know I’m still waiting for him to turn around.

words: 2.7k

June 2019.

A year had slipped by since I last set foot in Busan, drawn back by the somber call of my grandmother’s funeral. That fleeting return had left an indelible mark on me. Life surged forward after I returned to Switzerland, my days brimming with work and obligations. Yet beneath the surface, a quiet yearning persisted—a pull toward the past, toward something left behind.

Art had always been my sanctuary, a passion that brought balance to my life and complemented my career. With a degree in architecture, I had built a steady path designing spaces that blended functionality with beauty. Our home in Switzerland was one of my favorite projects, a reflection of my love for clean lines and creative details.

Painting, however, was something deeply personal—never intended to leave the walls of my private studio. It started as a quiet release, a way to process the complexities of life. But one day, on a whim, I shared one of my paintings online. To my surprise, someone reached out, asking if it was for sale. That unexpected moment opened a door I hadn’t realized was there. Slowly, what had been a personal outlet grew into a side venture, one where my abstract works found homes with people who resonated with them.

When one of my pieces was selected for display at a prestigious gallery in England, it felt like a dream realized—proof that this side of me was worth sharing. The timing couldn’t have been better, coinciding with a work trip to London, as though everything was falling into place just when it was meant to.

Landing in England, it welcomed me with its signature blend of cool autumn air and electric vibrance. As the car navigated the busy streets toward my hotel, a voice on the radio pulled me from my thoughts.

“...BTS has made history yet again, selling out Wembley Stadium for two consecutive nights. Their influence as global icons remains unmatched…”

My lips quirked into a small smile at the mention of their name. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard about him and his band—they were everywhere, after all. But every mention felt like a small thread tying me back to Busan. To him. I thought of his quiet confession that day, a memory I hadn’t dared to unpack fully. How was he? Did he still remember?

The night of the exhibit arrived like a rush of wind. Clad in a timeless black ensemble that balanced simplicity with sophistication, I stepped into the gallery, instantly enveloped by the hum of cultured conversation and the soft clink of wine glasses. My piece commanded its space on the wall, its bold strokes and layered textures drawing an admiring crowd. I watched from a distance, listening to snippets of their musings about the piece.

“That’s brilliant,” a tall man with brown hair said, his Korean accent standing out in the sea of English chatter. He was dressed sharply yet comfortably, exuding an air of quiet confidence.

“The way the colors blend yet still maintain individuality… it’s like it’s trying to say something about relationships, maybe.”

“That’s an interesting interpretation,” I said, stepping closer. I had spoken instinctively in Korean, which caused him to turn toward me in surprise.

“You speak Korean?” he asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Yes,” I replied, smiling politely. “And I happen to know the story behind that painting.”

“Really?” he asked, intrigued. “Do you know the artist?”

“I might,” I said with a playful tone, holding back my grin.

The man studied me for a moment before extending his hand. “I’m Kim Namjoon. And this,” he gestured to the blue haired man beside him, “is Kim Taehyung.”

I glanced at the other man, who had striking features and a warm smile. They both looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.

“I’m Y/N,” I said, shaking Namjoon’s hand.

“You have a beautiful name,” Taehyung said with an easy smile.

“Thank you,” I replied, my cheeks warming slightly.

Namjoon glanced back at the painting. “It’s an incredible piece. Do you happen to know how the artist came up with the idea?”

I hesitated for a moment, then decided to reveal the truth. “Actually… I am the artist.”

Both men stared at me, surprised.

“You painted this?” Namjoon asked, his tone filled with amazement.

“Yes,” I said with a small laugh. “I’m glad you like it.”

“That’s incredible,” Taehyung said. “You’re Korean? I didn’t expect to meet the artist here, let alone find out they’re Korean too.”

“I didn’t expect to meet you two either,” I replied. “I assume you’re here for the exhibit?”

Namjoon nodded. “We’re big fans of art. We try to visit galleries whenever we have the chance.”

I tilted my head, studying them for a moment. “You both look very familiar. Are you… in a band or something?”

Namjoon and Taehyung exchanged amused glances before Namjoon said, “Maybe?.”

The realization hit me like a tidal wave. I blinked at them, then let out a surprised laugh. “Wait! I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you guys sooner.”

Taehyung chuckled. “It happens more often than you’d think.”

“Well, this is unexpected,” I said, still processing the coincidence. “It’s an honor to meet you both. And thank you for your kind words about my painting.”

Namjoon smiled warmly. “The honor is ours. It’s not every day we meet someone as talented as you.”

We spent the next few minutes chatting about art, their travels, and how much they admired the gallery’s collection. They were down-to-earth and engaging, making it easy to forget their global superstar status.

As the evening went on, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for this chance encounter. It was a small world, and somehow, it had brought us together in the most unexpected way.

And though I didn’t mention it, part of me couldn’t help but wonder if Jungkook knew I was here—and if he’d be surprised to hear that his bandmates had met me.

The next morning arrived early, and I slipped into a sharp yet understated outfit, mentally preparing for a meeting with an important client. As an interior designer, I was no stranger to luxurious venues like this—today’s meeting was set at a high-end hotel in the heart of England, its elegance both comforting and inspiring. I arrived at the restaurant and found a quiet corner by the window, taking a moment to soak in the surroundings as I waited.

A few minutes passed before my phone buzzed.

“Miss Y/N, I’m terribly sorry, but something urgent came up, and we’re running about 15 minutes late. I sincerely apologize for the delay,” the client’s voice said apologetically.

“No worries at all,” I replied, offering a reassuring smile even though the slight setback was inconvenient. “I’ll be waiting here..”

As I hung up, I let out a soft sigh and decided to sip some water while observing the restaurant’s refined decor. It wasn’t long before my eyes inadvertently landed on a familiar figure entering the space.

It was the guy yesterday, Kim Taehyung.

My heart skipped a beat as I froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. Should I acknowledge him, or pretend I hadn’t noticed him altogether? Just as I was wrestling with the decision, his eyes met mine. A warm, effortless smile spread across his face, and my uncertainty faded.

“Y/N!” he greeted me with an enthusiastic tone, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room. He made his way over to my table, exuding an easy charm.

I stood to return his greeting, surprised but pleased by the encounter. “Hello, Taehyung. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I,” he laughed, the sound rich with amusement. “Are you dining here?”

“Not exactly,” I explained, gesturing to the empty seat across from me. “I’m here for a meeting, but my client’s running late.”

Before I could say more, two other men appeared beside him, and my breath caught in my chest as recognition hit me. Taehyung’s grin widened as he turned to introduce me. “This,” he said with a note of pride in his voice, “is the Korean artist Namjoon and I were talking about yesterday.”

Jimin’s eyes flickered with surprise, and he immediately extended a hand. “Ah, the one with the abstract painting,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Park Jimin.”

Yoongi, always calm and composed, offered a polite nod before introducing himself. “And I’m Yoongi. It’s great to meet you.”

I bowed slightly in return, my heart racing at the unexpected encounter. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Namjoon soon appeared, his face lighting up when he saw me. “Y/N! I didn’t expect to run into you so soon.”

“Neither did I,” I replied with a light laugh, still processing the serendipity of the situation. “What brings all of you here?”

“Oh, just a day off,” Namjoon said nonchalantly. “We’re staying here for a bit of downtime before our next event.”

As I glanced around, I noticed a few other figures lingering nearby, probably managers or assistants. My attention shifted again as the door opened, and another familiar face walked in.

It was him.

Jeon Jungkook.

My heart skipped again, and for a brief moment, everything around me seemed to blur.

His eyes widened the instant they landed on me, and time seemed to slow. For a moment, the bustling noise of the room faded into nothing, leaving just the two of us in this strange, suspended silence. His surprise was impossible to miss—his mouth slightly parted, his steps faltering before he quickly closed the distance between us.

“Y/N?” His voice was soft, edged with disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite believe I was standing there.

“Jungkook,” I said, the corners of my mouth lifting in a smile. “It’s been a while.”

He nodded, his expression still one of shock, the reality of the moment settling in. “Yeah… it really has.”

“Wait,” Jimin said, glancing back and forth between us with curiosity. “You two know each other?”

“She... she's my childhood friend,” Jungkook replied casually, though his eyes betrayed something deeper—a mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite place.

“Ohhh.. Hi! I am J-hope or call me Hoseok,” another man chimed in, having appeared beside them unnoticed. He glanced at me with an intrigued smile. “What’s your name again?”

“It’s Y/N,” I answered, offering a polite smile.

Jimin’s brow furrowed slightly, as though trying to place something. “Y/N?” He repeated the name thoughtfully, then turned to Jungkook, his voice lowering. “Isn’t she the one you—”

“Hyung,” Jungkook interjected sharply, his eyes wide with alarm, silently warning Jimin to stop.

Taehyung, sensing the shift in energy, tilted his head in confusion. “The girl he what?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook said quickly, his voice firm but his ears now pink with embarrassment.

I felt a wave of curiosity wash over me. What were they talking about? Was Jungkook mentioning me to his bandmates? The thought made my heart flutter in a way I didn’t fully understand.

Despite the tension, the conversation soon shifted to lighter topics. The members were as warm and engaging as I had imagined, making it easy to forget for a moment the weight of who they were. It felt almost surreal—sitting among them, talking as though we were old friends.

Yet, as I laughed and exchanged stories with them, a quiet question lingered in my mind: What was Jungkook hiding?

When my client finally arrived, I excused myself, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in my chest. “I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, but my client is here,” I said, bowing slightly.

“Of course,” Namjoon said with a friendly smile.

“Good luck with your meeting,” Taehyung winked, making Jungkook glare playfully at him.

I made my way to another table with my client, not too far from theirs. As we discussed the project, I couldn’t help but feel a pair of eyes on me. I glanced subtly to the side, and there he was—Jungkook, watching me with a look that I couldn’t quite decipher.

Back at their table, the other members noticed his distraction.

“You can’t stop staring, can you?” Jimin teased, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered, but his gaze kept flicking back to me.

“So, Y/N is the one you’ve been talking about, huh?” Taehyung added, leaning back in his chair, a knowing smile on his face.

“Shut up,” Jungkook repeated, his voice firmer now, though his red ears betrayed his embarrassment.

The teasing continued. “This might be a sign, Jungkook,” Jimin said with a sage nod. “Make your move now.”

“I don’t know,” Jungkook replied quietly, his voice laced with uncertainty. “What if… what if she already has a boyfriend? That guy could be her boyfriend for all I know.”

The group erupted into laughter.

“Her client?” Taehyung raised an eyebrow. “She literally said it was a meeting.”

Jungkook still frowned, unconvinced. “Did she say what her job is?”

Taehyung shrugged. “No, but she said it was work-related.”

Minutes passed, and Jungkook’s eyes never left me, his curiosity clearly building. When the meeting ended, my client laughed at something I said, and we exchanged a brief handshake and a professional hug.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched at the sight.

Taehyung leaned in closer to him, grinning mischievously. “If you don’t make a move soon, I will.”

Jungkook shot him a warning glare. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m just saying,” Taehyung replied, clearly enjoying Jungkook’s frustration.

I stood up, preparing to leave, and waved toward their table. Taehyung seized the moment. “Y/N!” he called out. “By the way, what do you do for work?”

“I’m an interior designer,” I replied, walking closer to them.

“Perfect timing,” Jimin said, his eyes lighting up. “I know someone who’s looking for an interior designer.”

“Oh? Who?” I asked, intrigued.

Jimin pointed directly at Jungkook, whose glare could’ve cut glass.

“What?” I said, turning toward Jungkook in surprise.

“He’s just teasing,” Jungkook said quickly, his face flushing red.

I smiled politely. “Well, if you do need help, I can do online consultations.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a business card, handing it to Jimin, who passed it to Jungkook with a cheeky grin.

“Thank you,” Jungkook said, his voice soft and awkward as he tucked the card into his pocket.

“I should go now,” I said, bowing slightly. “It was nice seeing all of you again.”

As I turned to leave, Jungkook suddenly stood up. Jimin leaned toward him, whispering, “Make a move. Ask her out tomorrow.”

Clearing his throat, Jungkook followed me toward the restaurant entrance. “Y/N, wait.”

I stopped and turned, surprised. “Yes?”

He hesitated for a moment, then looked at me, his expression soft but determined. “I just wanted to apologize for my members. They can be… a bit much sometimes.”

I laughed lightly. “It’s okay. They’re fun to be around.”

There was a brief pause before he asked, his voice lower now, “How long are you staying in London?”

“I have one more day before I head back,” I answered.

Without missing a beat, he asked, “Would you like to hang out tomorrow morning? Maybe grab coffee or something?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Are you sure? Don’t you need to be cautious?”

He smiled slightly, shaking his head. “I don’t care. I’d really like to catch up with you.”

His sincerity made my heart race. After a moment, I nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

“Great,” he said, his smile widening. “I’ll text you the details tonight.”

“Alright,” I said, my mind still spinning as I walked out of the restaurant, a smile tugging at my lips.

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but feel the fluttering in my chest, wondering what tomorrow would bring. When I returned to my hotel, I set my things down and slipped into something more comfortable. The day had been a whirlwind, and my mind was still buzzing from the unexpected encounter with Jungkook and his bandmates.

As I settled into bed, ready to unwind, my phone buzzed. It was a message from an unknown number.

Unknown number: Knock knock.

I smirked, playing along.

You: Who’s there?

Unknown number: Orange.

You: Orange who?

Unknown number: Orange you glad I’m texting you?

You: I didn’t laugh, Jungkook.

Unknown number: ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ How did you know it was me?

You: You’re the only one I gave my card to.

Unknown number: Glad to know that.

I couldn’t suppress a smile as I rolled my eyes. The playful side of him hadn’t changed in the slightest, and it felt strangely comforting to see that after all these years.

Jungkook: Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re still up for tomorrow.

You: I didn’t change my mind. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.

Jungkook: Good. Let’s meet at the café near my hotel. I'll send you the location?

You: What time?

Jungkook: How about 10 a.m.?

You: Sounds perfect.

Jungkook: Great. Looking forward to it.

You: Same here. Goodnight, Jungkook.

Jungkook: Goodnight, Y/N.

I put my phone down, but my heart kept racing. The conversation, so easy and effortless, replayed in my mind over and over. His familiar tone, the lighthearted teasing—it all felt so natural, like no time had passed at all.

Am I dreaming? I thought with a soft smile on my face. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

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#jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook scenarios #jungkook idol au #jungkook fanfic #idolverse #jungkook and reader

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