#corroded tooth

[eddiernunson]

Ice Cream, Bikinis, and Other Ways To Torture Him | Older Rockstar!Eddie x Harrington Fem!Reader | 18+

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Summary: The stories of Eddie Munson, front man of Corroded Coffin and his music filled the Harrington household, his albums on shelves and picture frames hung of your dad and him, young and dumb. You’re home for the weekend, which just so happens to be the same weekend Eddie is in Hawkins on a personal errand. The longtime crush on him bubbles to the surface as you meet him, giving into the temptation of small summer dresses and bubblegum gloss for the fun of it. Until your dad is called in to an emergency work meeting. Then the fun of torture becomes temptation.

Warnings: Older Rockstar!Eddie, Harrington!Reader (Steve’s daughter), multichapter build up, excessive use of nicknames, no use of y/n, use of marijuana, perv!Eddie, this chapter has some forced proximity, tension and uh oh feelings.

Describes: long hair, shorter than Eddie by a few inches, reader is described to look like her mom (can be ANY race) with Steve’s freckles. No skin colour, body shape/type

Word Count: 3.7k (it’s the shortest one, I promise I’m so sorry 😭)

Chapter 2

The first thing you did when you got into Eddie Munson’s little red corvette was peel the window open, claiming you had just needed some fresh air. It was true, as his scent had choked you as soon as you sat down on the dark gray leather seats. It’s strangely intoxicating, an odd mix of smoke, woodsy, and pure man that has you wanting to take a big whiff like some little pervert.

Strangely even from the window of a rockstar’s corvette the little town looked no more glamorous than it did from your beat up car, the small town feel of it all suffocating as you fill with gratitude you managed to get out. He finally pulls in front of a three story apartment, white walls and balconies so small they make you claustrophobic.

“Uh, how are we supposed to fill this small car with all your uncle’s stuff?” You ask, peering into the backseat as you undo your seatbelt.

He smiles, his eyes momentarily switching between the backseat of the two door car and you. “My van is in the resident’s parking lot, it should have plenty of room to move stuff over.”

“So, donation, your place and your uncle’s place, I’m guessing?” You ask, walking a step behind him to the front door of the building.

“Pretty much. It just comes down to going through it which I know, will be a fucking pain.” He reaches your eyes, giving you a small smile. “Thanks for coming.”

You didn’t have much of a choice.

“Not that you had much of a choice,” he adds as he opens the apartment door, a small bout of laughter filling the halls.

Okay, that was weird.

His uncle lived on the first floor in the corner room in a furnished spot, so all it came down to were the knicknacks he had collected over the years. You didn’t think that’d be so bad until you walked in, your eyes landing on wall to wall collections of mugs and hats and other tiny sentimental things.

“Pretty sure we’re going to end up donating most of the mugs, he doesn’t use them anyway, it’s the hats he’s been fighting tooth and nail for,” he rolls his eyes, grabbing a moving box you haven’t noticed from a stack in a pile against the wall.

“How’d those get here?”

“My assistant brought them with the van,” he explains, setting the box up. “He’s hanging out around town until we pack the van up.”

“Must be nice to have an assistant to take care of that shit,” you muse, your voice only the teeniest bit bitter about it.

He passes you the box, his shoulders shaking in laughter. “I’m aware it sounds pretentious. I only hired him when I kept losing track of which fucking thing I had to do next. Interview, show, interview, photo shoot…it was fucking never ending at times. Sometimes I needed a reminder to fucking eat.”

You grab the box from him, ignoring the twinge in your gut as you walk up to a bookshelf in the corner of the small living room containing many little things. You know time is of the essence, but you can’t help yourself, leaning over to analyze the display his uncle had created. There’s a photo in the center in a simple wooden frame, a gruff older man who you supposed would be Wayne standing arm in arm with Eddie, a much younger, freer Eddie, at least, standing outside in front of a forest area.

Eddie has his hand on his hip, squinting his eyes against the sun with his uncle's arm wrapped around his shoulder. If you’d looked closer, you’d see their reddened faces, blotchy from tears shed but both gritting their teeth for the picture.

“That was the day I left for LA,” you jump at his voice, holding your chest tightly as you turn to look around to face him.

He’s still across the apartment, wrapping the mugs and storing them in a tupperware box. “I have never seen him cry like that in my life. I was scared shitless.”

You avoid his stare, the starry eyed version of him something you’re not quite used to, something stirs deep in your gut that you find oddly unsettling.

In an attempt to ignore it you look closer at the knick knacks surrounding it, suddenly realizing it was just Corroded Coffin merch, tickets, and even demos. “These would be worth a pretty penny,” you turn over the tape in your hand, imagining a rough draft of Eddie’s untuned, inexperienced vocals. “To you, they must be priceless.”

“I could release them if I’d really wanted to, but the songs suck and my voice was even worse,” Eddie shrugs, still moving mugs into their different boxes. You notice how much fuller the one on the left is, Eddie making actual progress in comparison to your dilly-dallied snooping.

“I bet Wayne still wants this.” You sigh, placing the memorabilia gently in the cardboard box, admiring the faded ink from ticket stubs over twenty years ago. The following shelf had a full row of dark fantasy novels, every spine cracked to oblivion with yellowed crinkled pages. “Do you want these?”

Eddie looks over, absentmindedly wrapping a mug when he double, triple takes, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas. “Oh I thought he threw those away!”

Suddenly the scent of his cologne invades your nose again as he leans right next to you, grabbing at one of the books on the shelf with a giddy grin. “I used to reread these all the time.”

“Princesses needing rescuing in some odd faraway land?” You tease, turning the dark green book over in your hand.

“Usually with some kind of twist,” he hums, analyzing the back of his paperback as he squats his ass an inch over the floor. “Dragons being in cahoots, noble knights acting selfishly, evil kings turning out to be righteously good… there was always some sort of twist,” his narration turned dramatic as the sentence moved on, a story teller’s voice.

It reminded you of one specific fun fact. “Uncle Dustin said you were his dungeon master in high school, were these any inspiration?”

Eddie’s brows furrow deeply, jerking his head as swivels sharply upward. “Somehow it’d slipped my mind that you would know Dust.”

You nod absentmindedly, taking in the fantastical names in the description. Lysandra the princess, Eletha the fae, King Alistair… “Unfortunately.”

“Hmm,” he peeps, fluttering through the pages. “Aah, Sorceress Nyrinn teaching Lysandra basic magic, this takes me back.”

You smile down at him, how his dimples are deeply embedded in his cheeks and his front canines peek from behind that wide grin as he skims through his harlequin equivalent chock full of fantasy and adventure.

“Any of these girls you’ve ever fantasized about rescuing?” You tease him, starting to toss the books in a box labeled Eddie Home. He remains silent, even a pink tinge dusting his ears. “I was joking, sire.”

“Just keep packing,” he grumbles, tossing the book carelessly into your very organized box. “I’m gonna go take a quick smoke break.”

You find yourself fallen into an easy pattern, having figured out what Eddie’s looking to keep very early on. He’s even willing to go through the boxes that have been long stored at Wayne’s apartment, insisting they don’t need any dead weight, not in Wayne’s small sized room, and not lugged across a few state lines back in LA.

One of the boxes stored in Wayne’s closet seems like it was just thrown together until you realize they were all belongings of a teenage boy. A soft smile graces your face as you imagine Wayne unable to part with the little part of seventeen year old Eddie he still had with him, even if it’s his messy room thrown into a box.

You pick up a small shoe box, the items clunkily jumping about when you shake it. It’s only logical that the box should hold a few dozen player’s dice and painted figurines. The box’s heavy weight is largely contributed to by the worn out and outdated version of the player’s manual.

You take note of the sticky notes curled and faded peeking out of the pages, messy scrawl noting a page Eddie must’ve used for referral once or twice.

One set of dice had a familiar red and plank pattern, painted to look like his prized guitar. You smooth your thumb along the ridged paint, putting the box aside for Eddie despite the protests he will so obviously yelp out.

He deserves to be a bit more forgiving of that side of himself.

There were a handful of items you picked up and put aside for donation, a few old music tapes, a guitar string placement poster, until something catches your eye; a well loved classified notebook.

Now, you might’ve been wrong, but you always had the feeling that Eddie wasn’t too interested in his school work, all items from his locker having been tossed in the garbage the moment the last bell rang each year. As you tentatively open the book, you realize it was probably the one thing that kept him going back.

Each lined paper was filled with his messy scrawl, an intriguing combination of cursive and print, extensively detailed plans for his run as, so Dustin called him, a vindictive and tyrannical dungeon master. Across the scrawl were doodles, well shaded pencil drawings of creatures and classes alike. One page caught your eye towards the end, a full page of scattered doodles that seemed eerily familiar to you.

“Wow.” You look up to face Eddie leaned against the door frame with his arms across his chest, his eyes trained on the notebook in your hands. “I haven’t seen that in a while.”

You glance back down to the page and its doodles, still trying to make sense of where you could’ve seen it. As if plucked out of thin air, a song starts playing in your head and it clicks. “Hey you used these doodles on an album cover.”

He nods, watching your hands gently touch the graphite on the paper. “You could totally donate these to a rock and roll museum; they'd think it's dope.”

Eddie shakes his head, as if the idea was ridiculous. “No one wants to see my ratty old notebook filled with my dateless evenings. There’s not even a single lyric in there.”

“But this is on one of your albums, isn’t it?”

He nods, smiling softly at the abstract doodles before glancing up to you. “I don’t want it, I would never look at it. Take it, if you want.”

You were already tempted to steal it, the notebook having a scent that’s so specifically Eddie with an added elixir of teenage boy added to the mix making maybe your one true Kryptonite. “Whaaaaat? Why would I take it?”

“Steve said you’re a fan of our music, yeah?” You nod meekly, still tracing the graphite. “Well if not, it's going in the trash.”

You put it in your purse.

Since your father left that morning, so did the tether that kept your head on straight, any lingering ideas kept at bay as you kept a safe distance. It was gone.

Keeping a safe distance as an act of self discipline all but seemed moot when your dad offered your services, now stuck in a tiny apartment working around Eddie as his gentle voice hums to the music blasting through his phone.

Maybe a dress isn’t the best choice to wear for manual labor such as packing and moving boxes, the length obviously not long enough to cover the bright underwear. Maybe it's the little allowance you give yourself to indulge in defiance against your own rule. Regardless, it was safer to stay as far away as possible.

Fate proves herself to be a cruel mistress as you find yourself on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab something on a shelf you wondered why someone elderly had a shelf stored so high on the wall, and you smelt him before you felt him, reaching to the shelf’s level to grab it for you.

“Why the hell did he have a shelf this fuckin’ high for?” He huffs, tossing the hidden box onto the bed.

He steps away as fast as he came, leaving the room with a few boxes you had packed and ready. The moment clouds your brain, his strong torso completely against your back, his hot breath on your neck as he stepped away. What the hell?

Your heart pitter patters, your whole body frazzled while you put a few more boxes by the door.

As you’re leaning down to pick up another box you hear Eddie swear loudly down the hall in disgust. He uses the lord’s name in vain several times, rubbing his hand on his pants as his face twists up in utter revulsion when you peek out to see the culprit.

“Somethin’ gross? I don’t see anything wrong with this picture,” you comment, looking around his setting for what might have set him off.

“Don’t–” his hands fly up to prevent you from taking another step. His overly wide eyes and panicked state would usually have you laughing if you weren’t so curious to what could possibly send him into this frantic state of disgust. “You don’t want to know, trust me.”

“Now I really do want to know,” you insist, still scanning the room.

“No. You don’t.” He shakes his head solemnly, his foot slowly shuffling slightly to his left. “Seriously.”

“Can I at least have a hint?” You plead, knowing the possibilities will drive you crazy all day.

“I just found a box of my old clothes,” Eddie starts, gesturing to a kaleidoscope of different shades of black with an occasional band font, unfolded as if thrown in a hurry.

He obviously is hinting towards something, but you need some more exposition. “...Ok?”

Eddie pauses to think, hands on his hips as he racks his brain for something. “Think of it this way. Think of the one item of clothing you don’t want to find under a teenage boy’s bed, twenty years later. Especially twenty years later.” He shudders again.

The one thing…oh. “Oh my god,” you giggle, hiding your obvious glee over his disgust behind your hand. “A…sock?”

Eddie nods slowly, nodding his head in what must be mortification. “Uh huh. I am burning this whole bucket of clothes that just–” he shudders, his left foot inching towards where you had to now guess what must be an absolutely petrified cum-sock lies, “marinated in it.”

A bout of laughter passes through your lips again, disguising the odd intrigue you found yourself in. You might be more perverted than even you initially realized.

No, put away the thought of inhaling in the 20-year-old musk–

“Hey, do you mind helping me with this box? It’s ridiculously heavy,” Eddie gestures down the hall to a tote seemingly filled to the brim with random shit, the sock supposedly tossed into the garbage by then.

“No problem.”

“You want me to walk backward?” He offers, reaching your eyes as you both bend over to grab at the awkward edges.

“Yeah that’d be great,” You cough, failing to ignore the cigarette on his breath just barely disguised by the mint.

Step by step you help him around the corners until you help lift the box into his van, refusing to allow yourself more than a singular moment lingering on how his arms bulge through the lift.

Wayne had a bedside table he hadn’t gone through, filled with momentums over the years. You grab one of the smaller boxes from the living room to hold them, wanting to take care of the things that Wayne had cared for. There were a few photos, Eddie in scattered years from an angsty teenager to a rowdy kid with a missing front tooth. It was obvious everything in his bedside would be moved back to Wayne, allowing him his precious memories of the boy he cared for.

Allotted between the table and the bed is a photo album, something you suspect is cover to cover filled with more photos until you get the glimpse of a brightly coloured pape, just a millisecond but enough to peak your curiosity.

By the second page you’re in tears, softly sniffling at messy scribblings with silly puns and elaborate doodles.

“Hey, when you get a sec–” Eddie stops mid-sentence, taking you in on the bare bed as you weepily turn a page. “You okay?”

“Oh,” you wipe away the tear that was shed, embarrassed. “I’m fine. It’s just— it’s so obvious he went through this a lot, some pages are worn out.”

“Let’s see,” he holds his hand out for the photo album, a drop of weight on the bed as he peers shoulder to shoulder with you as he reads over the pages in front of you. “Oh, wow.”

You put the book in his outstretched hands, watching his expression turn misty as well. The deceitful photo album is an album of father’s day cards, about twenty of them all lined in a row with Eddie’s well wishes in each one.

“I started sending them when I was 25,” he mumbles, his voice wet as he turns a page. “I figured since he raised me n’ all, he deserved the title and the recognition.”

“Seems like he felt honored,” you comment, watching page by page.

“I picked these cards out in less than a second but he puts them in a pressed fucking photo album,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Wayne is ridiculous. But he’s always been my biggest supporter.”

Impulsively, you nudge your chin on his shoulder affectionately, watching him flip through the last through the final few pages. You wondered if his vulnerability making you even crazier for him would be an isolated incident.

God sure had a sick sense of humor when he tied emotion and lust for women.

Turns out, you two work remarkably well together because by the time Eddie places the photo album in the box with a not so subtle sniffle, Wayne’s room, kitchen, and livingroom are all packed up and ready for distribution. The things going home with Eddie and to Wayne’s room are in the van stacked like tetris with your very ‘helpful’ commentary and the donations are piled up by the front door waiting for their collection.

The little red corvette has been sitting in the hot sun for a few hours by the time you’re back into it, ready for a night off your feet.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Eddie comments, taking a turn away from your house.

Your stomach growls at the mention of food, still only two slices of toast being the one thing used to sustain your appetite for the day. “I could definitely eat.”

“Good, I need to thank you for your help.”

You avoid his intense gaze from the corner of your eye, staring holes into your thighs. “It was nothing–”

“What’s your favourite spot in town?” Eddie seems to be ignoring your protests, meeting them with an exaggerated huff as if you were acting foolish.

“I don’t mind if you take me to the nearest one, Munson. I’m starving,” you insist, laughing at the manic shaking of his head.

“I’m not taking you anywhere except your favorite spot,” Eddie insists right back, without missing a beat.

No wonder he and Steve had managed to stay friends for so long, he matches your stubbornness step for step.

“Fine! Take me to Miss.Tina’s I haven’t had their burgers since I’ve been back,” you think back to their fully stacked burgers paired with their crinkle fries drizzled in mustard. You still haven’t been able to find a burger from a local restaurant near your campus that even rivals Miss.Tina’s recipe.

“Oh, I know you’re fucking with me,” Eddie laughs, taking the left turn at the traffic lights.

“Nope,” you inform him, shaking your head slowly. “It’s always been my favourite place in town.”

“Well call that dumb luck, because it’s my fuckin’ favourite place, too.”

“I take it back.”

You laugh at his deadpan, noting the new decor around the walls since the last time you’ve seen it.

“It’s not that bad.” It is, you’re just hoping he doesn’t leave because of the change.

“Are you shitting me?” Eddie deadpans, glancing around to the updated insides now turned into a hollow husk of a restaurant. At least, it certainly felt like the funeral march of your once beloved restaurant. “It’s a horrendous study in interior design. Who the hell paints the inside of a restaurant bright orange?”

“Ok, it’s that bad, but I just need a damn good burger.” You lead the way into the line, noting their updating point of sale. Last time you were there the employee had still been using a notepad, this time an iPad had been stationed on a stand.

The employee now wears some updated uniform barring the design, a bright smile on her face as she greets the two of you. Definitely not the deadened stare you were used to.

The mustard packet you received was a third of the size of what they used to be. It seems Miss.Tina’s has finally met empty corporate capitalism.

The decor might’ve changed, but the recipes remain as always untouched, a collective groan in satisfaction in your first bites in the tacky booth confirmation that Miss.Tina’s still fucks.

“If they change their recipe they are so screwed,” Eddie says exactly what you’re thinking between bites, wiping his face from the sauces that splatters his lips. As he wipes it off, you start to think of making out with him in the booth and lapping up and cleaning his messy face for him. Some real good messy make outs.

You nod, taking a sip from the large soda that must be at least 5 ounces smaller. “Oh, they’d shut down within the week.”

“This was one of the only few places where every group in Hawkins High could be seen, because they didn’t care when we loitered and Miss.Tina treated us like her own.” Eddie glances upward at a sign right by the table, NO LOITERING.

“That’s kind of really depressing,” you sigh, munching on your fry through a fucking wooden fork. “I am not sure I want these fries lathered in mustard enough to also add the taste of wood to it.”

“Plenty of wood has been tasted in these walls before,” Eddie smirks, raising his pierced brow when you choke on the following fry.

It’s like he prides himself on how he manages to make your brain short circuit so easily. Thankfully, years of being raised in the Harrington household has trained a keen sense of wit into you. “Judging on those princess books, Munson,” you take another sip, letting the beginning of your sentence settle in, “doesn’t seem like yours was one of them.”

The fry that bounced off your forehead the moment after was worth it, and the rosy pink that bloomed across his cheeks was even more so.

-

I have 99% done at this point I’m so excited for y’all to read it!!!

Main taglist: @arlxt @alastorssimp @mmunson86 @pinkcowracing @yourthebrokengirl @skrzydlak @thirddeadlysin @sammararaven @bebe07011 @prettylovley @josephquinnschesthair @forget-you-morelike-fuck-you @names-were-taken @oddussy420

Taglist for Ice Cream, Bikinis, and Other Ways To Torture Him: @emxxblog @transparentenemypenguin @stylesxmunson @ali-r3n @mediocredreams @miaajaade @dreamerjj @prestinalove @pretty-pink-princess @alesiaaa @moonisu @love-anonymous-writer @marlena-marlena @bl1ssfulbaby @kellsck @rockmusiciscalming12 @eddie-munsonsbitch

[peachesofteal]

The Lethe

An Ichor Veil masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 7.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Greek mythology au, modern retelling. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Smut, M/M/F, loss of virginity. Praise kink. Breath play. Pain play. Feelings of fear, jealousy, and anxiety. Mention of abuse by reader's mother.

The next morning, you wake alone.

You lay alone too, dread swirling in the cosmos, a thick, uneasy tension swooping over the palace where you linger, the protracted creep of corroded hanging moss, a thick curtain of dying green.

Memory is sharp. It’s fickle. It has a hold on you, your mind, your body, and your legs shift restlessly in bed, thighs pressing together.

Cerberus snores on the rug in front of the fireplace, lean and lissome and stretched long.

They open their eyes as soon as your feet touch the floor, shaking off their stupor and trotting over to rest all three heads on top of your thigh.

Pet me.

How could you say no?

“I really have to use the bathroom.” You whisper after giving each ear a good scratch, stretching tall, bones and muscle all stringent, but not sore. Almost nothing feels tender, you realize, and when you inspect yourself in the bathroom mirror, there’s no evidence of last night.

No raw, punished skin.

No puncture wounds.

You’re relieved, the impending doom-like feeling that plagued you the moment you opened eyes lessens, and-

A small shard of disappointment settles in its place.

Did you desire to wear their mark? To have them on your skin, by choice?

Your back is an ugly crisscross of fine golden lines, all remnants of the Whip.

These, you did not choose. These, you do not wear proudly, or at all. You hide them. You’d rip them from your skin if you could. Pull them out from tip to tail, scratch yourself raw.

You’ve already tried. 

Your fingers find the faintest remnant of last night, a small dip in your skin the circumference of a tooth. Everything comes flooding back, the sting of your palm against the John’s cheek, the indulgent dig of the cuffs in your wrists.

They stole you. 

Do you care? 

You expect to feel more unsettled. More enraged, but it only trickles through like a summer’s spring, barely bubbling up through cracks in the earth. You feel betrayed by their thievery of you, but something else lurks beneath the surface, something soft and beautiful, threatening to drag you in with it.

It’s dangerous here, but not in the way you were expecting.

Maybe it is the separation from the wildest part of your being that has cooled your temperament, somewhat.

Only somewhat. 

After all, you did hit John in a fit of rage, did you not? 

A loud knock rattles the door. Cerberus whines.

“My lady.” A Naiad stands on the threshold of the room, your room, you suppose, her black clothes, nearly white hair both ethereally sleek, hands clasped in front of her waist.

“Um…”

“Your presence has been requested, if you are…” she pauses, delicately, jaw tilting with a shadow, eyes narrowing into slits. “Awake.” She sweeps over you, performing an inspection for something from head to toe, and you find yourself studying her ears, their needle pointed tips accentuated by such symmetrical bone structure, she nearly looks like a cat.

She regards you like one too. Aloof. Holier than thou.

Bitchy.

“I am.”

“Wonderful.” But it doesn’t feel wonderful, the word overflowing with acid. Who is this female? 

“I’m sorry, who…”

“I am Minthe, my lady.” Why is everyone calling you that? All the time? You frown.

“Like the plant?” Cerberus shifts at your side, rising on their haunches just so, and she glares at them.

“Yes, my lady. Like the… plant, as you say.” Her teeth shine into a smile, forced and uncomfortable.

Something is wrong here. 

“Will you be joining us, or shall I inform them you deign to continue resting?” Us? 

“No, I’m well rested, thank you.” She inclines her head, graceful movement elongating her already supple neck. You study her, cataloging her razor-sharp fingernails, polished heels, chin length bob. She seems like an assistant of sorts, heavy black book tucked under arm.

“Very well. I will wait for you here.”

“My Kings. The lady Persephone.” Gross. Minthe announces you, stepping to the side to allow you entrance from behind, the removal of her in your path revealing a large office, two dark stained wood desks with two very handsome gods seated behind them. Bookshelves blanket the walls, and in the middle of the room, a magic made map of the cosmos glows, gold and blue light dancing across the black marble floor. There’s a giant leather armchair in the corner, wide enough for two, and a soft blanket folded over the back. It’s cozy, homey, a welcome surprise.

Your body aches. Desire simmers in the bottom of the stomach, skin prickling with a shiver.

How is it two beings you hardly know are so capable of making you so crazy? 

“Darling.” John croons, rising from his chair. There’s a sharp intake of breath to your side, barely audible, stifled. “How did ye sleep?” He’s close now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him, if you were so bold.

A magnet draws you closer. 

A collar. A leash. 

Hades holding the end of it. 

“Fine, thank you.”

“That will be all, thank you Minthe.” Simon dismisses her, still focused on you. She steps away in silence, and when the door clicks closed- John is on you.

He presses close, arm snug at the small of your back, forehead dipping down to rest gently against yours.

“Sweet Persephone.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. “Are ye well?”

“Yes.” You breathe. You welcome his touch, this affection, and it feeds a sapling, roots trying to take hold, trying to survive. To grow. To bloom.

His lips lay above your brow, long kiss freezing into a slow moment, and Simon watches with a satisfied smile, a loving glance exchanged between the two as John pulls away. “Have ye eaten?”

“No, she, Mint, brought me right here.” He holds a laugh at bay. “Who is she, anyway?”

“Minthe was once our consort, now she works as an assistant of sorts.” Simon says the slowly, and the room darkens, shadows building in the corners, flooding the cracks and crevices of the bookshelves.

Well, that explains just about everything, then.

“Your consort.”

“Aye. But ye dinnae have to worry, we’ve not been with her in quite some time. We’ve been waitin’ for-“

“Johnny.” Simon stands, moving into your space. It’s only his name, and still so much more is communicated within those two syllables.

Waiting for what? 

“Would you like breakfast?” He’s smooth with the disruption, steering and redirecting the train of thought.

“We hoped ye would want to take breakfast in here, with us.” John explains softly, and you nod. A simple request.  

“Sure.” You pause, considering. “Could I…” Would they still have them? Is it rude to ask? You’re not quite sure how it works. Is there a kitchen?

“You can have whatever you like, darling.” Simon encourages.

“Portokalopita?” Johnny chuckles, tugging you a little closer, mouth to your temple.

“Of course.”

The orange cakes arrive with a fragrant pot of coffee and some Greek yogurt, slivered almonds on the side. Your usual breakfast. You blink, suspicious for a half second before remembering-

“Why were you watching me?” Simon tenses. “I mean, it’s obvious, now, that meeting John outside of Hebe’s was not coincidental, was it?”

“It was not.” You tuck your feet up into the chair, shifting on your side with a steaming cup in your lap. “We have been… curious about you.” Your blood runs cold. The marks on your back begin to sting, a phantom pain you know does not exist, but still plagues you. Hurts you.

“Curious.” You croak. “Why?”

“We have heard stories. It is rare that we find ourselves so… fascinated by one who dwells in Olympus. John and I, we felt… a desire, to learn what we could.” John smiles, turning fully to face you, reaching for one of your hands.

You do not give it. You’re uneasy, like there’s a direness lurking in the darkness of the room, waiting to pounce. It’s an overwhelming inclination of trepidation, of misanthropy… much like the rivers spilling from this land.

“So, you spied on me.”

“We did.”

“And… you don’t see an issue with that?”

“I… understand how this may be unsettling to you.” Unsettling? More like a set up? 

“I don’t…” You sip your coffee, trying to pick through a smattering of words. You must choose them carefully, you’ve come to realize, to get answers. “I don’t understand, why go to such great lengths? There are dozens of other goddesses, more beautiful, more composed, more worthy of your attention than… me.” You, Demeter’s daughter. Demeter’s failure. You, the goddess who rarely leaves her temple, the one who does not engage in socialite events or associate with the more powerful Golden ones in the city.

You, who talks to plants.

“I mean, look at Hebe, or Artemis, one of the Pleiades, they’re all-“

“No.” Simon cuts to the quick. “We do not care for other goddesses, sweet Persephone. We only care for you.” An undercurrent of power ripples, shuddering between the three of you. “Our affection, our care… is only true for you.”

“Me.” Because they do not know you. If they did, the affection would certainly wane. How long would it be, before Minthe was warming their bed once more? 

“You, darling. It’s why we brought you here. To know you, as you are. Not as your mother intended, or how chatter portrays.” You look between them, slow eyes finding solemn faces, dogmatic in their assurance. “We had hope you might… enjoy our company, as we believed we would enjoy yours.” John shifts. It’s a fractured movement, barely perceived, but unsettled, and he cocks his head afterwards, gaze thick and focused on you.

“I told ye, we’d never hurt ye.”

“I know.” You whisper. You believe it now, to an extent. A pool of guilt tugs you into its current, an apology bubbling up over your tongue. “I’m sorry… about… striking you, last night. It was unbecoming of me.”

“I know ye are.” He soothes, and Simon interjects.

“The next time you feel an overwhelming urge like that, you tell us. We’ll take care of you.” His smile drips with a predatory gleam, and you’re suddenly inside a memory, the feeling of ichor sliding over your skin, spilling down around your fluttering rim, his finger pushing inside your body where you’ve never been touched by another. His mouth, covered in it. Golden lifeblood smeared across his lips, John’s cum spilling down your throat, molten earth, burning you anew.

What started it all? The idea that they locked your magic away? That they took you? 

That they trapped you. 

“I felt…” You tap over your heart, signifying the part of you that’s missing, and he nods in acknowledgement.

“I understand. It’s a difficult thing, we’ve asked of you, and you’ve done so well.” Your hands tremble, fighting the urge to preen like a raven beneath the praise.

It encourages you. Urges you to talk, spill secrets, let go of weights holding you at the bottom of the sea, where you cannot breathe.

“My- my mother. She used to do something similar. When she felt like I was out of control. When I became… too much. It’s a familiar feeling.” They exchange a long glance, and then John kneels, a hand on your knee, the other stroking deft circles into your thigh.

“Persephone. The scars,” Your eyes slam shut. “on yer back. They were made with a magical object. Did Demeter do that?” He demands, and you inch away, trying to create space, trying to escape this- this conversation, this vivisection.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You whisper. “Please.” His eyes are so blue. Like the Aegean, a venetian, crystalline color that deepens when he frowns, his emotions worn so plainly for both you and Simon to see. He’s distressed, like he wants to scoop you up, carry you away. They’re both staring at you with… pity. “Do not pity me.” You snarl, hackles rising.

“It is not pity you see, darling.” Simon shakes his head. “We do not pity you, or your strength. The story of your temple is known far and wide, even to those down here. It is sadness that we feel. With you.” The lump in the back of your throat is thick, too thick, and it threatens to derail your composure.

You push past everything else. The assurance you could come to them, when you felt like you were going to explode, detonate across the world, when everything turns white and you need your pain, your pleasure.

You’re only here for a day longer. 

The rest of your breakfast is put aside, and you stand between the two with an open palm.

“Well, then. What’s on the agenda for my last day?”

There are many places in the Underworld that hold you captive, but Hecate’s piece of it, a forest of dew dropped trees with gnarled trunks and lavender flowers, vibrant mosses shuddering beneath your feet, a hollow thrumming with the wildest of magics, leaves you breathless. The goddess is just as striking, tall and elegant, deep black hair that swings at her hips, emerald eyes and pointed nose perfectly set in her face. Her skin glows, a sepia drenched harvest moon, and when she reaches for your hand, you swear you hear the barking of a dog.

“My lady.” She gives you a graceful squeeze before she releases and bows her head. “You are more lovely than the rumors credit.”

“Oh.” Your face heats. “Thank you.”

“The rumors say ye’re as fair as Aphrodite.” John teases, and your eyes go wide.

“Surely not.” You brush it off, but the tingle across your skin remains, flattery nestling in your heart. “Your home… is beautiful.” You try to give it back, deflect it upon her, and she watches you with knowing eyes.

“Thank you. It was born from me, as I’ve heard your temple was from you?”

“Yes.” She motions to a winding path that disappears into the thick of the trees, and you oblige, soaking in the sparkle of the wood. The magic is dense here, heavy, like water, flowing through all things, the roots, the leaves, the crows adorning the branches, following you from perch to perch. You don’t notice, when John and Simon start talking, asking Hecate a question about… something, too transfixed on the multitude of colors flourishing at the tops of the canopy, leaves and petals fanning out like a muted rainbow.

Again, you’re struck with a confusing consideration.

How is it the Underworld is capable of such life? 

Hecate’s piece of this realm is alive, lush and untamed, resonant magic oozing from every spiral and cell in the moss, in the bark, in the air. Amethyst leaves ranging in size from head to hand fall from the sky like the changing of seasons, and the entire hollow breathes with it, power pulsing in a light breeze all around you.

Even the crows are thriving, living things. Part magic, part bird.

You frown.

“Persephone?” Simon questions, gentle hand on your back. It’s warm, and firm, pulling you into the touch, butterflies in your belly slowly cracking their eyes opening, greeting the day with a flutter of wings.

“Sorry, it’s just… the crows, they’re… alive?” Hecate laughs.

“Yes, they live. They’re my own murder, traveling as I do, between the Underworld and Olympus.” She holds out a hand and an iridescent, onyx feathered companion lands gracefully in her palm, preening. “There are many corvids here, now. Magpies, jays, treepies. They’re supposed to stay confined to the hollow, but I suspect some of them have made friends in Asphodel Meadows.”

“Now? Were they not here before?”

“No birds lived in the Underworld, before Hecate’s residency.”

“Hades allowed me a home,” she smiles at them, gentle appreciation aglow on her face, and then turns back to you. “a gift in itself, and so, I give them one in return.”

“You are more than generous.” John says. He walks close, hand lax at his side, fingers occasionally grazing yours. The touch is hardly a moment, fleeting, but it burns you through, muscle, soul, and bone shivering in response.

“Hades is benevolent, though they’d never let Olympus know it.” She murmurs, raven black hair catching in the wind.

“I’m starting to see that.”

“This is the Lethe.” Simon gestures to the rushing river before you. It’s not a river of hopelessness, like the Acheron, but something else. Something different.

It’s a river of loss.

“What… what is it?”

“The Lethe is the river of oblivion. She takes memories from souls, freeing them from past torments, or pleasures.” John is gentle, grasping your elbow, keeping you close at his side. You don’t resist, sinking into the warmth of his body, letting his steady comfort guide you away from where you stood at the edge, entranced by the low rumble of the water, the melodic call echoing from the rocks below.

“Or it serves as a punishment.” Simon warns at your back. The chorus rises, song reverberating, and you tip forward, away from John, straining to hear who it calls, the repeated exhalation of your own name.

“Persephone.” He warns, heavy magic blanketing the ground, cypress and white poplar drifting on the breeze, thick with the weight of his magic. “If the Lethe were to take you, there would be no returning to Olympus, or your memories. She is a power even we do not control.” She.

“She? What do you mean?”

“She was, is, a goddess in her own right.” Your eyes widen, the river hissing and crooning to you, desperate vibrato just on the cusp of her song, a sound sharper than a banshee’s wail. “Of all the rivers in the Underworld, she is the one to be feared. We can free a soul from the Acheron, or the Pyriphlegethon, we can forbid a crossing of the Styx, but we cannot return memories taken by the Lethe.” Simon draws you away, arm around your waist. “Come.”

John drags you back to the meadow.

He cradles you in his arms, opposite Simon, who sits silently, eyes half lidded, reclined on his elbows.

“Do ye like it here?”

“It’s beautiful.” You trace the fragile petals, white velvet smooth and soft, canary yellow pistils shimmering in the afternoon sun. “I love narcissus.” Simon’s mouth quirks to the side, turbulent sea settling after a storm when you look his way, and John tucks your back into his chest, heavy arm across your shoulders.

“The Underworld agrees with you. It is not every day the Narcissus sing for a soul.” His mouth is on your cheek. You press, pushing skin between teeth, and he obliges with a nibble, not enough to sting, but with enough pressure you feel the edge of his incisors, vicious points of his canines.

“It’s… not what I expected.” This is easy to concede. Easy to close your eyes and slip away in the web of them, their hold, their touch. Easy to pretend they didn’t steal you outright, they haven’t locked your magic away, they haven’t taken you from your only home.

“Would ye come back? To visit with us?” Your eyes are still closed, and you hold them there, fingers sliding through the lithe growth of grass, stroking across stems and petals, feeling for the pulse of their power, the magical force of nature existing the same in a tiny blade of greenery, as it does in every fiber of your goddess hood.

“Yes, I think I would.”

They lay you down in a crux of a hill, legs spread upon a bed of Narcissus, fragile blooms crushed beneath sacred weight, a cacophony of power joining together.

Your mouths meet, again and again, limbs and tongues and teeth joining together in a rapturous haze, a firestorm brewing inside you, a swell of power so strong you can feel it tearing at your skin, glorious and brazen, clawing at the cage. It is wild in your heart, in your mind, and only burning brighter as Simon tugs you close, a hand over your heart, his mouth on your breast, teeth grazing your nipple atop muslin, an insatiable god devouring at a mystical altar.

When he bites down, your legs fall wide, and John kneels in prayer.

There are many names for it, you know, but in this moment, it’s as if time is old, a god’s back bowed for you, his mouth on your cunt, sacrosanct promises running free like the rivers of this land, like the spring bubbling up from the depths of your temple, pulled from the land like John pulls pleasure from you.

Ichor runs. It paints you in gold, drips from Simon’s mouth and between your legs, mixing with the slick and spit swirled by Johnny’s tongue, the cusp of a cliff’s edge growing closer and closer-

But not close enough.

A gilded hand fits your throat, a collar made of divinity, and he squeezes, enough to make your vision spot, fingers digging into the dirt and roots and stems of flowers long crushed. John does not relent, only pushes you farther and farther against the edge, sanctifying the bond stitching between the three of you each breath you draw, the spool of Fate spinning long woven threads stretching to the end and beginning of time, knitting you into the patchwork of their lives, their eternal existence.

Their goddess. 

Your Hades.

“Come, Persephone. Come for us.” Light explodes, forcing your eyes shut, and you tremble between them, crying out their names in near hysteria, celestial light bleeding from your skin like a star in the sky.

John gasps.

Simon tips his chin to the sky, and laughs.

Their room is quiet. Dark in the daylight, an empty burrow dug by a fox, pitch black emptiness as far as one can see.

“I’ve never…”

“We know.”

They hold you like treasure, like glass. Gentle words and touch, John cradles you in the cove of his body, magic zinging across your skin, sparks flying in the room.

Simon kisses the inside of your knee, arranging you carefully between John’s spread legs. He’s hard at your back, heavy cock throbbing hot on your skin, but he only grabs your hand to hold it when you reach for him, tucking you gently back into his cradle with his lips on your neck.

Is this what it feels like? Love?  

“What do you want darling?”

“You. Both of you.” Simon, aglow in the flickering fire light, smiles at you and John, pride and glory, divinity still fresh between his teeth.

“Let us care you for tonight.”

You nod, and clothes vanish. John’s cock weeps in the cleft of your ass, his body trembling with effort to hold himself still, and you turn your face to his, letting him work his tongue into your mouth as Simon stretches you a finger, tiny explosions of pleasure imploding with each stroke.

Hands, teeth, tongue- a tangled mess of divinity.

Powerful gods, together mightier than Zeus, worshipping between your legs, glory abound in the sound of your moans. Simon gives you more, languid touch turning fevered, adding another finger to your soaked entrance, and you gasp, spine quivering in pleasure.

The gods kiss. Simon cups John’s cheek, holding him steady, exploring, deep and true. You can only watch, mouth ajar, taking in every lavish touch exchanged, Simon’s bicep flexing as he pumps John’s cock, a crease in his eyebrows when there’s a huff and moan.

“Darling.” Simon murmurs, thumb and forefinger holding your chin. John presses his lips to your neck again, nipping and sucking your skin, fingers ghosting over your belly and breasts. It makes you squirm, insatiable hunger rising in your throat, in your soul, and you yearn for them, for this, for it to culminate and flower.

Bloom. 

“Please.”

“Ye dinnae need to ask.” John hums, delicately lifting one of your knees, exposing you like a spring blossom. “Look at ye, already desperate for him.” He strums through the wet mess between your legs, fingertips lifting to his mouth, lashes fluttering as he licks.

You want to correct him. Want to tell him it’s not only for Simon, but for him too. That everything is for both, a balance of scales, pain and pleasure and passion all revolving around the two of them, with you in orbit.

But your words fail, and John looks at you with eyes full of stars, endless night dotted in endless nova, like you’re the one being orbited, being loved, being worshipped on consecrated ground.

“You give us a great gift, little goddess.” Simon’s palm rests on your thigh, thick, swollen cock leaking against your skin. He’s big, bigger than you’re sure will be comfortable, a little bit of fear starting to pique as you shift, and he leans, an elbow near your shoulder, face above yours, level with John’s. Everything slows, Olympus stopped in its tracks, the Underworld holding its breath, and the three of you breathe, magic tugging and tearing at your souls, dragging you closer to the cusp of something unknown.

You can feel it. 

“We’ll go slow.” He strokes your cheek. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, yes?”

“Yes.” There’s a softness in him, intimidating edges all worn gentle, and his eyes are heavy, focused as he pushes into your body, fire and flood making your fingers dig into John’s thigh.

It burns.

It hurts.

It’s good.

The agony is decadence, sharp tinged pain morphing into fiery pleasure, burning in your soul and your veins. You moan, and John presses his thumb to your tongue, holding your jaw firm as Simon begins to move, carefully working you open with gentle strokes, gritted restraint clear in his jaw.

“F-fuck.” You hiss around the digit in your mouth, and they both watch, observing, waiting for a safe word or a warning sign.

Nothing comes.

Only pain.

Only pleasure.

“More.” You croak, and Simon noses your cheek, lips drawing a line up Johnny’s forearm as he strokes, hips swinging to meet yours, body trying to fold in half when he seats himself so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly. “Oh gods.” Your eyes roll back in your head.

You’re on fire. Burning in the pits of Tartarus, crammed between the gods of death, exalted through mounting pleasure and pain, twisted together in veneration.

Simon shoves deeper, up through your cunt to your throat, through your magic and out your mouth, insanity leaking from your lips like you drip around his cock. It’s obscene, the way he batters into his body, the lap of John’s tongue in your mouth, his finger against your clit, how you light up beneath them like a supernova.

“There it is.” Simon’s eyes glow, observing and inspecting, watching the way you take his cock, celestial light spilling from your pores. You cling to them, shiny like a pearl, iridescent and wild, groaning with each thrust.

They split you open, crack your very soul wide, broken cypress beneath an axe.

It’s an unrelenting pace, an lewd show of slick and tears and sweat- ichor that runs down your throat when John pinches your clit, inside of your cheek crunching between your molars like a meal.

“Ahh, please- please.” You’re rambling. Begging.

More. More. More. 

“Sweet little thing.” Simon spits, cadence transforming into something slow, the subtle rock of a boat on the sea, nudged up against your cervix. “Perfect little pussy, made for your gods.” Plural. Like they’re both housed in one, experiencing together, breathing and fucking and biting, as one.

John pushes his nose under your jaw, iron grip lashed across your waist, holding you steady, keeping you in place over the reverberation in your chest of screams and moans, noises unlike a goddess and more like an animal, a tiger, a bird-

Simon slams into you. The pain is shocking, and you scramble, reaching for purchase, clinging to him, to John, explosion of stars illuminating your vision.

When he rains a hand down across your flank, your eyes roll back, slipping beneath the swell of pleasure and pain, a war raging between the two.

“Good girl-“ Simon grits, and you pulse around him, greedily, squeezing with another strike against your flesh, fingers dug into your hip. There’s a glimmer of darkness in the room, ebbing cruelty lingering in the corners, watching in wait, bidings its time, knowing it needs the right moment, the perfect crescendo in order to strike.

“Look a’ him.” John marvels. “Makin’ a mess of ye.”  You blink up at them both, lashes webbed with tears. They’re beautiful, etched from marble, perfectly cast in the image of ultimate power, dark and decadent, decay and hope, sculpted together.

They will break you. 

“Please-“ the plea breaks off in a gasp.

“We know, darling. We know.” John soothes, syrupy and smooth, a hand running over your ass with another whip of his fingers. He probes at your rim, lightly testing before pushing in, stretching, exploring, and you keen, curling around them, muscles burning red like hot coals. It sears. It nearly pushes you over the edge.

You want to fall with them, into them. You want them to take everything, to give you pain and pleasure until you’re not sure who or where you are, remake you in the image of these emotions, this wildness flowing between the three of you.

John pushes a second finger in beside his first, and you see stars. Three become one, bursting into light and bathing the room, touching over the bed and walls and gods, casting opalescence across their faces.

“Fuck!” you gasp, and Simon’s lips curve on your skin, voice low and rough when he speaks.

“Ours.” He vows, chokes, guttural. “Our goddess." He fucks you deep, relentlessly, firm hand gripping you flesh. "You can take it, show us your light.” He’s lost himself in you, and you in them, crying out as they throw you over the precipice. “Come, darling.” It takes no urging. You’re already there, praise and agony and explosions of nerves imploding, throwing you into an orgasm that has your legs locking in place around Simon, your fingers tangling in John’s hair.

You become light. Divine incarnate. Celestial dawn, touching the peaks of existence for the first time. It flows and flows from you, overpowers your senses, drowns you in a sea of exhalation.

Simon shouts something. His mouth finds yours, but you’re lost in the waves of your own pleasure, still holding tight to both, anchoring yourself through the erratic thrusts of Simon’s body, his hips jerking as he fills you with his own gift, a touch of divinity lodged where he ends and you begin, his hand wrapped around John’s cock and stroking until he’s spilling. Simon’s tongue on yours, on John’s, open mouths and wet faces bent together to make one, hallowed, consecrated temple, the planes of your bodies twisted together in the depths of the Underworld.

Your light shines and shines until you think your heart may give out.

Maybe it does. Maybe it bursts into stardust. Maybe it becomes theirs.

“Will ye have dinner with us? A last meal?” John presses a kiss to your shoulder, decadent and sweet. You’d forgotten about your need to leave, forgotten about Olympus, and the reality is somber. Still in their arms, and you already long for them, mourn them, dread the lugubrious return to your own realm, where your life awaits.

“The door.” You murmur, fingertips tracing over Simon’s chest, the hallowed ground where your head lays, where you listen to the steady thump of his heart. “Will you show me?”

“After dinner. Please.” John murmurs it into your skin, and though it’s a shattered promise waiting in the wings, there is nothing in you deciding to protest or say no, not when he tugs you free, rolling you onto your back so Simon can tuck you into his arms. “After dinner, we’ll show you.”

He spreads your legs, stroking a finger through the seam of your cunt, watching lazily with heavy lids as you whimper.

An offering he will give. 

An offering you will receive. 

“After dinner, then.”

You wake to an empty bed, much like this morning.

“John? Simon?” The sheets are soft against your skin, but there’s bitterness in the air, magic like death lingering in the room.  

It feels like rot.

The door is ajar, barely. It allows light to spill in across black marble, the faint, sharpened pitch of an argument echoing down the hall.

You sit up.

What’s happening? 

There’s a wine-red robe draped over the edge of the bed, and you don it, quickly, quietly slipping down the onyx halls, straining to listen. 

“The Fates decided, and they chose benevolently. We are honored by such a gift.” The Fates decided what? There’s a strangled, indignant laugh. A female’s.  

Power snaps, rough and wild.

“You cannot possibly mean to make this… this goddess of spring your Queen.” What? Acid brews in the pit of your stomach, swirling together and forcing you forward, desperation on the balls of your feet. Is that Minthe? Is she talking about you?

“Persephone is to be our wife; ye will speak of her with respect or not at all.” John snaps. You’re what?! 

“We have waited, and would wait centuries more, to receive her. Her presence brings an eternal season, to us, to all who would love her, here in the Underworld.”

“But you do not truly care for her.” You tremble. A sea devours you, pulls you beyond the black water, down into the trenches, far deeper than anyone ever knew existed. There, it tosses you side to side, virulent rage and sorrow rising beneath your feet, pushing you back up to where you break the surface.

And break free.

The agony in your heart shatters the strongest magic, draws your own power back into yourself, twists it together to become something more, something wicked, something villainous.

Ungovernable Persephone. 

“It is more than care. It is devotion, an all-consuming passion. One you would not understand.”

“But she’s a freak! A shut in li-“ Minthe’s words do not continue. They flail in her throat, the same way her soul does as you appear around the corner and twist it, making it malleable, ripping and tearing until it grows anew, sprouting with vigor into a new form.

The ground shakes. John shouts something at you, but you’re far past reason, far past explanation, and now there is only Demeter’s vengeful daughter, a wicked soul.

Rotten to the core.

Your magic swells. The palace trembles, and you feel the flow of life, Hecate’s grotto, the souls, Asphodel meadows. Every bloom and blossom cry out with you, and you scream your rage into a terrible power, one with thorns and vitriol. They surge together, and you draw from them like drinking from a river, pulling and pulling until you can no longer see, or hear, lost in the wind, the bliss of your wicked soul, your weaponized magic.

“Persephone.” A gentle voice calls, Hands cradle your face, a thumb smoothing your brow. “She cannot hurt you, Persephone. Stop this. Now.” A demand, sweeter than primrose and lily, drips like nectar against the will of your rage. “It’s alright. There is nothing to fear.” He murmurs, empyreal restraints tightening at your wrists, harnessing your power, redirecting it into the ether, commanding it still and steady.  

When your vision clears, it’s horror you face.

Horror of your own doing.

You stumble away, clutching the robe to your chest, mouth agape.

On the floor between you and the Kings of the Underworld, is a small mint plant. It sprouts from a tiny clump of dirt, timid and frail.

It harbors a soul.

It harbors your wrath.

You are a monster. 

“No, darling-“ John tries to reach for you, but Simon stops him, an arm out, catching him at the waist. There is sadness on one face, aloof calm on another.

Are these really the gods you gave yourself to? The ones you believed would care for you? 

You are a fool. 

You turn for the door and run.

You’re sprinting towards a river.

In the dark, you can’t be sure which it is. You’re not sure of anything, in these moments, these shattered clips that fracture your heart, the confusion that ricochets inside your brain, a silver pinball bouncing off walls with lights and noises exploding in the silence. Everything competes with the rush of a river, roaring swell crashing against rock, humming alive in the dead of night.

Their wife. 

They brought you here to be their wife. 

You laugh out loud to the cool, crisp air.

A fool.

Fate’s tool. 

They weren’t interested in you. You aren’t special. You’re only a sanctimonious fortune from the The Moirai. Something promised. Something they feel you deserve.

Something you have no choice in, again.

But would you choose it? 

Simon’s words ring in your ears.

“Persephone is to be our wife; you will speak of her with respect or not at all.” 

“We have waited, and would wait centuries more,”

“It is more than care. It is devotion, an all-consuming passion. One you would not understand.” 

The Fates. 

The Fates decided. 

The Fates decided to honor them… with a gift. 

A gift.

You laugh again. It catches, hysterically, building and building into an explosion, a wild streak of pain taking root in your heart, and beneath your feet, Narcissus blooms. Even at a full sprint, the rage in your voice is palpable, and it breaks, cracking your chest wide with a sob.

They were never going to let you go. 

They do not care for you. They only care for what has been bestowed to them. Their gift. 

Not you. Not Persephone. 

“Persephone!” A shout in the distance echoes over the valley, and only urges you faster, feet flying through a meadow. No flowers grace your shins, only grey grass, silvered in the moonlight.

Another voice calls to you.

The promise of oblivion. Of freedom. Memories laid to waste in her path, scars and agony and heartbreak all put to rest, buried beneath a mountain built of abeyance, weightless in the face of true nirvana.

Freedom.

Freedom from this truth, this betrayal. Freedom from your own stupidity, your foolishness washed away, soul wiped clean. Freedom, from the crack of your mother’s Whip, a magical object sculpted from the breadth of her power, built to hurt only you, for eternity.

You stand at the water’s edge. She’s too strong, and you cannot pull away, feet glued to the riverbank, fixed upon the rage of her waters, the power behind the swell.

Would it be so terrible? 

You see Hebe. Melia. Nell. Their light, their laughter. The way their smiles sculpt their faces, how their power tastes when it infects the air. Your friends, forgotten.

But still she calls. She lashes her power to your own, strips of bark laid against your soul, binding you to her, tugging you closer and closer to the water.

You dig in your heels. The cacophony thunders, drowning everything else out, the scream of your name, the haunting in your heart.

You fight.

You fall.

Simon has never felt such terror.

Ichor turns cold in his chest, fear and panic rising into a tidal wave, an epic monster of emotion, filling his lungs with leaded salt water, choking out his last breath.

“Simon!” John shouts. He pushes his power into the river, cutting the current effectively in half, slowing its pace to a trickle. It will be enough, to find you.

It won’t be enough to save you.

Simon stands motionless. He cannot see anything, except the memory of your fall. Slipping into the river, disappearing beneath the water that will take your mind, your memories. The intricate pieces that make you, you.

He does not deny he had considered it. Allowed it to darken his mind, disrupt his intentions. He discussed it at length even. Argued with Johnny about bathing you in the water, bringing it in through a spring, disguising it as something it was not. Something safe.

“If she bathes in the Lethe, we will be all she has ever known, Johnny. She will no longer hold the pain, the torment from her mother’s hand, she will not carry the grief, the guilt of leaving Olympus behind. She will be ours. Wholly.” 

“Ye’re talking about erasing who she is. The things that make her ours. Without them… what is she? An empty soul. A husk. Ye know what they’re like after they bathe in the Lethe. Ye cannae possibly want that for our wife.” 

Johnny was right, of course. A million little pieces made up the goddess that you were, and Simon was a selfish being. He wanted every single one.

But now… 

Johnny finds you in the bend of the river, limp and unmoving.

You’re almost gone. Simon knows it, can see it, can taste it. He can hear the realm, weeping for you. Your meadow, covered in Narcissus, each flower’s face wet with tears for you.

“Open yer eyes, Persephone.” John shakes you roughly, grip tight with panic, and then cradles your head to his chest like a babe, rocking back and forth. “Come on, little goddess. I’m here, we’re right here. We’ve got ye.” You’re silent. Near death, eyes and skin a thin membrane, everything washed away in the Lethe.

You’re gone. They’ve lost you. 

Your heart slows. Your breathing stutters.

He’s been here before. He knows this feeling all too well. The frightening emptiness that even he, Hades, cannot combat.

“Simon.” John snaps. His hand hovers over your diaphragm, more magic, more power releasing into your body, filling you with all that he can give, all that you will take.

They’ve lost you. Before they even had a chance. 

Too proud. Too arrogant. A monster on a throne. 

He caused this. 

“She is not gone, Simon. Help me.” John hisses, tenacious and hopeful. Strong. Simon’s compass in the dark. The brightest star in his sky. Forever buoyant.

Unstoppable John MacTavish. 

Ungovernable Persephone. 

And… him. 

Your skin is cold, ice, and you’re so delicate in John’s arms, so broken, that Simon considers falling into the Lethe himself, just for a moment. “We need to get her inside.” John rocks you, cooing above your ear, trying to soothe the radiating distress, the rattle of your chest. “Sh-sh-shhh. Ye’re safe. We’ve got ye.”

Simon tugs all his power around you and Johnny like a jacket, a blanket tucked snug on your shoulders. It warms you, easing the shivering and jerking, and he holds it there, unleashing the untouched depths of his power, of Johnny’s, of this realm, forcing it into your soul the only way he knows how.

An idea blossoms in his heart. One born of midnight flower, bat orchid and hellebore, black dahlia and elderberry. Framed by the flowering vines that cover the outside of your chambers.

It’s an idea blooming from the very essence of your magic, your goddess-hood.

It’s reactionary. It’s wicked.

Rebirth. 

Split your soul, and theirs, again. Merge their power, and yours. 

Wed you. 

“Johnny.” He whispers. He steps closer, hovering, a hand strong on the back of his neck, the other cupping your cheek.

“We shouldnae.” He shakes his head. “I cannae do it.”

“We must.”

“She will ne’er forgive us.” He cradles you tighter, almost defensively. You moan, the sound wretched and pained, and Johnny pales.

“The Lethe has taken her from us. She is fading, I know you can feel it.” Johnny slams his eyes shut, brow quivering. “Look at me.”

“Si.”

“This is our only option.” For every protest, he has an answer. For every reason why not, he provides an alternative. It snakes forward, through John’s rebuttal, through the time it takes for Simon to pull both him and you into his arms, on the banks of the Lethe in one moment, in the din of their bedroom another.

“She might remember, one day.” John lays you on their bed, the rasp of your lungs only increasing with each moment. “Her magic is strong.”

“Then we will beg for forgiveness and hope her vengeful spirit gentles.”

[wheels-of-despair]

Best Seat in the House Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie needs a place to sit. Is Evil Woman's lap available? Contains: Eddie POV, a touch-starved metalhead, tooth-rotting fluff. Words: 700ish

There's nowhere to sit.

Eddie slows on his way back into the garage, contemplating his next move. He'd gone inside to pee the second Corroded Coffin's final song ended today's practice session, and returned to find everyone deep in conversation in the back of the garage.

Gareth has turned around to sit backwards on the stool by his drum kit. Grant sits on an upturned bucket. Jeff and Evil Woman are on the old loveseat. Should he wedge himself between them? Nah, too territorial. Should he sit on the floor? His ass aches at the thought of the cold concrete. The lawn chairs are behind a heap of junk in the corner. Too much effort. What about borrowing a chair from the kitchen?

She makes eye contact and smiles, and he forgets how to breathe for a second. Fuck, how does she do that? She pats the arm of the loveseat, and his feet start carrying him toward her while his brain tries to catch up. He perches on the edge; he's so close to her, he can almost feel the warmth radiating off of her skin in the cool garage.

She looks up at him with a smile, and he fights the urge to slide into her lap. She turns her attention back to the story Grant is telling about the vacation he just returned from, and he does too.

Briefly.

The padding on the ratty old loveseat's arm is virtually nonexistent. He can feel the edges of the frame digging into his ass. Damn his lack of padding. He shifts to face the group, sitting sideways and hoping that distributing his weight more evenly would help. The side of his leg touches the front of hers. He eyes the denim-covered thighs just a few inches below his own and wonders…

What would she do if he sat in her lap? He knows it's not a particularly manly thing to do. But it could be cute, right? She might be surprised by it, but he doesn't think she'd shove him to the floor. What would the guys do? Make fun of him?

They wouldn't dare.

A pain shoots up Eddie's spine, and his mind is made. He shifts his weight onto his hands and eases down, his ass landing gently on her lap. He holds his breath and watches her from the corner of his eye, waiting for a reaction.

She glances up with an amused expression. Not tossing him to the floor. Not asking him what the fuck he thinks he's doing. She simply acknowledges his arrival with a smile and turns her attention back to Grant.

Eddie tries to listen to his friend, and he does for a few minutes. Then, a hand snakes its way across his lower back. Oh, fuck, she's holding him. She's wrapped her arm around his waist and stuck her thumb inside his belt loop to hold it there. Eddie Munson, a grown-ass man, is squealing like a teenage girl on the inside.

Eddie's sure the story being told is a fascinating one, but he has much more important things to contemplate. Like how she laughs and says "oh my god" and "no way" like she's truly invested in the tale of Grant's family vacation while she's doing this to him.

And how her fingers drift north a little bit and find the bare skin beneath his shirt. He shudders, and she glances up at him and mouths "sorry." He's not sure if it was a ticklish spot, or his body reacting to so tender a touch. But she leaves his side alone and moves her hand to his lower back. Under his shirt. Rubbing gently.

Eddie tries his hardest not to melt into a puddle in her lap.

He's never had anybody want to touch him like this before. It just feels so natural. Like it's the most normal thing in the world, to be absent-mindedly stroking the bare flesh of the town pariah's back.

None of the guys had noticed. He was facing them. They didn't see her hand disappear under his shirt. It wasn't done to gross them out, or on a dare. It wasn't for show. She just wanted to touch him.

It was the sweetest, most intimate thing he'd ever experienced.

He hoped Grant's story would go on forever.

[jamdoughnutmagician]

From Me to You.

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Summary:Eddie finds a love letter pushed through his locker, and he’s determined to find out who his secret admirer is.

Warnings: Nothing that I can think of, just tooth-rotting Valentine’s day fluff! Slight use of "y/n" sorry I couldn't escape it!!

Word Count:1,867

Authour’s Note:My life is so devoid of any kind of romance, so I though what better way to resolve that than to write some cutesy Valentine’s Day fic with everyone’s favourite metal-head? Maybe I'm posting this a little early, but I'm pretty pleased with how this turned out (since I suck at writing fluff) and I wanted to share it!

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Eddie, oh no, that couldn’t be further from the truth. However, having to admit to your crush on your best friend? Well that was a whole other story.

So, your big plan was to leave little secret admirer notes in Eddie’s locker in the week leading up to Valentine’s day on Friday. It was an easy way to confess your love to him, without the sting of rejection coming to bite you in the ass.

The Monday after your last class you waved Eddie goodbye as he made his way to the drama room where the Hellfire club would be meeting for their latest campaign. Although you didn't share his love of Dungeons and Dragons, you were still as close as friends could be, only you didn't want to be just his friend.

Waiting for him to disappear out of sight, you look around to check the coast is clear before you slip the hand-written note into his locker. Pushing the folded up piece of paper through the vented slats in his locker, you make your way out of the school. 

All you have to do now is just have to wait until tomorrow to find out if your little secret mission was successful.

_______

Eddie strolled into school that Tuesday morning, opening up his locker to put away his things, but as he did so, a small folded up piece of paper fell to the floor. Piquing his curiosity, he bent down to pick up the paper. Unfolding it carefully his eyes scanned over the nice hand-written message inside.

Your smile is my favourite thing and it brightens my day 

He glances at the swirling joined up writing and how the little hearts dot the I’s and he finds his face warming with a blush.

“What’ve you got there then, Ed?”  Gareth asks noisily, causing the rest of the members of Corroded Coffin to turn their heads to their lead guitarist.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Eddie says defensively as he stuffed the note in his pocket.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Gareth dropped the subject and they guys went about the rest of their school day.

_______

The next day, Eddie goes to open his locker and surprisingly another note falls at his feet. 

Quickly he bends to pick it up before anyone notices that he’s received another note. Unfolding the paper he reads the message.

You give me butterflies

He reasons that it must be the same person that it was from yesterday, because the handwriting is exactly the same and the I’s are still dotted adorably with the same little hearts.

As quick as his hopes get up at the thought of someone writing him little love notes,his thoughts are pulled in the direction that this must be some sort of prank. It had to be, right? Why else would anyone leave the school’s ‘freak’ sweet notes like this if not for some kind of twisted joke. 

Jason Carver and his gang probably thought the idea that someone might have a crush on Eddie, laughable. Yeah, he thinks to himself, that sounds more plausible.

Speak of the devil.

Jason and his crew make their way past him laughing loudly and obnoxiously. Right, that's it. 

Eddie stormed up to Jason, poking an accusing finger in his face.

“I bet you think this is really funny, don’t you Carver?” 

“What do you want, freak?” Jason barks out.

“You, leaving those little notes in my locker.” Eddie jabs.

Eddie looks at Jason for a moment, a look of genuine confusion gracing the features of the basketball player, his brows knitted together, before he huffs out an incredulous laugh.

“In your dreams, Munson” Jason laughs in his face as he pushes past Eddie. 

Okay…So maybe this wasn’t a joke. Well who was sending Eddie anonymous love letters?

_______

I want to hold your hands and kiss your face

Another day, another note. Eddie was still none the wiser as to who exactly was putting these love letters in his locker. Right, he thought to himself, he was going to need some help if he had any chance of finding out who this secret admirer of his was. 

Strolling through the doors of Family video, Eddie had decided to recruit the help of the only person he could think that would actually be of any help to him. Even if it did mean that he would have to show all the notes he’d received with Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

“Wait, so let me get this straight. You’ve been getting anonymous love letters put in your locker?” Steve asks

“Well..yeah?” Eddie answers.

“...And you’re absolutely sure you have no idea who this is?” Steve presses.

“Well at one point I thought Carver was doing it, you know, for a joke..but I confronted him about it yesterday and that turned out about as well as you can imagine” Eddie explains

“Do you have some that you want it to be?” Steve quizzes, as he watches the metal-head’s expression change instantly, flushing scarlet rising from his chest to his cheeks and the tips of his nose. “Aha!” -Steve exclaims, jabbing his finger towards Eddie- “So you are thinking of someone then?”

Luckily, Eddie was saved from the embarrassment of admitting to his crush on one of his best friends by Robin interrupting his and Steve’s conversation.

“What are you two dorks gabbing about over there?” She shouts making her way from the back of Family video where she was rearranging a stack of horror films.

“Munson here has got himself a secret admirer.” Steve says, cocking his thumb towards Eddie. “Said he’s been getting these little love notes slipped in his locker” Steve continues with his teasing.

“Oooh!! Let me see ‘em!!” Robin squeals excitedly.

Scattering the piece of paper out onto the countertops, the boys watch as Robin reads through each of the messages. Her eyes scan over the words, and her eyebrows draw together, and her expression one of surprise.

“You alright over there, Rob? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, which considering what we’ve been through, is the last thing that should have you looking like that.” Steve joked.

“Shut up, Dingus.” Robin says, shushing Steve holding her pointer finger up at him. “Eddie, I think I might know who your secret admirer is.” 

The two boys look at Robin with wide eyes and bated breath.

Robin turns her back and hot-foots it to the back room of Family video.

“I thought you were going to tell us who it is?” Eddie shouts after his friend.

“Hold your horses will 'ya, Munson?!” she shouts back over her shoulder.

Robin returns with a wide grin gracing her freckled features as she slams down a sheet of A4 lined paper on the counter top.

“What the hell’s this?” Steve said, looking even more confused than before.

“These are the notes that I borrowed from y/n, for Kominski’s class yesterday. Now I don’t know about you guys, but I’d say that that swirly handwriting looks very familiar to me.” Robin says proudly, like she’s decoded the most cryptic of secret messages.

Eddie and Steve lean in closer to compare the handwriting in the love letters, to the handwriting in the classroom notes. 

 “I mean, apart from the little hearts that are dotting the I’s, I would say that is the exact same handwriting” Robin points out.

“So, y/n, huh?” Steve says, letting the thought hang in the air.

If Eddie was blushing before, his whole face must’ve looked like a tomato at this point, 

“Judging by your very red and embarrassed face, I’m going to guess that you like her too, right?” Robin asks.

Steve and Robin look at Eddie as he shyly scratches the back of his neck 

“Okay, yeah I like her..I like her a lot actually.”

“But isn’t tomorrow Valentine’s day?” Steve throws out.

“Oh this is perfect!” Robin jumps up and down excitedly. “Here’s what you’re going to do…”  she began as she brought Eddie closer to tell him her plan.

_______

Sticking to the plan that Robin (and Steve who got dragged into it by Robin) helped him with, Eddie got up early for school for once in his life. That morning he showered, and dressed in a clean Black Sabbath shirt (that he’d previously ironed that evening, earning a raised eyebrow from his uncle, and hung up ready to put on in the morning.)

Dressed and ready to leave, he picked up the bunch of red roses that he’d bought from the Valentine’s day section in town yesterday evening after leaving Family Video.

He’d called you and asked if you needed a lift on the way to school, and knowing you the way he did, you would much prefer to ride with him in his van than take the school bus.  

“Son..” Uncle Wayne called out to Eddie as he was just about to go through the door. “Good luck today, you be nice to that girl, alright?” His gruff voice huffs out.

“I will Wayne, I can promise you that.” Eddie throws over his shoulder with a wide grin as he makes his way to his van.

_______

Pulling up to your house, he parks his van and takes a moment to catch his breath before grabbing his bunch of roses and walking to your front door.

Squaring his shoulders he raises his knuckles to your door to deliver a confident knock. 

“I’m coming!!” he hears you shout from inside the house.

You unlock the door to see your best friend hiding his face behind a bouquet of beautiful red roses before handing them to you.

“These are for you. Happy Valentine’s day” he says as you kindly accept the flowers from him.

Although you had smiled when he’d given you the flowers, he could still sense your confusion at his gesture. 

“I got your notes…I thought they were really cute y’know and truth be told when I read them I kind of hoped they were from you.” he rambled, feeling that familiar heat flushing across his cheeks.

“How did you figure out it was me?” you ask.

“Well it wasn’t easy, but Robin and Steve helped me figure it out…mostly Robin, though..” he chuckles. 

There’s a moment's silence between the two of you where you’re both looking into each other’s eyes.

Feeling bold, you rise up on your tip-toes to place a quick peck to Eddie’s cheek. You feel him smile brightly under your lips.

“Thanks for the flowers, Ed. They’re beautiful” 

“You missed.” he says with a look of disappointment in his deep brown eyes.

“Huh?”

“You missed.” he says again, smirking as he points to his lips.

“Take me on a date first, and then we can see about that kiss, Ed” you giggle.

“Let me take you to the movies tomorrow? We can hold hands and do all that cute shit that you’re supposed to do on a first date” he looks to you excitedly.

“I’d love to!” 

“Great! I’ll come pick you up at seven?” 

“It’s a date” You smile back at him.

[deathbxnny]

Huhu!! ( ´ ▿ ` )

Been reading through your stuff recently and have been absolutely loving all you write so I wanted to request something as well, if that’s fine :)

Could I get Sunday with a romantic fem reader where she absolutely loves sweets and pastries and especially baking things for him, but he ends up finding out she herself can neither taste or smell them? Possibly because of some kind of disease (think; Kiana not being able to taste Mei‘s curry cause of the Honkai radiation/disease during chapter 17? iirc)

Thank you (♡˙︶˙♡)

This idea is so sweet, ugh, I love it, Anon! Thank you so much for this request, and I hope you'll like it!!<3

Content: Established relationship, romantic relationship, slight angst, fluff, sfw

Reader is asked to be fem but no pronouns are mentioned!

((Not proofread))

If there is something Sunday absolutely loves, then it is your baked goods. He could eat them all day and any day, often not shy to politely put in his own personal requests for cakes or cookies. He never considered himself much of a sweet tooth before meeting you, but you certainly changed that for him.

He praises your baking skills all the time and loves indirectly bragging about it to people around him in his own sly and indirect way. It makes him feel special and cared for, whenever you give him new pastries to try, always so eager to know his loving opinion on them. As though he could ever say anything bad.

One thing he definitely observed over his time of knowing and being with you was the fact that you never really seemed to taste your own baking very often. He praised you for its phenomenal tastes all the time, and you always seemed so relieved hearing that even beyond wanting to know his cherished thoughts.

When he eventually confronted you about it, you reluctantly revealed your inability to smell or taste anything due to an unknown illness that had corroded your senses over time. His heart ached at your unexpected words, as he didn't expect that to be the answer. But he didn't question you on it further and instead found a much deeper appreciation for your clear showcase of your love for him through the pastries.

The fact that you couldn't taste them and yet still poured so much care into them that you knew he would love them anyway meant the world to him, even if he never voiced it that directly.

He is just thankful that you love him this much.

[corroded-hellfire]

Prompt Day 24: Behind the Scenes

Word Count: 997

Rating: G

Pairing: None (this is pre-Reader x Eddie)

CW: None

Summary: Part of my As You Wish series! When Eddie has no one to watch his sons, he brings them to Corroded Coffin rehearsal

@corrodedcoffinfest

[As You Wish masterlist]

“I’m sorry, man.”

Eddie shoots his friends an apologetic look as they wait inside Gareth’s open garage. He knows the guys love his sons almost as much as he does, but Eddie’s never had to bring them to band practice before. 

A maelstrom of emotions churned through Eddie when he’d punched Gareth’s number into the phone and asked if he could bring the boys with him this afternoon. Anger at Brittany for flaking once again when the plan was for her to hang with the kids at home. Embarrassment that he has to make yet another excuse for her. Desperation that he couldn’t find a backup plan. Luckily, they were good kids who could be kept occupied with books and crayons.

Six-year-old Ryan slips out of the car while his father unbuckles his little brother from his booster seat. 

“Hi!” Ryan waves a hand in a wide arc over his head.

“Hey, Ry.” Jeff grins. “What’re you up to today, little man?”

“Watched Bear in the Big Blue House while Daddy chased Luke around.” Ryan walks forward into the garage, completely oblivious to the smirks and smiles on the men’s faces.

“Why was Luke running around so much?” Gareth asks.

The boy with the honey brown hair strolls past the awaiting instruments and plops down on the tattered couch in the corner. Ryan bounces on it a few times, the springs squeaking, and wrinkles his nose in distaste at the skunk-like smell that’s now woven into the fabric.

“Luke got mad and jumped out of the bath when Daddy said he can’t have a pet raccoon.”

The guys snicker, Jeff trying to hide it behind a cough. Frank rubs his nose to cover a smile.

“Yeah, that was my morning.” Eddie lets out a defeated sigh. Luke stands by his side, beaming up at the men with his gap-toothed smile. 

“Hello!” Luke bends at the waist, giving an approximation of a bow. “Daddy said I gotta color nice and quiet so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

With that, the four-year-old climbs up on the couch next to his brother.

Eddie gives his friends a pleading look before crouching down in front of his boys.

“Ryan, here’s your book. Luke, your coloring books. And some crayons. You guys just sit here and chill while we rehearse, okay?” 

Both boys bob their heads up and down, which satisfies Eddie. He presses a kiss to the top of each of their heads before grabbing his guitar out of the car trunk.

“Here we go,” Eddie says as he strolls back into the open garage.

 

The band practices for a good fifteen minutes before the first interruption of the afternoon. Just as they finish up the chorus in their cover of Peace Sells, Luke stands in front of Eddie, waving his hands back and forth erratically. 

Eddie’s guitar licks end with an anticlimactic sour note before being silenced.

“What’s up?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows at his son.

“I gotta go potty,” Luke says. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, nodding his head. “You know where the bathroom is in Uncle Gareth’s house.”

“But…” Luke’s eyes travel around the edges of the garage, skimming over the various tools and holiday decorations piled up before looking back at his dad’s face, his blue eyes widening, “I need help.”

“No problem,” Eddie says, keeping his voice as calm as he can. He’s mildly irked, but not at Luke, so he doesn’t want the boy to think he’s upset with him. He’s four, he can’t help when he has to use the bathroom. 

“Alright, you, back on the couch—hey, what’s going on?” 

Eddie steps back into the garage, but it’s not the same laidback scene it was when he left. Gareth and Frank are both kneeling in front of an amp, bickering as they fight for space to look at something between them. 

Jeff is with Ryan on the couch, the little boy’s shoulders slumped. 

“What happened?” Eddie asks, hand instantly going to rub Ryan’s back.

Tear tracks are visible on Ryan’s face, but Eddie can’t find any trace of new tears building up in his eyes, so he takes that as a good sign. 

“I-I got up ‘cause some of Luke’s crayons started rolling away and I tripped.” Ryan points over to where Gareth and Frank are shoving cables at one another. “I pulled wires out of that thing on accident. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry!”

“Hey, come on,” Jeff says softly. “It’s okay. Nothing’s broken, the wires just need to be put back in. It’s not your fault Thing One and Thing Two don’t know which wire goes where.”

A small smile cracks through on Ryan’s face.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah,” Ryan affirms with a sniffle and a nod.

Jeff and Eddie push the other two out of the way and swiftly fix the wires. 

A glance at his watch tells Eddie that they’ve got time to practice a few more songs at least. He looks back over at his boys as he slings his guitar strap over his head, frowning when he sees them griping at each other. 

“Boys,” Eddie snaps. Both turn to him with wide eyes. Guilt weighs on Eddie’s shoulders as he realizes his tone was too harsh. “What song do you think we should practice next?”

“The albino one,” Luke says, making Eddie chuckle.

“That’s Smells Like Teen Spirit, bud. And that’s grunge, not metal.”

Luke groans, looking back down at his coloring book spread open in his lap before his head shoots up to stare at Eddie with eager eyes.

“Daddy!”

“What? Got another song?”

“No,” Luke says, waving a dismissive hand with a maroon crayon perched between his thumb and forefinger. “But I’m hungry. Can I have Dino nuggies?”

Eddie drops his head forward and rests his hands on his hips. He can hear his bandmates laughing as he sighs exasperatedly. Taking another deep breath, Eddie lifts his head up. 

“I need a babysitter.”

[keeksandgigz]

it's you and me (that's my whole world)- day 1 of keeks's lover house series♡

Day 1 of my Lover House Series♡

♡rockstar!eddie munson x famous!fem!reader♡

allusion of smut, r and eddie are in a secret relationship, disgustingly fluffy, kinda sad and angsty<3

"the whole school is rolling fake dice/ you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes"

You don't know how much longer you can go on with this lie.

"A PR Relationship for the ages" it was called on every single tabloid, everyone knew it was fake. Yet, you deluded yourself nobody did.

You deluded yourself that nobody knew it was to cover up the disastrous encounter with the paparazzi, catching you stumbling out of a dingy club hand in hand with Corroded Coffin frontman Eddie Munson- your secret boyfriend. In those pictures he sported various lipstick marks on his face and neck. Your management team was furious.

To keep up the "American Sweetheart" image, you'd been persuaded to date some airhead quarterback, up and coming NFL star. And you'd tried, tried to hard to be able to establish something with this guy, but there wasn't much there there to begin with.

But you catch yourself running back to him. Every Wednesday night, he meets you at his New York apartment, adrenaline and fear thrumming within you as you enter through the back alley of his building.

Feeling safe in the comfort of his home, it's like a fortress where no one can reach you, a place where you can forget about the rest of the world and their demands and lay in his arms.

It's a swirl of lips, hands, tongues and limbs once you step foot in his door. The desperation to feel him as close as possible, starved for his touch, needing to feel him close. You seem to crave him with every fiber of your being as you often waste no time getting each other's clothes off.

Feeling the warmth of his skin, tracing the ink of his tattooed chest. He handles you with such gentleness and care that you can't fathom how a man like him could easily tarnish your image.

"Beautiful girl, missed you so much this week" he mumbles against the soft skin of your abdomen as he kisses down your body "Wednesday never comes fast enough, does it?" he chuckles, caressing the sides of your thighs, peppering kisses from the arch of your foot to your knee.

A slow tease, as it may seem, but in reality, it's just a way to make time go by more slowly, an illusion to grant yourself a longer night with him. A prayer to make your Wednesday nights never ending.

That's why you're tangled in sheets at 3 AM, while Eddie draws circles on your arm. "Y'know I don't mind having to hide, right?"

You sigh "I know, I just wish we could come clean, so I don't have to fake date that piece of shit" a gentle kiss is placed on your forehead.

"Soon, angel, I promise. M'fixing my image for you, so we can show up to your fancy events hand in hand. Everyone's gonna wish they didn't make shit up about us" he smiles, cradling your face in his hands. He is fighting sleep tooth and nail to be able to steal a glimpse, one more look, see how beautiful you look in the glowing yellow light of his side lamp.

"It's always gonna be you and me, baby" that's what he'd often say. A promise that things will eventually go your way.

It's too late to turn on the big light. So he allows himself one more touch, one more look, a caress.

Damning himself for falling victim to sleep, he looks at you one last time, already in the arms of Morpheus, as he lets himself sleep.

He doesn't hear you stir at 6 am, like clockwork. You grab your clothes and make your journey down the back stairs of the building, where your driver is waiting for you.

You look up. One day you'll get to wake up with him.

Day 2 is Reputation! Find the form here!

[pupsmailbox]

ZOMBIE ID PACK

NAMES︰ adrien. aj. altair. ambrosia. amy. angel. anomaly. antidote. arius. arrow. ash. asher. aspen. atticus. augusta. bane. banish. benny. bernadette. biter. blah. blood. bones. brain. brains. briar. brute. brutus. caden. canni. casper. chomp. ciaran. claud. claudia. clay. clementine. cobweb. coffin. corpse. corrose. cryptor. damion. deathesse. deb. decay. decompose. destroyed. doom. dredge. echo. ectoplasm. edward. elkridge. ellie. ember. everett. fang. flesh. fracture. frank. frankie. ghost. ghoul. ghoulia. gloome. grave. graves. grayson. griffin. grim. grimace. grimm. gutesse. gutz. havoc. hela. hex. horrell. horrelle. hunter. husk. jack. joel. john. junkyard. kade. kilian. klaus. labyrinth. lagoon. laverna. lee. lethe. liam. lilith. lily. lola. lurk. maggot. mangled. mara. marion. marionnette. medusse. mera. mira. mona. morella. morgan. morganna. morrigan. mortem. morticia. mortis. mortui. mourne. muerto. mura. muzzle. myra. myrtle. necro. necros. nekane. nick. nox. nyk. nyx. octavia. ominous. ophelia. organz. orpheus. osten. perish. perseus. plague. priscill. quille. rain. raine. rayne. red. rob. roman. rose. rosie. rot. rotten. rottie. saifu. sam. scar. scratch. sedna. shade. shadow. shamble. shaun. six. skull. slug. sour. taint. tank. theta. thorn. thorne. travis. trickie. tristan. undeadesse. valentine. vamp. vane. venom. vetus. vex. victor. violet. viro. virus. waila. wren. z. zack. zed. zeke. zob. zoe. zomb. zombz. zomi. zon.

PRONOUNS︰ axe/axe. beast/beast. bi/bite. bite/bite. bleed/bleed. bleugh/bleugh. blood/blood. bo/bone. bone/bone. br/brainz. brain/brain. break/break. chain/chain. coff/coffin. coffin/coffin. con/contagiou. cor/corpse. corp/corp. corpse/corpse. corr/corrupt. corrode/corroded. craw/crawl. creepy/creepy. dark/dark. de/dead. dea/dead. death/dead. death/death. decay/decay. decay/decayed. die/dying. dir/dirt. dirt/dirty. eat/eat. empty/empty. end/end. fang/fang. fear/feared. fiend/fiend. fle/flesh. flesh/flesh. freak/freak. fu/fungi. ghou/ghoul. gloom/gloom. gore/gore. grave/grave. grim/grim. grim/grime. grr/growl. grue/gruesome. gun/gun. gut/gut. holy/holy. hu/hunger. hu/hunt. hx/hxm. hy/hym. inf/infect. infect/infected. it/it. ix/ix. ki/kill. kill/kill. li/lich. living/dead. mold/molded. monster/monster. monstrous/monstrosity, morbid/morbid. morg/morg. mortal/mortal. muck/muck. nec/necro. ni/night. pla/plague. prey/prey. rain/rain. reap/reapers. rib/rib. ro/rot. rot/rot. rot/rotten. scar/scar. shatter/shatter. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. skull/skull. slit/slit. spoil/spoil. spook/spook. teeth/tooth. ter/terror. thxy/thxm. thy/thy. thy/thym. to/toxic. un/dead. undead/undead. vir/virus. zo/zom. zom/zom. zomb/zomb. zomb/zombie. ⚠️. ⚰️. 🍖. 🎫. 👁. 💀. 🔍. 😱. 🥀. 🧟. 🧟‍♂️. 🧠. 🧪. 🩸. 🩹.

[shannonsketches]

I overanalyze the hell out of everything but! While we're here--

I think a lot (and am too lazy to make the many many comics in my head) about how Vegeta was having fun with these androids (even being sportsmanlike with Piccolo about it!) until he found out who Trunks was (and also that they were the wrong androids). Then between that reveal and Bulma getting shot down, he switches back into Spite and Fury, and I just chinhands I think a lot about what a shot to the chest it would be to learn that you die -- you die in the future, you lose to these surprise enemies -- and your son, with his mother's machine and knowledge of the events, comes back to the past to make sure someone else lives.

"It's just because Goku's the first to die, so it's a domino effect!" Yes, but,

Vegeta was standing right there when Bulma said her strategy was to destroy the androids before they became an issue. Vegeta knows that Bulma feels very strongly that this is the move, and that waiting is stupid. He also knows that she watched him dabble on Earth for a year and a half before Goku came home.

So he knows that she could've sent Trunks back earlier, and had him talk to Piccolo. Vegeta could've used that entire ~12-18 months to train for a specific threat, or even just to prepare for Frieza's return.

He also knows that she could've just as easily sent Trunks back while they were all on Namek, and taken care of the issue before any of them were even made aware of it. That was her suggestion in the present! Trunks could've left Goku's medication with Roshi, or Popo, and just let it remain a mystery where it came from and how it got there.

But instead, Trunks came the day that Goku came back. So he could meet Goku. And talk to Goku. So he could make sure Goku survived. So Goku could save everyone. Because Goku would be there to win the day. Because Goku's is the strength they trust to be enough.

The way that must corrode your insides and just flood you with envy, and spite, and poison. The way he behaves for the rest of this arc despite the clever strategist we saw on Earth and on Namek, despite the cautious observation, the patience, the snarky humor, the distinct recognition of a threat that needs eliminating before it's too late -- despite all these things we've seen him be and have and do, after this point he's reckless and fuming and desperate to prove himself to the detriment of everyone around him.

As a punishment, maybe? For choosing Goku over You?

As necessity? Because you've spent 30 of your 31 years having the value of your life measured solely by your ability to win?

As a distraction? From knowing that you spent your life fighting tooth and nail for all that you are, only to die, humiliated, at the feet of your enemies having failed to do the only task you felt you were alive to do, then be revived by mistake, then learn that even your own child would prefer the person who succeeded at that one seemingly impossible task?

It's really no wonder, at this extremely low and fragile point in Vegeta's life, that he went from quietly standoffish to actively erratic from this point. It's not until Cell slaps him with the reality check of losing those precious few who continued to choose him despite his profound personal and operational failures (which were likely a death sentence, where he's from) that he settles back down (in the manga) to being quietly standoffish, strategic, and cooperative toward the higher goal.

Then spends the next seven years learning it never had to be like that because it turns out people on this planet mostly still want you to be alive and come home even if you fuck up real bad and you actually don't have to be The Star Executioner to be valued and welcomed and even?? Loved?? Which sucks to learn after you've already gotten your son and your rival and very nearly your rival's son killed by being an insecure jackass and making everything worse than it had to be.

But don't worry, it'll only happen one more time and it'll only take like 40 minutes to publicly murder like 2000 people and almost destroy the entire universe because you had something totally different to prove this time, it's a minor relapse at best, it's fine, everyone's fine, we're all gonna wish that memory away from all the innocent people and only think about it at 2am when you're awake laying in bed trying to figure out why the fuck you're still allowed in this house and you can spend the next 4-6 years turning your shit around and embracing that soft emotions are okay to feel and you're not a defective specimen being slowly deconstructed on a backwater space rock and it's actually normal to care about stuff and it's everything you were ever taught before this that was toxic and wrong and had to be unlearned so you could grow and change and harness true strength instead of chasing shallow power so it's fine!! It's totally fine. Everything's fine. He's fine. He's good.

[ghost-proofbaby]

Hi!! I’m your friendly neighborhood Swiftie BEGGING you for Eddie - Sparks Fly

sparks fly (eddie's version)

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff. mutual pining. the works. <3

wc: 2.1k+

a/n: this one got mad cheesy. maybe a little too cheesy. idc. i had fun with it.

“You know, one of these days, you’re gonna have to talk to Ed,” the older bartender, Phil, muses as he wipes down the counter behind you. 

You hardly hear him over the current symphony of electric guitars, riveting bass, and crashing drums filling the Hideout. You had one focus tonight, just as you did every Tuesday and Friday night, and that was the band on the stage currently commanding an even larger audience than last week. 

You’d seen it coming. Building crowds, more buzzing conversations around town in hushed tones about the band that owned the stage of the hole in the wall. You’d stumbled upon them by accident, coming in and telling yourself you were just grabbing one drink after a particularly rough shift. But one drink immediately turned into four that night when the band had taken the stage, playing song after song, keeping you glued to that bar stool and completely enamored with one particular boy on stage.

Eddie Munson. 

Every time you watch him command that stage, wild hair and vibrant eyes, it’s like the first time all over again. You can’t get over his wicked grin, the way he puts his entire self into each performance, the rasp of his voice – you’re down bad for a man you’ve never even properly spoken to.

By some miracle, you tear your eyes from the stage, swiveling to face Phil, “Excuse me?” 

“Ed. You know, Eddie,” he repeats himself, leaning both palms on the bar, “He notices you, you know? Always asks me where you ran off to after their set’s done.” 

Your heart is suddenly in your throat, embarrassment red hot in the pit of your stomach, “H-He notices me? Why would he notice me?” 

“You’re at every show. Even before they started getting a proper crowd. The damn boy hasn’t shut up about you since that first night,” Phil pauses to hand off a beer to another patron wordlessly, “You’re lucky you pay with cash and not card, or I’m sure he would’ve tracked you down outside of here by now. Calls you his Cinderella.” 

Like a clock chiming midnight, the final tinny note of the set rings through the bar, and you can hear that rasp of Eddie’s voice booming through the speakers.

“We have been Corroded Coffin! Thank you very fucking much!” 

And just like clockwork, you’re rushing to dig into your purse, yanking a twenty from your wallet and smacking it onto the bar before grabbing your drink to down the last of it. 

“I’m not Cinderella,” you choke out over the residual burn of the alcohol, face still scrunched up as you glance over your shoulder to see the boys have already left the stage, “I just like the music.” 

“The music,” he hums, “Right. Well, your money’s no good here tonight, little miss Cindy,” he reaches out, and with a singular fingertip, pushes the cash back towards you over the sticky wood. When your mouth opens and closes in confusion, Phil’s eyes flicker up towards the side door beside the stage where a commotion has begun, signaling that the band is coming out, “It seems the music likes you, too. So much so that he demanded I add your drinks to his tab tonight.” 

The coals of embarrassment burn even brighter, igniting you from the inside out. Your hand flies out, grabbing back the twenty and shoving it aimlessly in your purse. You keep looking back at the crowd, catching glimpses of dark curls over the small sea of people singing their praises, watching your seconds run out in real time. It’s not that you didn’t want to speak to the man who has had you captivated for several months now; you were just mortified that he’d noticed you in that crowd, noticed the way you attended each show. 

One of these days you’d talk to him. But tonight, you had no bravery left for such boldness. 

“You’re gonna have to leave behind a glass slipper for the boy eventually,” Phil only chuckles, watching you fumble to clasp your purse before you shoot up from the stool, “Hey, hold on-”

“Another night, Phil!” you call out, not even looking back as you make a beeline for the bar’s exit. 

If you had, you would have seen your favorite ring that Phil was holding up, the one that you had taken off your finger to fiddle with endlessly before sitting it down at some point without thought, now left behind like some kind of glass slipper. 

—

You were late. It was Friday night, the day had been a nightmare, and you were fucking late to Corroded Coffin’s show. 

Your attendance had never faltered like this before. You were always right on time, sometimes five minutes early once the crowds doubled in size in order to secure one of your regular seats. 

The deviation from your routine has you reeling, amongst other things. Your Friday had simply been shit.  A nonstop rampant attack on your sanity, one thing after another testing what was left of your patience. You’d slept through your first two alarms this morning, you hadn’t realized you were out of coffee creamer until you’d grabbed the scarily light container of it this morning, you had to take a dreadfully cold shower rather than waste precious minutes letting the water warm, you’d worked through your lunch to clean up a mess made by your coworker – the list goes on and on. 

You burst through the entrance of the Hideout, probably looking a bit crazed, stopping dead in your tracks when you realize two things.

One, It’s fairly empty. And two, Corroded Coffin is not on the stage. 

“Look who decided to show!” Phil calls from his place behind the bar, waving dramatically to you, “Cinderella!”

“Phil, for the last time, I’m not-”

“Your favorite band canceled tonight, I’m afraid,” he bulldozes right over your retort as you approach one of your usual stools.

Your brows furrow, “Canceled? Is everything okay?” 

Phil’s mouth opens. But it’s not his voice that answers you. 

“Gareth’s sick.”

A voice you’d only heard on the stage, through crackling speakers and enthusiastic addresses to a crowd. A voice you had never heard one-on-one, and for good reason. 

Your breath escapes you as you turn slowly, facing the man you’d managed to elude for months now. 

“Pardon?” you squeak out, voice hardly audible. 

Eddie still grins shyly, hearing you loud and clear due to how uncharacteristically quiet the bar is tonight, “Our drummer, Gareth – he’s, uh, sick. Sorry to disappoint.” 

He’s just as captivating up close as he is on the stage. There’s still something wild in him, something electrifying that he seems completely unaware of. 

“Don’t apologize,” you’re still whispering, internally cursing yourself for it. You probably look ridiculous right now; you can only picture your starry eyes and parted lips, looking at him with palpable shock, hardly able to utter a word, “I- I’m not disappointed. There’ll be other shows!” you stammer your way through your words, and when Eddie only continues to look at you with gentle amusement, the softest ripple of possible nerves from the way his hands shoved into his pockets, you continue to over explain yourself, rambling on, “I just- I, uh, hope he feels better.”

“Yeah, me too,” he nods in agreement before he buries his hands even deeper. Suddenly, as if he’s found something in those pockets, his face lights up in delight, “Oh! Hey, I-” his left hand pulls out of his pocket at lightning speed, still curled into a fist as he thrusts it into your direction, “I think this might be yours.” 

Slowly, he unfurls his fingers, and in the center of his palm rests your ring. You had assumed it was lost to the fire, that it might have fallen off at work or outside your apartment, never to be found again. Just another thing to add to your checklist of things gone wrong. 

And yet there it was, like a perfect glass slipper, right in the palm of Eddie’s hand. 

Your nerves are all but forgotten as you get giddy, reaching out without thinking to take the ring from him. A gentle brush of your fingertips against this palm, and you swear you feel sparks flying from the minimal contact, “Oh! Oh my gosh! Thank you, I-” you slip it on easily, smiling widely before you look up at him gleefully, “I thought I’d lost it for good. Thank you.” 

Eddie turns bashful, tilting down his chin and letting stray curls fall in his face that half hide his own contained grin. If the lighting in the bar had been better, you would have caught the pink spreading across his cheeks. 

“And so the prince finally meets his Cinderella,” Phil mutters from behind the two of you before he suddenly smacks his palms on the countertop, “Alright! Well, if you two will excuse me, I have to…. Do some stock count in the back,” a blatant lie, “Don’t burn the place down, yeah?” 

Eddie snaps out of his daze to look up to the older man, mock saluting him in a way that has an involuntary giggle leaving your lips. In an instant, he’s looking back down to you, almost surprised at the sound. 

Cheap bar lighting can no longer hide his blush. Or your own adoration.

“The bar is yours! Make good decisions!” Phil continues to shout as he moves to the backroom, voice fading with each step.

Finally, you and Eddie are alone. 

“And then there were two,” he murmurs, taking a step closer to you, finding something brave in him at the way you’re looking up at him in reverie. 

The rockstar that had been enchanting you for months from a distance. The man who had been occupying all your thoughts far too much for having been a stranger. 

This is your chance. No more hiding at the back of the bar, only admiring him with the safety of a crowd between you two. No more wondering, no more imagining, no more pining. Time stands still, not a single clock daring to strike midnight as the electric currents between you two come to a rise. 

“Say,” you say right when he looks to be preparing himself to speak first. It’s time to be bold, take a risk, no matter the costs. “Do you… Do you want to grab a drink?” 

His wicked grin is even better right in front of you, directed at you, “Well, he did say the bar is ours. What’s your poison?” 

“Jack and coke?”

He shrugs, still a vibrant fool, like a schoolgirl with a crush, “I’ve been known to have a heavy hand with the jack, but… I think I can manage that.” 

Electrifying, pulsing, the beginning of something new. You can see it now – the way you’re going to cling to his arm when he makes you laugh so hard you nearly fall off your chair, the way he’ll be able to charm you better over a jack and coke than he ever had been able to from behind a guitar, the way those eyes scream trouble. And yet at the end of the night, you know he’ll still walk you to your car through the empty parking lot. He’ll probably use the excuse of the bad weather looming overhead. When the sky finally breaks open and the first drops of rain fall, neither of you will be brave enough to admit what you both already know. Tonight’s not the night for kisses in the rain or talk of what-ifs. 

That’s fine. For tonight, the sparks of something new are enough. 

Eddie moves to walk behind the bar, but you throw out a reckless hand to catch him. Your first curls around his forearm for the first time tonight, and even with the layer of leather that separates skin, you can feel it. “Hey, did you really call me your Cinderella?” 

Flashes and arrays of what’s to come flood both of you. It’s only the first drink. It’s only the first night.

It won’t be the last. 

“I mean,” he nods subtly down to the hand holding him, where your ring glitters on your middle finger, snug on your knuckle, “If the ring fits, right?” 

He’s right. The ring fits. 

And a different ring fits years later, after all those kisses in the rain and many more jack and cokes that Eddie never quite perfects. And you’re still right where you belong, front row at every Corroded Coffin show, Eddie’s own personal Cinderella. When the clock strikes midnight, he’s no longer afraid – he knows you’ll be coming home to him now. 

Phil only laughs when he receives the invite, chuckling to himself at the chosen theme for the two idiots that once haunted his bar who now had moved onto bigger and better things.

A gothic fairytale wedding, on a Tuesday night. How fitting.

"you touch me once and it's really something. you find i'm even better than you imagined i would be."

[asolareclipses]

(Previous part)

The room full of eyes burned into to him, and Nico imagined this is what ants felt like under a magnifying glass. Everyone looked at him expectantly, as if he knew everything about darkness. Something’s dark? Yeah just ask Nico he’ll definitely know. That didn’t really bother him though, because he didn’t blame them. If someone were to mention storms he’d look at Jason, probably. What bothered Nico was the fear that lay behind some of their eyes, a traitor was in camp, one hiding in darkness. It was only human to be suspicious.

“…I’m not sure what it is.” Nico said, it was a half truth. He had a hollow feeling that he knew who was behind this chaos, but it was a feeling he wanted to ignore for as long as he could. But the spirits he spoke to that morning had only confirmed his deepest worries.

“Well someone wanted you dead,” Dana said, “unless..”

“Unless?” If eyes could shoot daggers, Wills eyes would be shooting swords.

“Im not insinuating anything, but my mother’s Athena so I was taught to see the bigger picture.” She seemed hesitant as she spoke, “It would be a genius plan.”

Nico’s heart stopped. He felt like his did all those years ago as he watched, behind a dream, his friends debate whether he was worth saving. As accusation of trust which had destroyed him, despite him never speaking of it. He’d hadn’t even told Will, keeping that memory locked away as it slowly ate away at his sanity.

“You can’t be serious,” Will stood up. His voice was cold and harsh as ice, as his fists clenched in a sense of rage.

“No,” Nico stood up, he put his hand on Wills arm. Will had always fought tooth and nail for him, Nico wished he didn’t have to. Every time Wills gentle demeanor turned to that of anger, it made Nico feel an all consuming sense of shame; if only he could be more simple, more easy to handle. “It’s fine, if that’s what you think.” He tried to keep his voice steady, each breath he took brought him back to that table, that ship, that jar.

The room suddenly felt suffocating, the air felt too stale, he felt trapped again.

Will turned to him, his brows knit in utter concern, “Are you okay?”

His words felt muffled beneath the ringing in Nico’s ears, “Y-yeah..I just need a moment.” He didn’t want to, but his body took over as he rushed out of the front door. A second longer in that room had been unimaginable.

As his shoes hit the grass, it withered. He cursed under his breath as he tried to steady his hands.

“You’re not in that stupid jar, pull yourself together,” He muttered leaning against the wall along the side of the big house. Whatever breathing exercises Mr D. had taught him dissipated with his panic. He knew how stupid it was, running away as soon as someone accused him. That was probably the most suspicious thing that someone could do. ‘Oh are you the murderer’ ‘No, bye!’

Still, his stomach felt like as if it had been tied into several knots, corroding him from the inside out with painful moments from the past. He felt like he was there again, watching the two people he was closest to now, debating his life. Nico had never blamed them, he’d never hated them. It was never them who hurt him, it was himself. He hated himself.

Nico would’ve stayed there, drowning in his thoughts forever, if it weren’t for the sudden sounds of clashing that echoed through the camp. It sounded as if something was skittering across the ground, followed by metal scraping against rock. His hand instinctually went to where his sword would be, but unfortunately he’d left it in his cabin. Despite that he still headed towards the strange sound, attempting to be as silent as possible.

When he peeked around the corner he saw Mae, a new camper who had shown up with her younger brother Sam a week ago. They had been claimed as children of Hecate the night they showed up. The two of them reminded Nico of when he and Bianca first came to camp, he couldn’t decide if that was more painful or comforting. Unfortunately the sound wasn’t just Mae sword practicing, as a large shadowy creature stood infront of her. It was similar to a scorpion, but its form flowed with a wobbly consistency.

Mae stood there, sword in hand as she faced the creature. Her hands shook as she trembled in terror, Sam was hiding behind her. Nico could almost picture himself, that day at Westover, cowering behind Bianca as their Vice Principal turned into a monster.

The scorpion thing moved forward to strike and Nico rushed to intercept, it was incredibly stupid as he didn’t have a weapon, but still he charged ahead. Just as it thrust its claw towards Mae, Nico willed all the shadows it was made from against it. The darkness seemed to fight him, barely remaining under his control.

He bided enough time to grab the sister and brother, pushing them out of the way. “Mae, take Sam and run to the big house.” Nico said as he took the sword from her hand. His words were rushed as he could feel the scorpion regaining its control behind him.

“But I can help!” Mae’s eyes were filled with the same bravery Bianca’s had once shown.

“You don’t have to be a hero just yet okay? Just make sure Sam is safe for now,” He didn’t allow Mae to protest and she agreed, grabbing her brother by the arm and running off towards the big house.

Nico almost breathed a sigh of relief until he turned and was face to face (or what he presumed to be its face) with the creature. Up close, its shadows swirled and shifted like each was breathing on its own. Its claw lifted and swung at him, and Nico lifted his sword in an attempt to block the attack, but the sword passed through the creature like it was made of air. The claw kept going unbothered and Nico barely managed to move in time to not get chopped in half, unfortunately the sharp spikes along the claws managed to slice into his arm.

Nico reminded himself to never leave his cabin without his sword again as his arm began to drip with blood.

“What is that?!” The counselors from the big house had all began rushing out towards Nico, along with them, more campers rushed over too.

The scorpion turned towards the others, its void-like claws snapping. Nico knew there was nothing their swords could do to kill it; so in a last ditch effort he slammed his foot against the ground, a large crack spreading and swallowing the creature whole. A second later the crack sealed up, leaving a barren scar along the grass. The satyrs were going to hate him for that.

“Oh my Gods Nico what was that?” Leo had rushed forwards with Jason and Will.

“I don’t know,” Nico said through heavy breaths, the pain from the creatures claws was overpowering as it seemed to seep throughout his whole body.

“Your arm,” Wills face was pale as he gaped at the wound.

“How did that thing get into camp?” Connor asked as he stared at the large gash along the dirt.

“It shouldn’t have been able to get through the boundaries,” Chiara said.

Suddenly a lot of suspicious eyes were on Nico, again.

Will seemed to notice as he snapped towards the small group of campers gathered around them, “You can’t be serious!”

“Will we’re not saying anything it’s just…” Dana seemed reluctant to continue.

“Who else could conjure up something like that?” An Ares camper called out, Sherman quickly turned glaring towards the person who’d spoken.

“Give me one good reason why Nico would do that!” Jason yelled, and as he did the air seemed to turn electric.

The campers went silent, they all seemed to have a thought on their mind yet no one spoke it aloud.

“I get it..” Nico said cutting through the silence, his voice like a knife. “I’ll figure this out myself.”

He stepped backwards into the shadow behind him, the last thing he saw was Will eyes widening as he called out, “Wait Nico!”

Nico didn’t wait, he disappeared into the shadows, but not before Leo could manage to latch onto his arm, following him into the shadows.

As the world faded to black he heard a sharp sickeningly familiar voice in his head, Strike one little demigod.

—

Leo wasn’t sure if following Nico was incredibly smart or incredibly stupid, but with his track record it was probably the latter. His body had reacted before he’d thought about his decision though, and he was quickly pulled into the shadows. As he entered the darkness he was hit by a sense of cold from every direction, it was as if he were surrounded by nothing. He’d forgotten what shadow travel felt like, and he’d forgotten how much it sucked.

He was never more glad to see the sun when they stumbled out of the dark. They were in some park, with a vast assortment of trees spread throughout the grass. The air was warm and fresh, providing a comforting breeze as the sun shined above them.

“Valdez i’m going to-“ Nico began to say something in his usual angry tone before he doubled over onto the ground. The grass around him withered and black smoke seemed to trail off of him.

“Nico are you-“

“Shut up.” Nico cut him off, speaking through gritted teeth. Leo felt guilty, just standing there, but after a moment Nico managed to steady himself.

“Dude are you okay?” Leo asked, unable to convey the pure amount of worry he felt.

“It’s fine.” Nico took a shaky breath, struggling to stand.

Leo wanted to reach out and help him, but he had a feeling it would not of been appreciated. “That didn’t look fine.”

Nico eyes snapped towards him, “Why did you follow me?”

“Because I wasn’t going to let you run away all on your own like an idiot?”

“Who said I was running away?” Nico looked at Leo like he was stupid.

“Huh?”

Nico sighed, wiping the dirt off his hands, “I was going to try and find what’s been causing all of this. If I can find it and stop it then this whole mess will be over.”

Leo gaped at him for a moment, he felt a rush of sadness and then anger, “You thought you could just go out all on your own? By yourself?”

“I don’t want anyone else getting hurt, this is my mess.”

“First of all,” Leo felt himself heating up, literally as the tips of his hair began to smoke. “You can’t just try and solve everything on your own like that, you could get hurt, or maybe worse..secondly, how is this your mess?”

Nico paused, a hesitant look passed over his face. “Because I think I know who’s doing this.” He paused before speaking again as Leo waited for him to continue, “Nyx.”

“Nyx as in Night? Why would Night be specifically attacking you?”

“I guess I hurt her pride back in tartarus,” Nico said. Leo thought about how casually he’d said that, like that fact he’d been there twice was no big deal. “Or..”

“Or?” Leo couldn’t imagine how it could get worse.

“She’s trying to rise. I mean after Gaea rising and the Giants attacking, there must of been a lot of time for her to gather her power. She’s a goddess after all, she might be trying to rise like Kronos did.”

“Great, that’s amazing.” Leo sighed, there it went, getting worse. Unsurprisingly, they couldn’t go more than a year without something very bad happening. “So she’s coming after you first, for what, a grudge?”

“That..or it’s because i’m the only one who can really stop her, if she gets rid of me first she has a better chance of taking down camp.”

“So you go out to try and face her, on your own?” Leo felt his patience running thin, “Isn’t that exactly what she’d want?”

“I wanted to stop her, before she could hurt anyone else.” Nico looked down, he wouldn’t meet Leo’s eyes anymore, his focus now on the withered grass.

Leo felt a tinge of guilt as his anger dissipated, “You don’t have to do everything by yourself you know that? This Nyx lady, she loves darkness?” Leo’s hands sparked into flames, “Then i’ll show her some real light.”

A hint of a smile creeped onto Nico’s face, “I’m not convincing you to let me do this on my own am I?”

“Nope!” Leo’s flames turned to smoke as he reached into his tool belt, pulling out some bandages. “Now let’s get you all fixed up before we put ourselves in any further danger.”

Nico rolled his eyes, looking at the deep gashes along his arm. Something about the cuts was abnormal, yet Leo couldn’t figure it out. It was yet another moment where he realized that he could fix any machine, but when it came to humans he was seriously lacking. Again, he wished he was a doctor like Will or something, magic healing powers would be great right about now. Even ambrosia would’ve been nice, but of course the most he could give was papery bandages and some screws and bolts.

He did an extremely poor clean up job on the wound before stopping to ask, “Maine is a pretty big state, where to first?”

A dark shadow seemed to pass over Nico’s face as he met Leo’s eyes, “Westover. Me and Bianca’s last school.”

(Part Four)

[jo-harrington]

Corroded Coffin Fest Halloween - Gluttony

Summary: The Corroded Coffin boys just can't say no to candy.

Word Count: 1031

Rating: T

Warnings/Themes: Friendship, teenage shenanigans, boys will be boys, food/eating, implied sickness

Check Out the Main Post for @corrodedcoffinfest here! Even if you didn't start on the first day, you can still participate.

Tagging @the-unforgivenn @1lostsoul0fishbowl upon request.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

Monday, October 28th 1985

It was no secret that Eddie Munson had a sweet tooth.

It was honestly a surprise that his teeth hadn’t rotted out of his head yet, with the amount of soda he drank and confections he devoured.

“What can I say,” he grinned that big, boyish, crooked Munson grin. “I am a champion at brushing my teeth.” He chomped them twice to emphasize his point.

But that sweet tooth always meant trouble come the candy holidays.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dustin questioned on morning, after the older boys asked if the freshman were ready now that candy season had arrived.

"Candy Season!" Gareth shouted and jumped out of the van. "You know, all of the holidays that you'd typically expect to find candy. Halloween, Christmas."

"Valentine's Day, Easter," Jeff added.

"Some teachers bring candy in," Eddie explained. "Some bring baked goods--Mrs. Arnold's brownies are to die for--and usually the cafeteria has some kind of sweet on the menu. Pumpkin pie, peppermint fudge..."

"Eddie always complains that it's a shame there's no school during the summer--"

"What?!" All of the freshman screeched.

"--because he is denied his favorite: cherry pie."

"Oh Cherry Pie," Eddie dropped to his knee, arms outstretched towards the heavens. "How do I love thee, let me count the--Dave, if you kick me, I swear to god you have to walk home the rest of the year."

“Then get up!” Dave snarked. “Forget the Cherry pie, there’s candy waiting just beyond those doors Shakespeare.”

Oh, was there candy.

And baked goods.

Sugar beyond any teenage boy’s wildest dreams.

They had helped themselves to handfuls of candy corn or tootsie rolls throughout the day; Mrs. Arnold, indeed, had trays of brownies with a pumpkin cheesecake swirl on top to surprise her students.

The more they ate, the more hyper they got. Eddie's English teacher created a fun challenge to tell a spooky story and Eddie, ever the rule breaker, decided that he would energetically recite Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven. He barely took a breath between each stanza. He was rosy-cheeked and heaving by the end but he won.

The prize? Yes, a little baggie of candy.

"I didn't even know I knew the whole thing," he admitted sheepishly as he bit into a piece of saltwater taffy.

At lunch, the PTA moms held fundraiser for new marching band uniforms. Never let it be said that the members of the Hellfire Club weren’t about school spirit when they spent the entirety of their lunch period munching on those candy apples.

But, all good things come to an end.

“Ugh,” Jeff groaned by the end of lunch as he leaned back in his seat and rubbed his aching stomach. “Someone call Ridley, I feel like I’m gonna burst.”

“You have nothing to complain about,” Mike scoffed. “I have PE after this. I'm not gonna make it."

All of the boys groaned at the sound of the bell.

"Eddie I'll give you all the money in my piggybank if you can help us ditch the rest of the day," Dustin pleaded.

"There are only three periods left, Henderson," Eddie hefted himself to his feet, even though he, too, felt like shit. "You'll make it. Think of the candy."

"I don't wanna think about candy ever again for the rest of my life," the younger boy groaned.

Eddie ruffled Dustin's hair and then headed to his next class.

O'Donnell's. US History.

By the time he got to his seat, his heart was racing and his vision was blurry and he had the horrible realization--

"Am I getting too old to stuff myself with candy?"

--but he said a quick nah and put his head down on his desk.

Normally, he'd be able to sit in the back and close his eyes during O'Donnell's class. But he'd been doing better so far this year, making the effort in order to finally graduate.

She'd let one little nap slide, right?

"We have a fun lesson today," O'Donnell announced and handed stacks of worksheets to be passed back. "In the spirit of Halloween week, we'll be talking about the origins of the holiday here in America. Alongside a few spooky topics. The Salem Witch Trials...Regional folklore."

What would've been the best lesson of Eddie's life turned terrible as the world lurched when he lifted his head to grab the worksheets.

He raised his hand weakly.

"...we'll even get to read about...er...yes Edward?"

"May I go to the bathroom?" he asked, earning a huff of annoyance.

"You know the classroom rules: bathroom breaks during the last five minutes of class only."

"Then can I go to the nurse's office?"

She instructed the class to look over the assignments and she approached him.

"Eddie, I thought this would be something you'd be excited for," O'Donnell told him, gently. "I'm not trying to be hard on you but if you want to pass, you have to try."

"I'm really not feeling good today, Mrs. O," he whined.

With pursed lips, Mrs. O'Donnell looked him over critically and then shook her head.

"You look fine," she insisted. "You can go to the bathroom in the last ten minutes of class."

She tapped her finger against the worksheet and then walked to the front of the classroom to begin the lesson.

Eddie did his best. He tried to listen, he tried to be enthusiastic, he tried to fill in the worksheet.

But the classroom was too hot and his skin was too tight and his stomach was cramping and his whole body just felt wrong.

So he simply couldn't wait until the end of class; he needed to get out of here. Now.

He was gonna pass out, or shit himself, or...uh oh...

He stood and hastened towards the front of the classroom.

"Munson!" O'Donnell shouted at him as he closed the distance to the door. "Sit back down! I told you that you could use the restroom at the end of class I..."

And just when he opened his mouth to tell her to shove it, the candy that he'd happily stuffed down his throat made its return back up.

All over Mrs. O'Donnell.

[justmeinadaze]

Ghost in the Machine Part 4 (Eddie X You)

Warnings: Daddy Rockstar Eddie X Sub Fem Stripper Reader, SMUT, spanking, minimal degrading, strip teasing, FLUFF, they like each other, ANGST, Some of the negatives of Eddie's rockstar lifestyle spills into their relationship and reader has to put Eddie in his place, utilization of the handcuffs, Eddie talks about his last relationship and why it ended.

Word Count: 5704

Series Here

You grin as you watch Corroded Coffin in the recording booth working on their new track. Eddie seemed to almost go into a trance when his fingers moved across the strings and it added to the enigma that was this particular metalhead. You had your arrangement now for a couple of months and true to your word you were trying to be more open with him. In turn he told you more about his childhood and your heart always broke for him the more he expanded on his relationship with his father. 

Today he had suggested you come see him and the band record. Everyone he introduced you to was extremely polite and didn’t pry into your relationship with him or your personal life in general. 

“Good job you guys. Hey, Ed, that riff really does work better. Good suggestion.” Eddie gave him a thumbs up as the man behind the glass smiled. “Alright boys. You’re free for the evening.”

“Hey Wes. Is it ok if I stay behind?”

“Of course, Eddie. Just shut everything down when you’re done.”, he chuckles.

After everyone leaves, he beckons you with his finger to come into the recording booth with a big, tooth filled grin. 

“That was amazing.”

“Thank you. What did you think of my skills? Think it can get us bumped to number 4 at least on the billboard charts?”, he teases.

“Oh, at least. What do you hear in here?”, you ask as you pick up his headphones. 

Eddie grins as he sits on the stool beside you and plays some notes on his guitar that you hear clear as day through the little speakers in your ears. 

“In there they play some of the stuff we’ve already recorded and I play against it.”

“That’s cool. How did you get to be so good? Just a lot of practice?”

“Mhmm and alone time in high school.”, he chuckles as he holds his guitar out towards you. “Do you want to play?”

“Oh, Eddie. I’ll break it.”, you giggle. 

“You won’t break it, sweetheart. Come here.” Tugging on your sleeve, he moves you between his legs and helps place the straps on your shoulder. “There we go. Now just put your hands here.”

Long removing the headphones, his chin was resting by your ear as he gave you instructions in a low gravelly tone that had you biting your bottom lip.

“Good. Good girl.” He gently guides your fingers along the strings and to your surprise a melody actually forms making you smile at him with pride. “Do you recognize it?”

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine I keep my eyes wide open all the time I keep the ends out for the tie that binds Because you're mine I walk the line.”

Eddie grins as he nods and sings with you. 

“I find it very, very easy to be true I find myself alone when each day is through Yes, I'll admit I'm a fool for you Because you're mine I walk the line.”

“My uncle used to play that record all the time.” Lifting your palm, you grip his chin and bring his lips to yours. “I wish you didn’t have to work tonight.”

“I know. Maybe tomorrow we can go see a movie or something.”

“We can watch something on our big ass tv.”, he chuckles but it tapers off when he sees that look he’s become all too familiar with on your face. “I know, baby, I know. I just—”

“You’re trying to protect me.”

“You saw the pictures with Ashley. I don’t want you to have to go through that.”

“Eddie, I feel like I’ve gotten better at being more open with you.”

“You have, sweetheart.”

“So, you know what I’m about to say scares the hell out of me.” Eddie exhales as he prepares for the worst. “I like you. I like you a lot. I…I want this…”, you gesture between the two of you. “…to be something more than just an arrangement. But we can’t do any of that if we’re stuck inside all the time.”

He tugs you into his arms and kisses the top of your head. 

“I like you a lot to. We’ll figure this out, Y/N. I promise. I want you to be a part of my world but that includes all that other bullshit.”

***

“Did good tonight, honey.”, the bartender at the strip club smiled at you as he slid over a shot that you eagerly knocked back. 

“Thanks Luis. Would you mind walking me to my car?”

“Not a problem. Let me get Jace to cover real quick. It will just be a moment.”

Nodding, you lean against the bar as you wait, turning your head to find a gentleman at the end of it staring at you. 

“He’s right. You danced very well.”

“Um, thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I did. I enjoyed the song choice to. I’ve always wondered how strippers choose what songs they move to.”

“Oh, I just look through the inventory and select from there. The owner has a whole Spotify playlist set up so we can practice at home.”

“That’s pretty cool. Does he have any Corroded Coffin on there?”

Your head jerks towards him giving him your full attention. 

“I mean, you can’t exactly dance to their type of music. Mosh maybe but…”, you giggle trying to hide your nerves at his line of questioning. 

“I’m a huge fan of their work especially Eddie Munson. He’s a phenomenal guitarist but a bit of bad boy. I heard he’s been seeing someone new.”

“Who are you?”

The man smiles as he rises from his chair and extends his hand out to you which you promptly reject. 

“I’m Casey Reed, a journalist for a very esteemed website. Supposedly, you or “the mystery woman” his fans have been calling you, were seen leaving his recording studio a few times and a police report we obtained said he at your house a couple of months ago. Is he just a friend or…”

“Why don’t you fuck off and mind your own business?”

“So…not just a friend then?”

“Y/N, is this guy bothering you?”, Luis asks as he comes around the bar. 

“Not anymore. I’m ready to leave now.”

“Miss Y/L/N. Here’s my card. Call me if you feel like telling the truth or want to get ahead of this. At some point everyone will find out and even he knows that.”

###########

Eddie charges into the news outlet’s building and kicks open the man’s office door before slamming his palms down on the desk. 

“Fuck. Off. Casey.”, he growled. “You cause enough damage for me and my friends. Leave this girl alone!”

Security skids in but the journalist waves them off assuring them he’s got this covered. 

“Well shit. She must be special since out of all the women you’ve been with you bothered to come all the way down here to defend her.” Casey leans forward on his own hands matching Eddie’s stance. “Or is there something about her history that could cause some problems? To be fair though, it wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary for a bad boy rockstar like you to date an erotic dancer.”, he chuckles. “You know, Eddie, I like you. I really do but did you really think you could just keep her hidden? People were going to find out about her eventually.”

“She’s nothing, alright. She’s just…an acquaintance. Please, Casey. Leave her be.”

***

“Hey, Eddie. I thought I wasn’t seeing you till—”

“We need to talk.”, the metalhead cuts you off as he barges into your home.

“Is everything okay?”

“Look, um, some things are going to change over the next few months and I need you to be aware of them.” Scanning his manic demeanor, you nod as you fold your arms and lean against the back of your couch as you wait for him to continue. “I talked to my agent about Casey Reed and we’re going to kill any stories he may be preparing to write about us. That being said… I have to be seen going out with someone else.”

Your eyes widen as your lips form in a sarcastic pout. 

“Ok, yeah no, I completely understand. Any ideas who the lucky lady will be?”

His jaw clenches as he avoids your gaze. “Ashley Morris offered since the media already thinks we’re dating.”

Eddie’s eyes find yours again when he hears your giggle turn into a full-blown laugh. 

“And if I may ask, rockstar, are you asking me if you can do this or are you telling me?”

“Y/N…this is better for everyone—”

“No, this is what’s best for you.”, you growl. “Did you do this with your last girlfriend? The one you had for 4 years. How did she feel about you pretending to date a model?!”

“Y/N—”

“Just admit it, Eddie Munson. You’re embarrassed of me and the press it would give you being seen with a stripper! You know you really should think about acting because you genuinely had me believe you didn’t care about my profession.”

He stood there with a stoic expression as you continued to shout at him. 

“Whatever. Go enjoy your time with your model. Text me whenever you want to fuck me again because I guess that’s all I’m good for.”, you hiss. 

Without saying a word, he stomped passed you and slammed your front door.

***

“On today’s top story in entertainment news, Corroded Coffin’s guitarist Eddie Munson was arrested last night for disorderly conduct after being found drunk outside of bar in downtown LA and starting fights with a few of the patrons.” 

You sighed as you turned off your tv and got up to start getting ready for work. It had been a week since you heard from him and you missed him so much. There hadn’t been any new stories or reports about you or even Ashley; just Eddie constantly getting in trouble. 

You thought about calling and checking in but what he said had really hurt you. You understood that being a stripper was a taboo in today’s society but you thought you made him understand that you did this to survive and he made you believe he didn’t care.

Obviously, he did if he was willing to go through such extremes to pretend he was dating someone else entirely. 

The sound of your phone ringing brought you back to the moment as you answered for the number you didn’t recognize. 

“Y/N? Hey. I don’t know if you remember me but this is Gareth, Eddie’s friend and bandmate.”

“Yeah, hey Gareth. Everything ok?”

“Um, not really. I’m not sure if you keep up with the news but he’s starting to get out of control. I mean, more so than normal. When he drinks, he babbles about you. We were wondering if maybe you could come talk to him and possibly knock some sense into him. We don’t know what else to do. Our last resort is calling his uncle but Wayne will probably kill him.”, he chuckles. 

“Gareth, I…I don’t know…”

“Please, Y/N. We’re really worried about him. It’s getting to the point where…fuck…we may have to consider finding a new guitarist—”

“No! No, no. Please don’t do that yet.”

You knew how much playing music and his band meant to Eddie. He had given you tidbits here and there about how hard they had worked as a group and how this was always his dream for as long as he could remember. It would destroy him to have them take that away.

“I’ll be there in 10.”

##############

“Ed?”, Jeff called as he knocks on his friend’s door. When he doesn’t answer the man carefully slides it open and you both see Eddie drunkenly passed out on his bed. 

“I got it from here, Jeff. Thank you.”

The boy nods leaving you to your own devices and as you close the door you sigh as you take in his surroundings. The room was trashed; his clothes strewn around all over the place as beer cans littered the area around his mattress and on his dresser. A carton of cigarettes, now half empty, rested near an ashtray on the floor beside his guitar which was leaning against his nightstand.

Remembering something he told you that second night you were together, you went on the hunt till you found the handcuffs you were looking for in one of his drawers. Careful to not wake him, you reach for his wrists, lifting them above his head, and confining him to his headboard. As you leaned back, your eyes scanned over his sleeping face. Even now, he seemed incredibly upset as his eyebrows knitted together. 

Sighing, you threw your jacket to the side as you headed for his bathroom and filled the small cup near the sink with cold water. With one final cursory glance, you exhale as you step into your hardened headspace saved for clients or customers who liked it a bit rougher towards themselves and tossed the contents of the glass right into Eddie’s face.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”, he gasped as his head shot forward. He tried to sit up but was yanked back down by the handcuffs around him. “What…what the fuck is going on?!”

“I don’t know, Eddie. You tell me. What the fuck is going on?”

“Y/N? What the hell are you doing here?” You roll your eyes and disappear into his bathroom, coming back with a long stride as you throw water at him again. “FUCKING GOD DAMNIT! Stop it!”

“What is going on with you, Eddie Munson? According to your friends, you’re causing problems, you didn’t show up for a recording session, and you got arrested yesterday.”

“Let. Me. Go.”, he growls as his angry eyes try to intimidate you. 

“Or what, little boy?” You watched as his growl turned into a full furious grunt as he pulled at the cuffs trying to break free. “You think I’m afraid of you, rockstar? I’ve been through scarier shit with way more intimidating people. Now…if you want out, you have to answer my questions.”

“Fuck you, you fucking whore! You think you tell me what to do?! I can do whatever the fuck I want. Ugh!” He flinched as you splashed him again. 

“You know you sound a lot like my ex. Fucker used to say shit like that all the time but I never had the luxury of catching him of guard and handcuffing him with his own handcuffs to his own bed.” He starts to calm a bit as his eyes find yours. “Eddie, what’s going on?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

The metalhead huffs as he looks away, glaring towards the wall. 

“I didn’t like hearing you say that all you were good for to me was sex.”

“I mean—”

“No. I didn’t like it because I didn’t like that I had made you feel that way especially since it’s not even close to true.” Eddie listens as you move around his room only looking your way again when he feels you sit beside him. Popping open the top of the water bottle you pulled from his mini fridge, you brought it to his lips allowing him to chug some of the liquid before taking it back. “I’m not embarrassed of you, Y/N.”

“I know what it’s like to have those cameras invade your life and the damage it can cause. It’s…It’s part of the reason my ex and I broke up, the serious one.”

“Do you need more water?”

The man blinks before glancing down and shaking his head. “No, thank you.”

Grabbing a nearby towel, you quickly run it through his hair and down his face, drying any liquid you found along his skin. 

“A journalist like Casey did a background check on my girlfriend at the time and showed up unexpectedly at her parent’s house. They pretended to be a friend and got a lot of personal information about both of us. She was so embarrassed…even more so when some of the things they wrote about…got her fired from her job.”

“I offered to take care of her and her family but her last straw was when they published a video online of me and one of my other friend’s leaving a bar. It wasn’t the picture but the story which had the host saying something like, ‘Guitarist of Corroded Coffin seen leaving with playmate Allison Anders. Maybe Eddie Munson has finally found someone more his speed. Can’t imagine how vanilla his current sex life must be now with his current small town unemployed girlfriend.’”

“Why didn’t you do the pretend girlfriend plan you thought up with me?”

“She disappeared before we could come up with any plan. I woke up the next morning and she was gone, leaving me a note and everything. I made sure after that all the papers and tv hosts understood I was the scumbag. I made it seem like I cheated on her constantly and broke her fucking heart so paparazzi and fans would leave her alone.” 

The man’s gaze shifted up to lock eyes with you, the intensity within them causing you to falter a bit. 

“And I would do it again. Y/N, I won’t let them do the same thing to you especially after everything you’ve told me you’ve been through. I’ll look like the bad guy to keep you safe.”

“How martyring of you, Mr. Munson.” He growls and you match him as you square your shoulders displaying confidence. “I know I may not seem strong but I am, Eddie. Believe it or not I can handle assholes like Casey Reed. I told you I struggle with releasing control and allowing people to take care of me. That’s because I’ve done it practically my whole life. Just because I allow you to control me doesn’t mean it erased everything I learned. I can still take care of myself and you as well sometimes if you’ll let me.”

His jaw tightens as he absorbs what you were saying before finally nodding. 

“You have to stop behaving like a five-year-old. I don’t want you to lose everything you worked so hard for because you feel out of control. Remember what you tell me? I need you to be open with me, Eddie. We can figure this out together.”

“Yes, ma’am.”, he exhales as he nods again. Grasping his chin between your fingers, you lean forward to kiss his lips. “Hey, wait. What about me?”, he whines when you stand and head for the door.

“I’ll let Jeff know we’re done and he can release you.”

###############

The following evening you went to work fully diving into your strong, protective mentality as you danced and did your set. As Luis walked you out that night, you both paused when you saw a cigarette smoking Eddie leaning against your car.

As soon as he notices, he closes the distance, extending his hand as he introduces himself. 

“Can you take it from here, Y/N?”

“Yeah, babe. Thank you.” Luis nods before jogging back inside. “I see Jeff decided to set you free.”

“After some begging and admissions of how he’s way cooler than I’ll ever be, yes he did.” He grins when you softly smile. “I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me. There’s a 24 hour diner around the corner here. I was thinking we could walk since it’s actually not a thousand degrees for once.”

“Are you sure, rockstar? What if people see us together?”

“Then they see us together… Honestly, I don’t really care about you. I just want that delicious bacon, egg, and sausage sandwich thing they have over there.”

Your smile grows as you gesture with your head towards the sidewalk and he begins to follow beside you. 

“I’ve never tried it.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re missing out. It kind of reminds me of something my uncle used to make for me before school when I was growing up.”

“Yeah? I was always in a rush so I would just grab a Pop tart or an Eggo.”

Eddie laughs as the back of his hand brushes against your own. 

“Same especially since I slept till the very last second! But my uncle works overnight at the plant in our town so he would make it as like a quick meal before bed and left one for me on the counter near my lunch box.”

“He sounds like a good man.” 

Your fingers intertwine with his and he sighs through his nose with relief as he beams down you.

“He is. Wayne comes to the shows especially when we are in Indiana so hopefully you’ll meet him sometime soon.”

***

“It’s good right? Told you!”, he boasts after watching you take a bite of the sandwich he recommended. 

“Okay, okay. Calm down, Mr. Munson.”, you giggle.

Eddie’s eyes scan over you as he takes a sip from the coffee in his cup. 

“I know you’re strong.” Your eyebrows knit together before he explains. “You said you may not seem strong but you are. That me taking care of you doesn’t erase that. I know how strong you are. It’s one of the many things that attracted me to you.”

“Hm. Because you like putting a tough girl in her place?”

“No. Because I like knowing that even though you can take care of yourself, you trust me enough to let go. As you noticed…sometimes I struggle doing the same…but that has nothing to do with me thinking you’re weak or something like that. I’m just—”

“Scared?”

“I guess you could say that.”, he grins. 

“I can understand that. The few times you did let go you lost your parents and then the woman you love.”

“Jesus Christ. Where did you get your psychology degree, princess?”

“At the college of life, Mr. Munson.”, you laugh and his grin grows. 

“Excuse me.” You both turn your head at the sound of a voice and look up to meet the eyes of a young man standing next to your table with a baby swaddled into his chest. “I’m sorry to bother you while you’re eating. I was wondering if I could have your autograph Mr. Munson for my son here.”

“Yeah, sure. What’s his name?”

“Stephen with a ph.”

“That’s cool. I have a close friend in Indiana named Steven with a V.”

“Is little man having trouble sleeping?”, you ask.

“Yeah. Since my wife spends all day with him, I look out for him at night. Since he’s got a good loud set of lungs on him, I take him for a drive which is how we discovered Corroded Coffin. One of your songs came on the radio and he stopped crying instantly. He loves the guitar solos.”

“Maybe you have a little rockstar in the making here.” The dad smiles down at you and extends his hand for you to shake. “Hey, um, here. Give this to your wife. I’ve had this in my bag forever but I never use it. I imagine a new mom would love some pampering.” The gentleman beams at you when you hand him a card for a free full spa day.

“Thank you both so much. It was such a pleasure meeting you!”

Eddie shakes his hand and you two watch him as he runs excitedly to his car. 

“Well, aren’t you just an angel.”

“You’d be surprised how many dancers are struggling mothers. I know what it’s like for them just needing a time out and day for themselves.”

############

“Oh, you cleaned. I feel special.”, you tease as your eyes look around his straightened-up room. 

“Yeah. Some girl came over and threw water on half my stuff so…”, he shrugs before smirking in your direction. 

“I’m sure you deserved it.” Grinning, you lay down on his bed and he follows your lead, jumping on to the mattress by your side. Your lips reach up to quickly find his. “I missed you.”

Softly smiling, his palm caresses your face as he leans down to kiss you again. 

“I missed you to. I’m really sorry, baby girl. You know, you should feel special because no one has ever gotten the drop on me to get these cuffs around my wrists.”, Eddie chuckles.

“It’s not hard when you’re passed out drunk.”, you tease. 

“Will you let me make it up to you, sweetheart?”, he coos as he rubs the tip of his nose along yours and down your cheek to your ear. “Will you let Daddy make you feel good?”

“Hm. I don’t know, Daddy.”, you tease. “You did disappear on me. You broke the rules.”

“Do as I say not as I do, baby.”, he smiles, kissing your cheek. “But, no, I hear what you’re saying. You think I need some form of punishment. What do you think, hm? A spanking?” Eddie sticks out his tongue, wiggling his eyebrows playfully and melts as he listens to you laugh.

Pushing on his chest, you sit up and guide him to stand in front of you. 

“I think you should show me some of your moves, honey.”

“You want me to strip for you? Sweetheart, that’s more of a punishment for you because once you see my moves, you’re never going to want to leave.” You cackle, biting your bottom lip as he grinds his hips in the air. “Well, I need a song right? Pick one.”

Browsing through his collection, a mischievous grin paints your face when you find something and press play. Listening for a moment, he smirks at your choice before nodding as he sways his body to the music. 

“I made another mistake, thought I could change Thought I could make it out Promises break, need to hear you say You're gonna keep it now.”

The skin between the tears in his jeans touch yours as he places himself directly in front of you, looking down at you with that intensity that makes you blush. Continuing to slowly move side to side, he gradually descends onto his knees as his palms glide up and down your thighs, opening them wide as he stays between them. 

“I miss the way you say my name The way you bend, the way you break Your makeup running down your face The way you touch, the way you taste.”

Tossing away his shirt, you can’t help but scan his upper torso with your eyes hungrily. The way his guitar pick chain hung around his neck with his bare chest drove you crazy. Licking his lips, he rose to his feet, thrusting slightly as you rolled your eyes playfully. Taking a hold of your wrists, he guided your hands along is body, grazing the bulge in his pants ever so slightly before letting you go and backing away, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“When the curtains call the time Will we both go home alive? It wasn't hard to realize Love's the death of peace of mind.”

The image of his slanted, cocky smile as he unbuckled his belt will forever be burned into your brain but that was nothing compared to the sight of him taking off his belt in one go around his forearm and tossing it to the side. People never understood there was always a type of dominance that came with stripping. Most men when you danced saw an innocent little girl that they wanted to “control and take care of”. Truth was on that stage you had all the power. YOU commanded attention and control what they saw physically and emotionally. 

As Eddie stood there for a moment with his muscular arms at his side, his tattoos accentuating his chest, and his pants hanging low enough to show you the slight V into the waistband of boxers, you wondered if he was now aware of it to.

“I miss the way you say my name The way you bend, the way you break Your makeup running down your face The way you fuck, the way you taste.”

Unbuttoning his pants, he pushed them and his boxers down, kicking them to the side. Dropping to the floor, he crawled to you, stopping when he reached your feet, and at an agonizingly slow pace, placed soft kisses up your leg, to the inside of your thigh. Cutting him off, your fingers take hold of his chin and tilt his face so you can lean your forehead against his. 

As soon as the song ends, the energy in the room feels like it explodes as your lips crash to his and push him back against the floor. 

With a hastened, passionate energy, Eddie practically ripped your clothes off your body as you continued to grind your hips while you kissed his lips. A heavy exhale fanned your face as you took his cock in your hand and ran his mushroom tip through your dripping folds. Cupping your cheeks in his palms, he held on to you as you gradually began taking him in. 

“Fuck.”

“You got it, baby. T-Take your time.”

“D-Don’t want to take my time.”, you groan as you roll your lower half trying to push him deeper. 

“You want Daddy’s help?” When all you do is nod, his palm comes down hard on your behind. “Let’s try that again. Do you want my help?”

“Y-Yes, yes, Daddy, please. I need your help. Need you to fuck me.”

Wrapping his arms around you, Eddie holds you tightly to him with one hand firmly gripping the back of your neck and the other on your lower back. Bracing his feet, he trusts roughly up into your cunt, hitting that spongey spot inside of you hard. 

“Fuck! Just like that! Please.”

“Just like that, pretty girl? Mmm—fuck—I missed you so much, Y/N.”

While your lips and tongue mingled with his, he continued pumping into you at a steady rhythm that had Eddie swallowing each and every delicious moan. 

“I want…I want…” 

Your eyes opened as the normally confident rockstar stumbled over his words.

“What, Daddy? Huh? What do you want from me?”

As he pushed you two up into a sitting position, your hands clung to the base of his neck as you rolled your waist meeting each one of his thrusts with one of your own.

“You.”

“You have me.”

Eddie’s need filled eyes opened, abruptly meeting your own as he yanked you closer till his mouth was hovering just under your own.

“I want you to be mine. I want everyone to know you’re my girl. Shit. I want to show you off and treat you the way you deserve. I-I want to fucking spoil you and keep you safe. I want YOU.”

Your mouth fell open in a silent moan as you hugged him to your chest, trembling against him as you came. 

“Fuck, baby girl. Feels so fucking good when you cum.”

After flipping you on to your back, he chased his high till you heard him grunt next to your ear and felt his release spill inside of you. 

***

You don’t remember when you fell asleep but when you opened your eyes the next morning, you were greeted to the sound of a softly breathing Eddie beside you as he continued to sleep. He had placed one of his arms under your head to use as a pillow while his other was tossed casually over your stomach. 

You assumed he didn’t want to disturb you and since you both were too far on the floor from the bed, he covered your top half with his jacket and both yours and his lower halves with a small throw blanket.

A knock on his door did nothing to rouse the rockstar from sleep making you giggle as you verbally allowed the person entry. 

“Oh, shit. Um, sorry, Y/N.”

“No, Jeff, it’s ok.”, you beam up at him causing him to blush a bit as he smiles back.

“Hey, Ed. Munson. EDDIE!”

“Hm.”

Rolling his eyes, his friend reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the dresser and tosses it at the guitarist, hitting him square in the head.

“Jesus Christ. The fuck, man?! What do you want?!”

“Good afternoon, Edward. Manager wants to meet with you in an hour.”

“Ok…tell him I’ll be there in four.”

“I’ll get him up, honey, thank you.”

Jeff smiles gratefully your way as he leaves and closes the door. Rolling on to his back, Eddie groans as he blindly pulls a cigarette out of the pack and searches for his lighter. After finding one in his jacket pocket, you light it for him and he grins sleepily as he tilts his head towards it before exhaling smoke away from your face.

Cuddling closer to him, his free hand begins playing with your hair as your fingers gently trace down his chest along his stomach.

“Does he want to talk to you about me?”

“Hm?”

“Your manager.”

“Hm probably…Or scold me again for getting trouble.”

“Should I come with you then?” At your question, his eyes fully open as he cranes his neck to look at you. “I mean…if I’m your girl right? I imagine there’s things I need to know or maybe things they want to talk about when it comes to my job.”

Tossing away his half-finished cigarette, Eddie excitedly takes you in his arms and rolls on top of you as you jokingly groan at action. 

“Say it again. Please. Say you’re my girl.”, he begs as he pushes up on his elbows and caresses your cheeks with his thumbs.

“I’m yours, Eddie. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship but…I trust you.”

His smile widens as he leans down to kiss your lips and presses his face into your neck as you laugh, hugging him to you.

“You’re safe with me, baby. I promise.”

“Okay, okay. Get up and get dressed! You have a meeting with your manager.”

“Pfft, fuck him. I haven’t seen you in a week. I’m spending the day with my girlfriend.”

############

;)

@mynameismothra @hideoutside @micheledawn1975

@mygirlchaos

[elsewhereuniversity]

I have something for you, not gifts but something to pass on when needed if they ever will be. I ask and want not nothing in return, but for these to be passed on into hands that need them. 

When I was young my grandmother gave me her crochet hook of rose gold, it is etched with flowers in bloom and in the sun it looks to be made of rowan and rose wood. She passed it into my hand and told me to learn her craft but I could not and though she sat by my side to guide my hands it was not the right time and place and she knew, so I carried it in my heart with the message that I would learn.  

When I was not so young my aunt pressed a hook of gold, thick with gems that made it painful to hold into my hand, it smelt like marshmallows and corroding metal but I wanted to learn and I wanted their approval so I forced my hand around it, you will find though I have tried to clean it blood and tears remain staining its deepest parts. I could not learn with the golden hook in hand and this time no one sat by my side to guide my hands but they sat around with smiles on faces that looked like sneers at each missed stitch or question.  

I made my own hook then, in the dark and quiet of silver and tears, it looks like glass in the moon and running along the handle are wolves in a snowstorm, although sometimes they are cats or bears or crows. And once in a blood moon I saw a dragon, a moonstone in its eye. It is warm in my hand and smells of rain and crisp cold air.  

That night I made a rose.  

I have carried all three hooks with me now for nearly a decade since forging my own and have taught many to forge their own hooks and paths, now I find that holding them still though I love one and fear the other feels wrong. They are not for my kin though they are from them. So I seek to pass them on, make good use of them for one was love in my hand but perhaps not in another's and the other was pain but was given from those of pride and confidence and may pass it on where it made me shrink.  

For each hook, let me offer you a dragon's tooth, each a jagged blackened thing meant to tear. When you are in need, throw one to the ground behind you, and they will spring up as warriors. The first will guide your hands, the second will draw blood in your name, and the third will stand vigil beside you.

[mochinomnoms]

I know I'm not the only weirdo out there, but salt. Like actually craving extra salty treats like fair fries or just straight-up eating salt from the salt shaker like a gremlin.

Azul chasing you off like a stray cat with a broom Floyd encouraging or trying it as well to be menace and Jade just being amused.

I hope others can relate.

me eating limes with salt

I like to think sometimes about who would be concerned/mildly horrified at the sight of me salting a lime, sucking the juice out, turning it inside out, salting it again, and tearing the flesh off with my teeth

I think Trey would have a heart attack at the sight of me corroding my tooth enamel with straight acid. I like to think Ruggie and Floyd would eat it with me, if not for a snack just out of sheer curiosity.

I wonder if I could scam Azul into selling bags of TWST version of hot cheetos with nacho cheese that shit slaps ong.

[superstar-nan]

Fight Tooth and Nail

Night 5 (At Freddy's)

Summary: This is the end.

Words: 5,826

Fun stuff: Toxic relationships, grief, description of dead bodies, violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, vague mention of child murder, and angst.

Happy 10 Years!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love FNAF!!!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoy this finale!!!!!!!

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───── (\ /) ─────

You woke up to thunder gently rolling you to consciousness. Heavy clouds darkened Michael’s home to sleepy grays and soft shadows. There wasn’t any rain yet, but you bet there would be by the time you left for Fazbear’s Fright.

You looked at your phone and your eyes burned at its brightness, but you squinted and suffered through it anyway. You slept longer than you wanted. You turned off your phone and rested your head back with a heavy sigh. Rest begged for you, but you couldn’t go back to bed.

When you rolled over, your foot hit something soft.

“Hey.”

You peered down the couch. Michael was on the other end of the couch, awkwardly positioned in a way that clearly avoided touching you but was still attempting (and failing) rest. You couldn’t tell if he slept a wink. Why didn’t he just go sleep in his room if he didn’t want to touch you? “Morning.”

He pushed your leg off of him, “It’s evening.”

What a delightful man. You rubbed your eyes and yawned, stretching your arms behind you and arching your back. Void eyes trailed your chest and neck as you relaxed “Did you finish the drawings?” You said, with your eyes closed.

“Yes,”

“Good...” You said, half-heartedly and uncommitted to getting up to look at them.

“...I should rebandage that.”

The soft smile on your face washed away as your eyes opened. Your fingertips grazed the bite and you didn’t even have to look to know Michael was watching you very carefully. You hoped the darkness was enough to obscure your expression. “Show me how to use the cameras first.”

Michael set his corroded jaw. Your deflection couldn’t even fool yourself. Michael stood up and left behind the couch. You leaned your head back and exhaled, this time strained and shaking. Michael returned with pages in his hands.

Michael explained the cameras in his low, shredded british accent. Not only did he tell you how to use the panel, but he taught you exactly how to find Springtrap on the cameras. He circled his usual hiding places and gave you a list of Springtrap’s tells—whether they marked him staying or moving and where. Michael explained to you his strategies for keeping his dad in one place and how likely each strategy was to work. It was a lot to follow. You knew Michael engrossed himself with keeping Springtrap away from the office, but you had no idea exactly how much work it was until now. You followed him as best you could, and Michael made sure to slow down when you tried pretending you knew what he was talking about.

You offered to put together a few of your “toys”, just to make things easier on you and Michael, but he refused. There wasn’t enough time anyway, and you knew that, but you wanted to do something to help him in return. There was nothing you could do, and that thought ate at you.

You expected Michael to bring up bandaging your shoulder again. He didn’t. You didn’t know why, but you suspected he didn’t mention it on purpose. 

In the last hour before midnight, you helped Michael drag large, red gasoline vessels to your car. He must have gone to the store while you were asleep. Slow raindrops fell on your nose and cheek. When you looked up, rain started to drop in a cascade. You didn’t have the energy to avoid getting soaked.

You decided not to bring your axe. You didn’t want the temptation to leave the office unless it was absolutely necessary. It was strange and uncomfortable going to Fazbear’s without your axe or toys. It felt like picking a fight with a bear unarmed.

Michael took your keys and got into the driver's seat without a word, and you sat in the passenger's seat in suit.

It was surreal. This was the end of Fazbear’s Fright: where this madness and mystery all began, and you wouldn’t even be the one to end it like you thought you would. Honestly, it shouldn’t have been you to begin with. You knew that from the moment Michael (albeit vaguely) told you the story of Freddy’s. This wasn’t your story, it was his. You were an intruder, absorbed in your own tragic narrative that just so happened to be aligned with his. You were grateful it aligned with his, because you wouldn’t have been alive if it wasn’t.

You looked over at Michael as he drove through impossible rain and thunder. He was an unlikely friend in all this. Your heart softened seeing dull passing lights graze over his silhouette. You don’t know if you would tell him, but you had needed him. Yes, in the way that you would be dead if it weren’t for him—but more than that. He was there. He was there right when you were alone and breaking and your closest friend was gone, but he was there. He was rude, blunt, emotionally distant, and a corpse, but he was there. He wasn’t especially comforting and he tried his best to get rid of you, but that didn’t matter. He was there.

You leaned your forehead against the window, rain beating on the car’s roof. You weren’t prepared physically, mentally, or emotionally for this night. No matter how much you willed time to stop, Michael still pulled into the parking lot of Fazbear’s Fright. Your car’s headlights and the attraction’s sign barely made a dent in the darkness the rain cast on the attraction. 

Michael turned off the car. “Are you ready?” He asked in the darkness.

The sound of the rain was deafening in the darkness, “No.” 

Before he could say anything else, you got out of the car. You were soaked immediately. You and Michael ran for the attraction’s grimy doors. You thought of the first time you came to Fazbear’s Fright, how bad you thought the smell was. You looked at Michael. You knew he would hate to know he smelled worse than even his rotting father. 

Your heart hammered against your chest when you entered the office. You didn’t know if you would be any good on the cameras. You pulled out your small stack of folded drawings and swallowed, looking at the screen.

“You’ll do fine,” He said, though whether that was to assure you or him, you didn’t know.

Michael was soaked, like you. Water dripped from his dark, artificial hair, layers of dark circles hung heavy under his void eyes, and his body—rotting and gaunt as it was—looked too heavy for his bones to carry. You were suddenly struck with the idea that you might not see him again—whether he died or you—and that feeling settled into your stomach with a sad acceptance. 

You took his hand, “Be safe, Michael. And...” You swallowed, “Thank you. For everything.”

It sounded like a goodbye. Maybe it was a goodbye. If these were your last shared words, you hoped they conveyed how much he helped you.

Michael’s mask slipped, and you saw a myriad of emotions cross his face: his torn lips parted in sorrow, his brow twisted in loneliness, his hollowed eyes bearing into you with longing, his abraded cheeks warm with byzantium affection, and... there something else you couldn’t discern. Another emotion that came from him, one you wracked your mind to understand but couldn’t. 

“I...” He swallowed. Something resolute washed over him and he leaned toward you. You blinked, confused by his sudden closeness. You barely had a chance to think by the time his lips were a breath away from yours. 

And then, he froze, his hollow eyes went wide in their inky blackness. You tilted your head slightly. You could’ve stared into his eyes for hours and you still would’ve been mesmerized by them. As if pulled away from your lips by an unseen force, Michael leaned to the side and kissed your cheek. His lips were scratchy and spongy at the same time, leaving a strange lingering feeling behind.

Michael pulled away from you, his void eyes downcast. He readjusted his grip of the tank of gasoline in his hand and left the room without another word.

Was he... about to kiss you? No, you were imagining things. The bittersweet feeling of the night must’ve gotten to you.

You laid out your pages so you could more readily pick out Springtrap from the cameras. Midnight passed, and you knew he would already be on the move. You swapped through the cameras, your fingers shaking over the buttons. Your eyes quickly scanned over the fuzzy TV static, periodically flicking to the pages Michael drew for help, and then you changed cams. You don’t know how Michael did it with such ease, you would need at least ten nights of practice before you’d be confident enough to do this.

There. A hand barely in frame and obscured by static. Your heart thrummed with the thrill of finding him and the fear of losing him just as quickly. Static consumed the screen and, in a panic, you smacked it. Somehow that worked, and the TV-snow started to clear lightly, but the hand was gone. Your eyes went wide as you slammed down on the audio button. 

You held your breath. Nothing more happened. You pressed the audio again, insistent and your nerves fried. When he didn’t show up again, you cursed under your breath. You swapped through the cameras, but static eclipsed your screen.

You picked up the control panel and tapped the audio first. Now that you were manning both the cameras and the control panel, you realized Michael wanted to keep you in the office with him not just because it was safer, but because it was so much easier with two people working the panels. Once the audio was done, you tapped the cameras and let it reboot while you rechecked the screen. 

Static cleared slowly, and you swapped through the cameras again. You swore you checked every camera and compared it to every picture, and you could not see him anywhere. Your heart started to ram against your chest when you saw Michael through the camera. He was pouring gasoline, every so often checking behind him. You had to help him, you had to keep Springtrap away from him, but you didn’t know what to do.

You started randomly playing the audio anywhere that Michael wasn’t. He had to be somewhere and he’d follow at least one of those...

RED-FLASHING-BLARING-RED-FLASHING-BLARING

Your hands fumbled with the control panel in your panic, almost dropping it. You tapped reboot all and hissed under your breath. You hadn’t meant to tap the longest option, but now that you did, you repeatedly pressed it as if that would make it reboot any faster. Red faded in and out of your vision and you wiped the sweat from your forehead. Even as the ventilation was done rebooting, it still took time before the alarms stopped. 

You weren’t very good at this. You wondered if Michael heard that. You wondered if Springtrap heard that.

You quickly swapped through the cameras trying to find Springtrap, but it was too easy this time. Purposefully easy. 

He was standing in the hallway with plastic stars dangling from the ceiling. His silhouette was encased in shadow, the lights of the arcades flashing colorfully behind him. You saw bunny ears heavily shift to one side as he mechanically tilted his head. 

Your heart beated faster and your face warmed. You wondered if Springtrap knew you were controlling the cameras. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out your sporadic audio spamming wasn’t Michael. 

Springtrap started to move, and he wasn’t hiding it. It was clear he was walking to the office. You could let him. You didn’t have to lure him away. He would be distracted, and Michael would have more than enough time and space to burn the building down.

You swallowed, and it was heavy in your throat. 

You pressed the audio and Springtrap froze. You bit your lower lip. You could keep him distracted with the audio. That was better. Your hatred and desire burned at you to let him come to you, but your common sense wasn’t completely lost. You only hoped your ability to work the cameras wasn’t lost either...

Silver pinpricks stared into the camera with violent, shaking anger. His fingertips twitched mechanically as he burned his gaze into the camera. An electric thrill traveled up your spine at his rage. He wanted you to let him come, and it delighted you that you didn’t. And then, like putting on a mask, Springtrap’s fingers stilled and his silver eyes cooled to ice. He took one step back, then two, and then he was in shadow. You couldn’t see him.

You hurriedly pressed the audio, but nothing played. It needed to be rebooted again. You didn’t realize how short the window of time was between audio lures. It took way too long to reboot, and by the time you returned to the cameras, you had no idea where Springtrap was.

You stilled to silence. There was movement in the vents. You swallowed. You swapped through the ventilation cameras, but if he was in the vents, he was now gone.

How quickly your motivation shifted from trying to keep Springtrap away from Michael to trying to keep Springtrap away from you.

You rebooted the ventilation even though it didn’t need it. You couldn’t risk drawing him closer with the alarms going off. You started to play the audio anywhere away from you, and you had to stop yourself from playing the audio where Michael was.

You were panicking. This wasn’t good. 

You rebooted everything once the audio needed it just in case. Then, you saw something flash past your peripheral.

You looked up, but he wasn’t there. You knew better. Your breath quickened. 

You repeatedly pressed the audio button on CAM 2 despite it not finishing rebooting. Even when the camera went blank with static, you kept pressing it. It was only once the ventilation error came up in the corner of the screen that you stopped for the control panel. 

You rebooted the ventilation first. You couldn’t let the alarm go off. You didn’t need to reboot the cameras, you just needed to focus on getting him away from you.

You put down your control panel, and a pair of rotten rabbit ears quickly moved from behind the door frame. Your breath hitched. You slammed your hand down on the audio button. A fake child’s laughter played. 

When you looked up, he was in front of you. You almost collapsed in relief when you realized he was behind the glass. His finger circled the heart he scratched into the window nights prior. 

You snatched the cameras and pressed the audio to CAM 2 again, but by the time you looked up, he was gone.

He was playing with you. Maybe it was playing with you. It didn’t matter. You felt like you were going to throw up. Your head buzzed with adrenalin and your heart was beating faster than a hummingbird. You rushed to reset the audio.

You put it down with a shaky exhale. You had to get a hold of your nerves.

Click.

You stumbled out of the office chair. Seven feet tall, looming at the door frame was Springtrap. The ghastly yellow-green light from the office painted his grotesque features in vivid detail. Rotting guts spilled from his metal skeleton, barely held by the soiled fabric of his costume. His jaw was sealed tight in that permanent, unsettling grin, and you could see your own blood from previous nights that stained his teeth. Instead of revolting you like it should’ve, your face warmed. What was wrong with you?

Your fear knew enough to grip hold of you. Your head snapped to the vent. You might be able to escape if you threw the chair at him and lunged the vent, if you were lucky. But...

Your head turned back to Springtrap, his body still at the door.

...Why wasn’t he attacking you? Mauling you to tiny pieces? Did he want to chase you?

Your hands carefully held the back of the office chair, just in case you might need to swing it at Springtrap. Silver eyes watched your hands hungrily, and you were struck with the desire to be holding him instead of the chair; fingers splayed over his chest, dipping lightly into red, swollen and rotting organs. You quickly pushed that thought away.

“You won,” You said, and Springtrap’s silver eyes lidded, his mouth unhinging from its tight grin and pressurized air being released from his metal jaw, as if the very words gave him pleasure. You didn’t like pleasing him. “So why am I not dead?”

In a motion so quick it startled you, Springtrap ripped something from his chest. It made a noise that was wet and squelching. Your body’s visceral reaction was to wretch, but you forced yourself still.

The item in Springtrap’s hand was dripping with spoiled bodily fluid as he held it out for you. You looked at silver eyes that held your gaze robotically. Your body screamed at you to throw the chair and run, your mind begged you to escape this monster, but your heart...

Your heart knew exactly what he was holding without having to take it.

You took slow small steps, tentative toward Springtrap. His patience was mechanical in nature, the type of patience an animatronic would have to show when waiting for a hug from a timid child. Your hands were shaking as you took the soiled object from his large, open palm.

It was your best friend's earpods. You bit your tongue, grasping it tightly in your hand. You couldn’t let yourself realize what this meant. You couldn’t think about this. Not now. Not now.

“Why do you have this,” You said and you were shaking, but you knew why. You knew there was only one reason why. And if you admitted it, you would burst into tears, and you couldn’t do that when he was close enough to kill you.

Springtrap leaned toward you, his body bending slightly forward and his broken rabbit ears leaning to one side. His rotting hand was still outstretched, and his silver eyes matched yours with such a driven intensity, you found yourself unable to turn away. And then, he did something that turned your stomach.

He beckoned you. He beckoned you exactly how Michael showed you; how he beckoned the children he killed. You wanted to throw up, you wanted to scream, you wanted to push him away, but—even more than all of that—you wanted to take his hand. How could you not? Even if he hadn’t given you the clue you were missing to your best friend, Springtrap dripped with an inviting, albeit twisted, charm you couldn’t deny. You could see exactly how easy it was for him to lure children—how he could entice them with promises of surprises and gifts and games and secrets. You could see exactly why they’d fall for his trap, just like you would, and that made you ill. How terrible, how absolutely vile, and the only thing that eased your nausea was that his once deceptive and charming mask was now twisted in a mockery of charisma. It was as repulsive outside as he was inside, and now it was permanently drilled into his face so that he could never lure another innocent victim to their demise again.

Except for you, who would take the hand of a monster willingly if it meant finding your friend.

You glanced at the cameras. It wasn’t on Michael, and yet you still felt the guilt of betraying his desperate request. He wanted you safe, but you were useless on the cameras and you’d be a much better distraction for Springtrap in person. 

When you turned back to Springtrap, a shiver of delight traveled your spine. You saw deep and rabid rage shaking from him. His eyes went cold and robotic just as quickly at your attention. You wondered if he thought we were looking for Michael to save you. Springtrap’s ability to disguise his emotions eerily resembled Michael’s, and that thought was almost enough to distract you from the pleasure his jealousy brought you.

You took Springtrap’s hand, and you swore his grin widened with a sinister triumph. His hand was cold and ragged, like an overused sponge, as it engulfed yours. His grip was unbreakable—just like his grip on your throat in the hall, or his grip on your hand against the vent, or his grip on your waist when you almost kissed him—you wouldn’t be able to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t want to.

He turned from you, your hand still in his, and he began to march. You had seen his trudge many times, especially while watching Spring Bonnie chase the delusion of a child, but it was different walking with him. The way he moved was a strange mixture of organic and mechanical. His ears and fingers twitched with robotic malfunction and his legs were carried by heavy metal programming, but each step felt too purposeful and too fluid for mechanical processes. His gate was unnaturally human and was punctuated with an unusually practiced tenseness, as if every movement he made was painful but he anticipated the pain. 

You hoped every step was pain. You hoped every time he stalked you through the halls, every time he was forced to march toward your toys, every time he raised his claws against you—he felt the metal rods pull against his tendons and tear into his flesh. That thought fed you.

You looked at the claw gripping your hand. Without thinking, you adjusted your grip, interlocking your fingers with his. 

Springtrap stopped. His head turned toward you with an aching metal creak. You wouldn’t return his intense silver gaze; you couldn’t bring yourself to. You didn’t know why you interlocked your fingers with his. Maybe it was the thought of him in pain that gave you enough bliss, maybe it was the uncertainty of where he was taking you that frightened you, maybe you just wanted to hold his hand. Regardless of what it was, you were holding his hand and you weren’t letting go.

Even after stillness and silence, you refused to look at Springtrap, so he turned back forward and resumed his trudging. Metal and rotten claws dug sharply into your hand as he squeezed your grip, but you didn’t mind the pain. In fact, you preferred it. It was only once you felt the pain that you realized this was the same hand he interlocked with yours in the vent. 

Finally, Springtrap stopped. You squinted in the darkness. You were in the room you first saw him, away from the main areas and barely monitored by the cameras. There was something in the darkness, angled away and out of view of the camera. You could make out vague shapes: a table and chairs set, party hats on every placemat, a gift box at the end of the table, and-

No. No no no. It can’t be- They can’t be-

You tried to pull away from Springtrap, but his grip on yours tightened. He threw you forward, and your palms slammed into the chair at the end of the table.

Your eyes met your best friend’s corpse at the other end of the table.

“No...” Your voice was barely a whisper.

No! They couldn’t have- They were supposed to live! You were supposed to find them! You-! You-!

You felt sick. You couldn’t look at them. There was so much dried blood. You couldn’t be here. You needed out. You needed to get out. You needed to get out.

You turned to run, but Springtrap grabbed you and turned you back around. You tried to resist him, digging your nails into his arms, but it did nothing. He forced your face forward, making you look at the corpse of your friend. Thick tears fell from your cheeks, coating his palm.

“Stop-” You cried, “Stop!”

How could he? How could you? You failed them. They called you and you failed them. If you had been there, if you had listened-

Everything was blurring. You couldn’t be there. You couldn’t stare at this mockery Springtrap made for you. You had to do anything—anything to get away.

“Please let me go!” You begged, sobbing into the claw forcing your face forward. “Please!”

Springtrap let you go, and you ran. You were dizzy. You were nauseous. You didn’t know where you were going, and it didn’t matter. You collapsed into the arcade machine—the same one you hid behind your first night there—and you sobbed.

They were gone. You knew they were gone, deep down you knew, but it hurt. It hurt so much. You shouldn’t have given yourself false hope. You shouldn’t have returned. You should’ve listened to Michael. It hurt. It felt like your flesh was ripped out of you. You couldn’t get the image of their corpse out of your mind. They were gone. They were gone they were gone they were gone they were gone they were-

You were forcefully turned around, your back slamming against the arcade screen. It should’ve hurt, but you were numb to it. Springtrap lifted your chin with a single claw. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want to play anymore. You didn’t want to hate him or want him or feel him or whatever. Your best friend was dead. Your best friend was dead.

You cried as your head dropped. He would probably kill you now. Just like them. It didn’t matter. You just wanted this to be over. You didn’t want to be here anymore. It didn’t matter.

Michael was still in the building. He needed you to distract Springtrap.

You didn’t care about killing Springtrap anymore. Any fiery hatred you had for him was drowned by your grief. But for Michael... You could distract him, for Michael.

You took Springtrap’s face in your hands and kissed him.

The kiss was cold and lifeless. Without your hatred to intoxicate you, kissing him was exactly what you imagined: kissing an moldy old puppet. You hadn’t noticed in your grief-induced trance, but Springtrap’s hands were around your throat. He was going to choke the life out of you. Maybe that would’ve been a better distraction than this. Your tears painted his muzzle as you pressed your body against his, your lips pushing against his blunt teeth and tattered fabric mouth.

Something starved snapped inside of Springtrap. He grabbed your waist and re-slammed you against the arcade cabinet. Your head hit the screen with enough force to see stars. Springtrap was moving against you, grasping at your sides, pressing against your face—he was shaking, his movements were erratic and clumsy. It was as if he needed to feel you, and when you couldn’t move fast enough, he’d slam you against the arcade cabinet again. 

You couldn’t keep up with him. You were in the haze of your own crushing sorrow. You could barely feel him bite you when you didn’t move fast enough. You didn’t care that when you kissed him your own blood coated your lips. You just wanted this to be over. You wanted everything to be over. But you kept moving, routinely, for Michael.

Claws dug into your hips, dragging through skin and beading thick droplets of blood. You started to feel warm. It had nothing to do with what Springtrap was doing to you. You were numb emotionally, but physically you started to feel warm. 

The temperature in the room was rising.

Springtrap didn’t notice. He was too engulfed in touching you. You would’ve reveled in that if you were still filled with hate, you thought detachedly. But you didn’t revel. You couldn’t. You could only feel your chest caving in, to the point that you couldn’t move against him anymore. You had to passively take everything he did to you, because any energy you had to return it was gone.

This Springtrap did notice. He slammed you against the arcade cabinet again, as if he could force life back into you. He was furious, livid, and thrashing. Silver eyes shook with rage and he dug his claws deeper in an attempt to pull a reaction out of you. You couldn’t react. You wondered if he would grow tired of trying to burn life into you and would just kill you. At least then it would’ve been over.

The room was getting hotter.

Then something surprised you, even in your grief-ridden state. Silver eyes that burned into you with violent anger were subdued with mechanical programming. Claws that dug into you pulled away from your lacerated flesh. Rabbit ears moved up robotically.

You blinked heavy and thick tears from your eyes as you looked up. It wasn’t Springtrap, it was Spring Bonnie looking at you. You don’t know why it was here. There was no noise to lure it away or no game to entice it. But something triggered in Spring Bonnie’s distinctly inhumane eyes: a cause and effect behavior that characterized programming. You knew it, because you had seen it every time Springtrap was forced to march away from you.

There were mechanical clicks in the rabbit animatronic as you looked down. Its voicebox fizzled to broken life, impossible to understand. Instead of stopping, like Springtrap had done when he tried to use his broken voicebox, Spring Bonnie didn’t. 

Once it finished its incomprehensible sentence, it placed a hand over yours. You furrowed your brow. This wasn’t the faux, mocking comfort that you were used to with Springtrap. This wasn’t even genuine emotion. This was the systematic code of a program that went unused for too long. You realized it must’ve been written software for comforting a crying child; a statement of assurance and a gentle physical gesture. How strange, that Spring Bonnie was capable of executing that code after so many decades of disrepair.

If you had been any more present, the whiplash going from Springtrap’s violent kissing to being comforted by Spring Bonnie would’ve been enough to make you vomit.

You had hated Spring Bonnie with William in the past, but was that fair? If anything, Spring Bonnie had tempered William; making him go toward the sounds of children and playing games with you that kept you alive. Spring Bonnie had never been your enemy, just the face of him. It almost felt as though Spring Bonnie, while only a machine and casing, was yet another one of William’s victims. Its cheery features and bright visage were forced to commit terrible acts on the children it was supposed to delight. Though, of all of William’s victims, you supposed Spring Bonnie got the best revenge, even better than yours.

The room was no longer just hot, it was bright. Fire creeped into the room as a whisper at first, but now demanded your attention. Sweat dripped from your face, a strangely real sensation in your dissociated state. 

Spring Bonnie still continued not to move, robotic eyes staring intently through you. You wondered if it asked you a question when trying to use its broken voicebox, and wouldn’t move until you answered it. Its hand was on yours, but it was gentle enough that you could shake it off. You didn’t shake it off.

Fire started to rage around you in a furious surge. The heat licked your skin like a broiling oven. You looked down. This was the end. This was your end. Your tears turned to steam when they hit the floor. There was a small relief that it was over, and some broken part of you was glad you were able to help, but... you were so sad. Your closest friend was gone, and now you would be too. It was fitting, but it hurt.

It hurt so much.

Spring Bonnie’s fingers twitched. He was coming back. A large pipe collapsed next to you both, the embers dancing like red fireflies between you two. The heat choked you, smothered you, and filled your lungs, blood, and bones. And soon, it would consume you. Both of you.

“I thought it would end this way,” You said to Spring Bonnie, and your voice was hoarse. You didn’t know if it could hear you over the raging fire. You didn’t know if it could even comprehend the depth of your words. But it felt nice to have someone there at your end. Someone that wasn’t the monster who killed your best friend.

In the haze of the flame and the pain, you heard your name being called. You slowly turned your head. Your vision was obscured by heat forging ripples in the hot air. Then, something slid across the floor and bumped your foot. It was your axe. You thought you left it at home. You looked up. 

Through the fumes, there was Michael. He looked... so sad. His sullen eyes, deep as the void, were shaking with desperation. He needed you to live, you remembered. He needed you to live.

You hated seeing him sad.

You pulled away from Spring Bonnie—or Springtrap, you weren’t sure with the metal malfunctioning and twitching in the broil—and picked up the axe. It burned the skin of your palms holding it, but the pain was numb to you. You knew it was Springtrap when he grabbed your arm, violent and jerking.

You had been willing to die. You were ready to die. This deep into your despair, you wanted to die. But... for Michael, you’d be willing to live.

You swung the axe down with every last bit of strength you had. 

CRACK!

Springtrap’s arm severed from his twitching body and collapsed to the floor. You didn’t waste a moment. You sprinted through the flames, leaping over the burning pipe and ducking under the embers. 

Relief washed over Michael’s face and it was the only thing you could focus on. If you focused on anything else, you would fall and burn.

You grabbed his hand as you ran, dragging him into a sprint. Fazbear’s Fright crashed around you in brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. The fire burned away the past five nights and you were outrunning it with Michael. Tears dripped down your face, but you hadn’t felt so free.

You two stumbled out of the building and into the parking lot and pouring rain. You collapsed into a coughing fit, not realizing how much the smoke suffocated you. The rain cooled your skin in a way that burned. Michael took a few steps back, and you saw the firelight reflected in his void eyes. You turned around.

Fazbear’s Fright was in flames. With Springtrap still inside. It was done. It was beautiful.

You looked at your wristwatch and you wailed.