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[greatunironic]

eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.

so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.

he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.

because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.

eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.

(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)

when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”

then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?

he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.

“you’re alive,” she says.

eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”

“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”

he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.

“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.

“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—

“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.

“maybe not.”

“don’t lie.”

“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”

“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”

“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”

“speaking from experience?”

“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”

“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“

“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”

“at the frozen four.”

“yeah, sure, that too.”

“what?”

“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”

“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”

“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.

eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”

“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”

“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.

the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”

“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.”

steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“

“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“

“so,” says steve.

“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.

“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”

“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”

“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”

“coach! go time!”

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“COACH!”

he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta — but, uh, later?”

“pick me up in twenty?”

“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.

someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”

with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.

“damn,” he says quietly.

“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.

“how long have you been there?” he asks.

she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”

“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”

“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.

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[diejager]

bro make a fanfic about the reader and the ghost/konig WHEN THE READER WAS SHOT IN THE BUN ON THE MISSION AHAHAHHHAH LMAO (in the military helicopter when they were supposed to return, the reader was holding her butt, moaning, writhing in pain and trying to hide the pain)

That is a funny thought…

Shots Cw: gun violence, bb shots, tell me if I missed any.

You yelped when you were hit is the ass, flinching forward and raising your arm just as you turned to glare at whoever landed the shot. Your right cheek exploded in soreness, tingling from the sharp pain of a BB shot.

“Hit!” You called it, letting your rifle hang from your shoulder as you rubbed your right cheek, grumbling about the bastard, “On my fucking ass of all places.”

You walk towards the respawn with your arm up, still cussing out whoever shot you in the ass. You had a hunch about the shooter: Soap, who else had enough courage to shoot you in the ass. You doubted Gaz did it, he might’ve been tempted, but he preferred other type of pranks, more mischievous ones like tampering with the washer or drinks, harmless but hilarious. Soap, however, rarely knew the limit, going as far as stealing and hiding your stuff, tapping you in the ass or messing up your head while he cackled away, speeding off to Ghost or Price to escape your wrath.

You reasoned that this was a staged scenario, a small group activity Laswell came up with that landed your Task Force somewhere in France for game of airsoft, a Free for all in the reserved location. No one had complained, thinking it a good activity mixing fun, training and awareness —everyone agreed to it enthusiastically once Ghost had voiced his grumpy acceptance, seeing this as a moment to be able to training without the prying eyes of others or the presence of strangers. Once you reached the spawn point, your jump back in to land a few shots at Soap to see whether or not he liked getting his ass bruised by a BB. You walked off determined, mind narrowed down to a single goal, your retaliation—

Until you yipped a second time, a pellet bouncing off your second cheek. You whipped around, yelling as your eyes scoured the tree line and the openings in the buildings behind you, the windows, the roof and behind pillars. You couldn’t find Soap anywhere, he wasn’t hiding behind the trees or in the buildings, but you did catch the glint of a scope —a familiar sniper scope.

“Ghost, you son of a bitch!” You screamed in outrage, feeling how both cheeks throbbed with pain. You bared your teeth, hissing at your Lieutenant who seemed smug and comfortable in his high perch on the roof of the building, “Why’d you do that?! I was already out!”

”Big target, luv,” his amused voice cracked in your comm, the low rumble of sadistic pleasure ringing out in your headgear. He cocked his scope, his white mask standing starkly in his dark gear and broad figure, “Impossible to miss. Quit moaning.”

“Big target? Are you-!” Huffing at his continued laughter, you glared his way before you turned to hurry back to the respawn, “Let’s see who’s laughing later, you ass.”

“Fuck- Hit!”

Your shoulders shook with restrained laughter, admiring the way Ghost jumped from your perch, hidden in the darkness given by the cement wall. You listened to him hiss and swear, massaging the place you aimed for: the pronounced curve of his ass, his jeans rarely doing him the pleasure of hiding what he had.

“Quit moaning, Ghost,” you cackled as you parroted his words, telling him the same thing as he told you, but you had more to add, more to taunt and tease him as revenge, “Couldn’t miss it, Lt, it was a big fucking target.”

You watched him stomp off, retreating to the tree line for his spawn point. It filled with a sense of elation and ugly smugness, and all that was left now, was to find Soap.

“Steamin’ Jesus!” Johnny’s yelp felt more exciting than Ghost, something you could devour over and ove without regret.

“Not so fun, is it, Johnny?” You smirked, replying with a gleeful tone.

He looked red-faced, the tip of his ears turning a bright shade of red from the way you spoke to him, utilising his known weakness and playing him to watch him stutter and flush brightly.

“Awa’ a bile yer heid! That hurt, lass!” His voice had taken a whinier tone, face screwed in embarrassment and something that you couldn’t put your finger on at this distance.

“I know, shouldn’t have shot me in the ass then.”

Gaz tapped you on the shoulder, a smile threatening to break into chuckles. He’d known what happened to you and knew what you did in retaliation, finding amusement after siding with you, sitting beside you and peering at two frowning and mumbling men.

“Heard you had a lot of fun.”

“Not enough.”

You thought you heard Price sigh tiredly.

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[sentientcave]

Heavy Weighs the Crown

Had to stop working on everything else and write a whole bunch of this instead. Usually I like to finish things that I think might be on the longer side before I start posting, but we're gonna live on the edge with this one. Expect updates in 1-2 Bearimys.

Chapter One - Sweetpea

Next Chapter >

Contains: Generic fantasy setting, Princess Reader, Large men picking up reader like a football, No Y/N, A spot of magic, Some exposition, Reader's dad (deceased) was a real piece of work, Reader descriptions kept as neutral as possible but keep in mind that she is a character to me and does have a specific appearance so things might slip through. This is just me having a bit of fun with a fantasy setting because it is my favourite type.

~3.4k Words - MDNI

Sunlight streams down through the light scattering of clouds above, as you carry your nearly empty basket into town to buy a few things for your auntie Kate. She’s not truly your aunt, but over the past few years it’s hard to think of her as anything less than family. She’s not warm, exactly, but she’s honest, and you know that you can trust her with anything.

Kate would usually be at your side when you go into town, watching the crowd with hawkish intensity, as though she still expects agents of the new king to materialize and snatch you away, but she’s away on business, and her wife much less paranoid. You expect that anyone who was ever looking for you has given up on you now. After the civil war, there was a time of instability, and you laid awake many nights, half expecting armed men to break into your bedroom and snatch you away, but everything is smoothed over now, and there’s no reason why Price would feel like he needed you to cement his rule.

You’re happy to just let him have the kingdom. You have more freedom as an ordinary girl, and you’re happier now than you ever have been. You were miserable living in your father’s halls, just a spindly little flower growing without enough sun or rain. And your people are happy now too. It twists your stomach something fierce, to think that your father was never a good king, but the reality is that he wasn’t. People starved while he feasted behind his walls. He sent good men to wage war on his behalf, to die in far off lands when they should have been home building better lives for themselves and their families. He allowed his chosen men to terrorize the women and children and old men living in the towns still. Things had been bad.

So yes, let Price have the crown, and the castle, and the responsibility and anything he likes. What difference does it make to you now?

What matters now is the sun on your face, and the gentle sound of birdsong around you, and the dull bite of the occasional stone through the soft leather soles of your shoes. The air smells sweet and green, although there’s a slight prickle at the back of your nose that tells you that there will be rain tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest. There’s nothing to worry about aside from whether or not the children in town will like the end of the book you have tucked into your basket.

You see a young man sleeping by the side of the road on your way into town, his horse tied to a long halter while he lounges beneath a tree. As you pass by, a bird flying too close startles the horse, and it pulls up the peg it’s tied to, and bolts. The young man doesn’t stir, so you dash after the horse without a thought, dropping your basket so you have both hands free to seize the halter.

You try to dig in your heels to stop the big, white-stockinged horse, but it half-drags you a little ways down the road before finally stopping, swinging it’s head around to look at you as though you’ve personally offended it. “Come on,” you tell it, exasperated. “You don’t belong out here.”

Arms wrap around you from behind, hands much larger than yours close over your wrists. “You’re awfully pretty for a horse thief,” a voice says in your ear.

“I’m not a horse thief!” you protest. “I was trying to help!” The horse snorts, as though it intends to tattle on you for something that you most certainly were not doing.

“And you didn’t think to wake me up?” The man behind you lets go of one of your wrists and spins you around, the movement smooth and graceful, like you’re two dancers at a ball, rather than two strangers meeting along a country road. But when you look up, you find the all too familiar face of one of Price’s knights.

“Sir Garrick!” you gasp.

“Princess,” he says, smiling. He’s far too handsome, his smile bright, teeth a little bit too sharp. “How very nice to see you. I thought for sure you’d have left the kingdom by now.”

“No! Oh no.” You push against his chest uselessly. He’s strong, so much stronger than you. Despair claws at your ribs. Your nightmare-come-true may be wrapped in a pretty, familiar face, but you have no desire to return to the capital. “Please let me go. I promise I don’t want the kingdom. Price can have it— You can have it. I just want to be left alone, I swear, I’ll never—”

“Hush, sweetpea.” He tucks a few of your thin braids behind your ear, fingertips grazing down your neck. “I have to bring you in. But you can make your case to Price. Maybe he’ll let you come back, alright? Don’t fret. He’s always been reasonable.”

You’re not certain how to get out of this. Sir Garrick has kind eyes, but his grip is like steel. He lifts you up easily and sets you on his horse before you so much as think of protesting or making a feeble attempt to fight him off.

“We’re not far from the capital. We can make it there before dark,” he continues, voice low and reassuring, as though you’re worried about the travel, and not the destination.

“But— What about my aunt? I should let her know where I’ve gone.”

“We’ll send word. Don’t you worry, your majesty.”

“No, no, don’t call me that. That’s for kings and queens, and I’m neither.” I’m no one, you want to shout.

He's amused by that, amused by you, as if you're just being a silly little girl. "I suppose we'll settle on sweetpea for now." He holds his palm out and three little white birds materialize and fly off in different directions, spectral and iridescent as soap bubbles. And then he swings into the seat behind you and pulls you most of the way into his lap, wraps strong arms around your waist, and nudges his mount into a walk.

“So,” Sir Garrick says conversationally, his voice low, lips far too close to your ear. It’s overly familiar, but you’re already practically sitting in the man’s lap. “What have you been doing out here all these years?”

“Um. Gardening. Embroidery. Taking care of my chickens. Lessons, for some of the children that live nearby. Just letters and arithmetic. I’ve been thinking about organizing a proper schoolhouse.” You can feel your nerves bubbling up as you babble, thoughts coming to you disorganized and stilted. “I never realized how few people can read. It seems a shame. I do a few hours of reading around town, help out at the church. I keep busy. I haven’t any real purpose, so I have to go out of my way to make one.” You sigh, thinking of how you had left things at a particularly gripping point in a story you’d been reading to the town children. They’ll be disappointed if they never hear the end of it, but you still have hope that Price will decide you’ve become something of a country bumpkin with no place in the court, and let you go back home soon. “How have you fared? Is your family well?”

“Quite well. My sisters will be glad to see you again. They always thought you were sweet. Rosie’s opened her own dress shop in the city, and Camellia has five children now. I think Kylie and Jorah were just two or three last you saw them. My mother lives with Cam to help out.” Sir Garrick’s mother and sister used to work at the palace, and he had been apprenticed to the court wizard before he specialized in battle magic and became a knight. You hadn’t been friends, exactly— You’re not sure you ever really had friends— but he’d always been nice enough, when your paths crossed.

“And what of you?” you prompt gently. “Have you found yourself a wife?”

He laughs lightly. “I’m working on it. I’ve a girl in mind, but I think she’ll take some convincing.”

“Oh I doubt that, Sir. You’re perfectly unobjectionable.”

“High praise indeed, princess.”

The two of you chat idly as you travel, mostly about nothing, but it’s pleasant enough. Sir Garrick— Kyle, he insists you call him— is far more charming than you remember, and he makes you laugh so much that you’re certain that you’d simply fall right off the horse if he wasn’t holding onto you so securely. He’s the very picture of a romantic hero, all chivalry and smiles, handsome in the dappled light under the canopy of trees as the road carries you from farmland to forest. You come to a bridge, and he dismounts so his horse can drink, and lifts you down so you can stretch out stiff muscles. His touch lingers, strong hands resting on your hips for a few beats longer than would be appropriate, but you don’t really mind.

You part from his company so you can relieve yourself a little ways into the trees, glad he’s not concerned about you making a run for it. His assurances that Price can be reasoned into letting you go home once you’ve spoken to him is enough to make you cooperative. You’re certain that he’ll take one look at you now and send you right back home. You’ve never had any luck with the young men in town, and if that’s any indication, you’ll be back to your little bedroom in Kate’s house before the week is up.

You fix your clothes and walk back to the road, humming lightly under your breath. Kyle is speaking to a flat glowing disc that hums with energy, floating above his palm. He gives you a smile and a nod and retreats to the tree line while he finishes his conversation. You catch a glimpse of a face on the disc as he turns, searing blue eyes meeting yours for a moment. Price, certainly. You recognize those eyes.

Kyle’s gaze slips over to you again as you kneel by the creek, one arm keeping your skirt out of the water while you trail the other hand through the water idly, the cool stream a pleasant offset to the heat of the afternoon. If you were alone, you would consider stripping down and going for a swim, but as nice as Kyle is, he’s still a man, and not one you know particularly well anymore, if you ever did.

When you look over again, he’s tucking the crystal disc into the front of his tunic, and a wolf is behind him, stalking out of the woods, low to the ground and ready to pounce. “Kyle!” you shout, pointing behind him. He turns quickly, a spell glittering on his fingertips, but the wolf pounces before he can cast it, both crashing into the packed earth along the side of the road.

You rush over, although halfway there you wonder what help you expect to be, and an arm snatches you around the middle, hauling you back. You’re beginning to get a bit annoyed at how much you’ve been manhandled today, and you start kicking as you’re lifted off your feet. “Let me go!”

“Easy, sweet girl. Let the lads say hello,” a deep voice says behind you, the sound rumbling through you like a cat’s purr. “No danger ‘ere.”

You look at Kyle and the wolf again. Only there isn’t a wolf anymore, just a large, naked man laying on top of Kyle, kissing him ardently and more than a little messily. The sound of it makes your cheeks burn. “Oh.”

The man who was a wolf stands up, and you look away, too flustered by the sight of so much bare skin to do anything else. The big man puts you down and turns you to face him, putting your back to the werewolf. “Johnny, put some clothes on before you say ‘ello. We know you were raised by savages, but you don’t need to act like it,” he says firmly, his heavy hands on your shoulders.

You stare at the skull embroidered on the black tunic in front of you, recognizing the emblem, and then the black fencers mask tied around the man’s face, obscuring even the shape of his features. You see a glint of light when he drops his chin to look at you though, gleaming eyes that look at you inscrutably. You know him, by name and reputation and deep, rumbling voice, if not by his face. No one knows him by his face, but he was as highly ranked a knight as Price was, one of your father’s personal guard before the war. Often tasked as your guardian, a solemn but comforting presence always. “Hello, Ghost,” you say, cheeks burning all the hotter. “Been a while.”

“Not as long as you might think,” he says. You can almost hear the smile in his voice. “Been keepin’ an eye on you.”

“What do you mean?” you ask. “For how long?”

“Knew where you were this whole time. Wun’t about to let you disappear, princess.” He tucks you against his side, keeping an arm around your shoulders protectively. “Johnny. Come meet our girl. Best behaviour.”

Johnny the werewolf grins at you as he walks up, still adjusting the drape of the tartan fabric around his hips, broad chest bare and dusted with hair, swirling blue tattoos printed on his scarred skin. His hair is shaved on the sides, a stripe of it left long in the center. “Nice ta finally meet ya, princess. Officially, anyway. We’ve bumped intae each other once or twice, but I was told no’ ta approach unless ye approached first, aye? Shame ye never did.” His smile is crooked, his too-bright blue eyes intent on yours. “Think we’ll get along.”

“The whole time?” you ask, skipping back a few paces in the conversation, glancing up at Ghost. “But Kyle said—”

“Sorry, sweetpea,” Kyle says airily. “I lied.”

“Typical tricksy wizard shite. But dinnae ye worry none, we’ll keep him honest for ye.” Johnny grabs your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, and then to the inside of your palm. His rough fingertips push your sleeve back, and he kisses the inside of your wrist too. When you squeak, he gives you a heated look and does it again, teeth grazing sensitive skin as he opens his mouth and licks a stripe across your pulse.

You’re warm from the tips of your ears to your chest, your breath catching on ragged nerves. You tug your hand out of his grip and cradle it with your other, like you’ve been burned by his brash touch.

“Johnny,” Ghost says, exasperated. “S’that what you call best behaviour?”

“She likes it, sir.”

“I most certainly do not!” you protest.

“Oh, aye ye do. Werewolf, ye ken. Can smell ye.” Johnny taps the side of his nose and winks at you. “Ye dinnae need ta be embarrassed, sweetpea. Ye can hardly blame yerself, faced with all this.” He gestures to his admittedly impressive physique, the broad and lean shape of near-perfect manhood on immodest display.

“Let’s move.” Kyle’s hand brushes your elbow. “You can ride with me again.”

Ghost shakes his head and turns, pulling you with him. “No. Come meet Nox.” He whistles, and a huge black shape hurtles down from the sky, glossy black wings snapping open just before the creature hit the ground, flapping a few times so that it lands lightly on four mismatched limbs, stirring up dust leaves. You shrink back against Ghost’s side, eyes wide. A gryphon.

The massive beast has a raven’s head and wings, and shiny black fur on it’s haunches. The catlike tail, with it’s tuft of feathers at the end, twitches back and forth as the bird head tilts to regard you, dark, slit-pupil eyes watching you with interest.

You look up at Ghost for reassurance, and he nods. “Go on. Offer ‘er your ‘and. She won’t bite. Hey, girl?” he scratches the gryphon behind the ear, and it opens it’s mouth to make a vibrating, keening sound that makes Kyle’s horse snort nervously. “That’s right, sweetpea’s a friend.”

You offer your outstretched hand to the giant creature, bolstered by Ghost’s calm, and it sticks it’s beak under your palm, making the same keening sound again. The last of your apprehension melts away, and you step closer, smiling. “Aren’t you a pretty girl?” You scratch the spot where her beak meets her feathers, and her eyes close for a moment.

Johnny reaches for the Nox’s side, and she whips her head around and hisses at him, her throat feathers fluffing up defensively. “Och, yer no’ goan ta git my fingers, ye wee beastie. Thought ye was gettin’ soft.”

“Away, Johnny. Let the girls get to know each other.” Ghost stands behind you and guides your hands to points just behind Nox’s jaw. The gryphon croaks and leans her head on your shoulder, nudging Ghost with her beak.

“Not so scary,” you coo, pressing your face into the soft cloud of feathers. “What a sweet girl.”

“How about it, Nox? Can she ‘op up?” Ghost asks. The gryphon croaks again and backs away enough to lean her front half down. Ghost picks you up and sets you on her back, on a flat saddle that sits right behind the joint of her massive wings, which fold up over your legs like she’s holding you steady. He pats Nox on the neck and starts walking, and she follows, padding beside him, sticking her beak between the joints of his leather armor playfully whenever he takes his hand off her.

You grab the edge of the saddle, mindful of Nox’s feathers, and it takes a moment to adjust to her movement. It’s not the side to side sway of a horse, but she’s steady, like she’s trying her best not to spill an inexperienced rider. Thoughtful of her.

Behind you, Kyle scrambles up onto his horse, and Johnny hustles to catch up, positioning himself on Ghost’s other side, giving Nox a wider berth.

“Thought we weren’t supposed ta tell her we were watchin’,” Johnny said. “Price said—”

“She ought to know. I wun’t too ‘appy about it in the first place, but a deal’s a deal.”

“A deal with who?” you ask.

“I’ll let Price tell you that much, sweetpea. But if it were up to me I’d’ve dragged you back home years ago.”

You shake your head tiredly. “Home is where I was. And I’m going back as soon as this business with Price is done. I don’t know what he wants, but I’m sure we can work something out. Kyle said he’s reasonable.”

“Oh, did ‘e?” Ghost asks, amusement colouring his deep voice. “S’pose that’s ‘ow ‘e had you comin’ along purrin’ like a kitten, hm?”

The blood drains from your face as you turn to look at Kyle, but he doesn’t look guilty, or like he’d been lying to you. “Well, again, I’m perfectly happy to cooperate. There’s no reason why he wouldn’t let me go when he gets what he wants, is there?”

Johnny chuckles, exchanging a look with Ghost that’s inscrutable. “Aye, ye’ve got a point. I’m sure ye’ll have no trouble dealin’ with the old man. Born diplomat, aren’t ye?”

Your stomach twists with nerves. It’s been many years since you’ve seen John Price. You don’t know him as well as you know Ghost. You’d always found the big, faceless man strangely comforting, easy to talk at, if not to, especially when you were still young and silly. But John Price, when he fixed you with those fathomless dark blue eyes, had always rendered you speechless, turned your usually clever tongue to lead. He was a knight captain then, a natural leader of men, a hero. Not someone that your father wanted you to get close to. It’s easy for you to see why now, with your father dead in the ground and Price wearing the crown, but you were glad for any excuse to stay away.

You wish you could ask Nox to fly away with you on her back, maybe home, but maybe somewhere else entirely, where no one knows you, where you can start again without the weight of the crown hanging heavy over your head, an executioner’s ax waiting to fall.

***

Image credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

[in-daddy-price-we-trust]

All I Wanted - Part 2

summary: when you are kidnapped discovered by TF141 they can't help but fall in love.

pairing: 141 x fem!teen!reader (platonic)

warnings: mentions of child abuse, drugs, canon typical violence, kidnapping

Part 1 Part 3

AN: Here it is! The Long awaited part two !!

Hope you enjoy this just as much as part one !!

Price POV

This was not what they needed right now. When 141 first heard of a potential weapons trade for El Sin Nombre going down in Amsterdam, they couldn't wait to get on the field.

The suspense was killing them as they waited for the right moment. They knew at this point that trying to stop the deal would be more hassle than worth. So the plan of waiting for their food to come to them was a better solution.

Price stalled however when he saw her step out. No way this was who they were after. No one in a cartel would go about wearing over-pink clothes. It was stupid. Even more so when she started shooting back, with a pistol as well.

"Ghost, move in," the static of the radio crackled before a grumbled copy sounded back. Price watched as Ghost snuck up behind her, his feet silent as he kicked her knees in and knocked her out.

"Well done Ghosty," The Scotsman, Soap, cheered over the comms, making his way down to the evac truck they scheduled.

She sat in-between him and Ghost. "No way she's with Nombre," Gaz announced after a few minutes of silence, "She's a child!" A hum left Soap's throat. 

"That's why we integrate her, Nombre or not, we can still use her to our advantage," Price concluded, sending the group back into quiet before she awoke.

-

Gaz was right. She was a child, barely reaching 16. Guilt hung heavy in his heart as he thought back to her crying. Cheeks red with tears and eyes puffy. 

He dragged a hand down his face, muttering a 'Jesus Christ' under his breath at the discovery. Eyes flicked across the room, every single soldier in that room seemed to suffocate in the amount of tension.

With a heavy sigh, Price spoke again. "How about we make a deal?" her head shot up at the words, a mix of emotions slathered across her features. From here he could tell she was picking apart his words.

"You, stay with us and get a place to stay," Price's eyes drifted to his team behind her.

"But - you have to help us catch our guy," The words cemented in her brain, slowly nodding along to them. It couldn't be worse to what she was used to, can it? Worse case scenario, she runs away again.

"Okay," it was final, "But I need to get my gear first."

-

The drive was quiet. The radio played some random pop song that she muttered the lyrics too, fingers drumming on her thighs. 

The boys seemed glad she accepted the deal. Although it may be the fact she was a minor and by the sounds of it, partaking in crime activity. Of course, this wouldn't be as different but at least all expenses were paid for by the government.

The car lulled to a stop, pulling up in front of the hotel. The door slammed shut before Price even registered her unclicking her seat belt leaving him to race after her.

A smile graced her lips as she greeted the lady at the front desk, who then proceeded to side eye Price. He would too if he saw a teenager going up to a hotel room with a 40-something-year-old man.

The pair continued to be silent in each other's presence, even when her fingers slipped together pressing and pulling on each one as a sort of fidget. The lift dinged at the second floor, Price hot on her heels to the hotel room. She muttered the number continuously under her breath, 105. 

Number splayed in gold, she struggles to get the keycard from wherever she managed to store the thing, like seriously, where did she put things? 

The door pushed open to the room. The white linen sheets still a mess from when she woke up this morning. What caught his eye was the absurdly bright duffle bag that sat on the middle of the hardwood floors, from where he stood he could make out the top of a pink sniper. 

'Jesus the girl knew how to stick to a theme, that's for sure..'

Diligently she picked up the weapons she managed to slide into nooks and crannies. Picking up stray plushies along the way. Price tried to help, but whenever he tried to pick up a cuddly brown bear he'd get holes burnt unto his head. So he eventually dropped it, opting to stand near the door.

Before long she came up to him, bag over her shoulder and a determined look in her eyes. The trip back to reception was awkward. The same tense atmosphere seemed to follow like a shadow. The lift dinged again, the robotic voice announcing their arrival.

She marched over to the receptionist, explaining she was checking out early (even though there was still two weeks left) and saying if anyone needed it to let them have the room for free. The soft spoken words melted the workers heart, promising to do as told.

-

Your POV

Price was awkward. Maybe the commanding aura around him clashed with yours of innocence. But - you both knew yours was fake. To some extent at least.

"Why did you make a deal? - with me?" It was a genuine question. The want of appreciation and validation flooding through your veins.

His eyes flicked down to you, noticing you already looking him in the face. He huffed a laugh at it. Soft, warm. "Well - I'm not just going to toss a kid out on the street, am I?" It was the truth. Voice of honey and liquid gold washing over you. Clouding your brain.

"Thank you, Price."

-

"Doll, wake up for me yeah?" a hum fell past your lips as you stirred awake, rubbing your eyes.

"Are we back already?" voice hoarse and scratchy, a yawn coming from you mid sentence.

Price chuckled at you. 'Glad someone finds this amusing.' 

"C'mon love - I'll show you to your new room and you can have a kip in there, kay?" His voice was soft, almost like the words would make you shatter and crumble like glass. Though it worked, pushing you out of the passenger seat of the car and onto the (now) familiar gravel plaza. Pink mary janes dragged behind you, sleep seeping into your bones.

That was soon rushed out of you when Mohawk appeared in front of you and Price. "Hi lassie, names Sargent John Mactavish but Soap is fine!" He beamed, pearly whites flashing down as you appeared wide eyed at him, stunned at the sudden (and quite frankly, loud) appearance. He threw a hand over his shoulder, pointing at the other figure you completely missed, "And that's Gaz." It was the shorty of the group, giving you a sheepish wave and a sympathetic smile at the loud Scot.

Price placed a hand on your shoulder, a slight apology maybe? You found yourself staring up at him before speaking, "Uhm.. thank- thank you Soap-?" cursing yourself for stumbling over your words. The nicknames getting caught on your tongue at its strangeness. "What kind of name is 'Soap' anyways?" He laughed at that, full belly laughed. Sort of high like a bell, although pleasant.

"M' Afraid I can't tell ya that, confidential," It was spoken with a wicked grin plastered across his face. The smile contagious and making the pink bands of your braces show. "Why don't Gaz and I show you to your new room?" A glance to Price and his nudge of the head allowed you to accept the offer, Soap instantly grabbing the bag from off your shoulder and pulling you along, going on to ramble about his hometown in Scotland.

-

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[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 1/12)

yes i have eighty different rockstar!eddie's now, pls don't look at me, i rewatched almost famous and had a moment, k bye, enjoy!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: you're a writer for rolling stone magazine and eddie hates the media so... he hates you

contains: enemies to lover trope, themes of sexism/misogyny, smoking, drug and alcohol use, sexual themes, and eddie being an asshole <3

word count: 4.5k

| next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

You love your job more than anything.

You love that it allows you to travel, that it’s centered around music, and that you get to meet people and make friends and do extravagant things you would’ve never imagined you’d be doing. You love your job.

“I love my job.” It’s starting to taste like a lie when it reaches your tongue.

You mutter it to yourself again, looking around the bright hallway and searching for any fucking door with the words ‘CORRODED COFFIN’ written on it.

You glance at the watch on your wrist, teeth digging into the soft skin of your cheek as you keep walking down the corridor. 

You feel as if you’ve been walking down this hall for years, miles of white stone wall and shiny gray cement floors, equipment littered here and there with staff walking through doors and yelling commands.

You follow the echo of chatter and soft giggles, the sound getting closer and closer until a group of girls meets you. A red-headed girl lazily chews gum and stands against the wall, glaring at you from behind her blood-red shades. You take the chance to ask them your pressing question, “Do you know where I could find the dressing room for Corroded Coffin?” You ask.

The girls glare at you and giggle, eyeing you and, without a doubt judging your lack of fishnets and leather clothing. Brown leather boots, flared jeans, and a white long sleeve— you don’t belong here. “You a reporter or something?” 

You look at the redheaded girl, pursing your lips and taking a steady breath, reaching up to grasp the strap of your crossbody bag. “I’m a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine,” you explain, ignoring the snickering girls on the side. You clench the leather band of your bag in your palm, “I’m doing a piece on the band.”

The girl silently studies you; a ghost of a smile passes her lips, “Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You shift on your feet, eyebrows furrowing, “Yeah um… they’re big on music and—“ “I know what Rolling Stone Magazine is.”

You love your job.

You steadily breathe, clenching your bag once again. Your feet ache in these boots, and your jeans are teetering on the cusp of too tight after you ate a quick dinner— you want to go home. “The boys won’t speak with Rolling Stone.”

It falls silent between the two of you, and you glance at the other three girls, huddled together and passing a joint. “They don’t like watered-down shitty tabloids like yours. They won’t want to see you.” The redhead explains, silently reaching over to accept her turn with the joint.

You watch as she brings the burning paper to her lips, taking a long drag and smirking at you. She expects you to take her word and leave, but you’ve dealt with enough people like her to know she’s bullshitting you.

“Could you please point me toward their dressing room?” You ask, reconstructing your previous question because you now understand that, without a doubt, these women know where the dressing room is.

She laughs and points across the hall, some feet from where you’re all standing. You can see the first few letters of the band's name from your angle, and you internally rejoice. You thank her and walk over to the door, mentally reviewing your introduction a few times before laying a few knocks on the heavy black door.

There’s no response for a moment, and you try not to let the snickering sound of the girls tick you off. You lift your hand to knock again, but the door swings open before you can do it. A tall, muscular man glares down at you, dressed in black with a scowl. He must be security.

“Hi, I’m a writer for—“ “Groupies aren’t coming in yet; wait out in the back.” 

Your face twists in offense, glaring at the man as you, yet again, clench your fist in annoyance, “I’m not a fucking group—“ The door slams shut before you can finish your sentence. 

“Fuckin’ asshole.” You mutter to yourself. 

You love your job.

The girls snicker behind you, and you feel your face heat in embarrassment and annoyance. Why is nearly everybody in this industry just a bunch of assholes? You figure you’ll just have to wait for the band members to come out, leaning back to press your back against the wall and patiently wait.

From outside, you can hear the chaotic noise of yelling and loud banter from inside the room— the clatter of furniture breaking and thuds against the wall. You remember when behavior like this used to shock you, but artists seem to have reckless behavior nowadays.

The group of girls chatter amongst themselves, and you busy yourself with following the cracks in the floor. You stand there with aching feet and a mental ticking clock for what feels like hours, and you almost give up until the door flies open and three boys stumble out, reeking of alcohol and weed and musk. 

You watch as they all brush past you, ignoring you for the group of girls standing across the hallway, cheering their names and draping their arms across their shoulders. 

“And who might you be?”

You turn around at the gravelly voice, locking eyes with a glazed pool of brown. The last of the group, the fourth member— and, by what you can piece together given the notorious long dark brown locks dusting his shoulders, Eddie Munson. You clear your throat, stepping forward and telling him your name. You extend a hand for him to shake and ignore how his gaze rolls over every inch of your body.

“I’m a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine,” you explain, retracting your hand when he only glances at the kind gesture. He stands before you, an uninterested smirk dancing against his lips. He’s dressed in black jeans and black leather boots that look worn to hell despite his bottomless pit of a wallet. A black sheer button-down top, fully open to expose his sweat-glistened chest, shiny chains hanging from his neck and kissing his collarbones. His ringed fingers are wrapped around the neck of a half-empty bottle of whiskey, tiny sticky streams of spilled alcohol coating the bottle.

“I’m here to interview your band.” You add. 

He laughs, spit-slick lips forming a mocking smile as he speaks, “My band?” 

You blink, “Yes, you’re all a band, right?” You motion to the boys, still chatting with the girls across from where you stand, ignoring the sight of one of the members groping a girl as she giggles. “Heavy metal band, Corroded Coffin?”

Eddie snickers, “Yeah, toots, we’re a band,” he lifts the bottle to his lips, speaking over the rim, “But this isn’t my band.” He tips the drink back and gulps down the bitter drink.

You watch as he takes it down without a single twitch of displeasure. You take a deep breath, shifting on your feet as you ignore his smart response, “Okay, well, it won’t be long,” you try to reason, reaching for your bag to dig out your notepad.

“Just a few questions; I won’t take much of your time—” Eddie cuts you off with a wave of his hand, “Listen, princess,” he presses his hand against the wall beside you, using the hand wrapped around the whiskey to gesture as he speaks. “While I’d love to sit and chitchat like a couple of teenage girls, we’ve got two issues here, sweetheart.”

“One,” he raises his index finger, “We don’t do interviews before shows.” He explains as if it’s common knowledge. He lifts another finger, “And two,” he steps closer, a sickening grin spreading across his lips when you step back. “We want nothing to do with your shitty dick-sucking career-crushing poor excuse of a magazine.”

You stare at him, a million different responses churning in your head, and you so badly want to read him to filth, but you really fucking love your job.

“Mr. Munson, I promise you—” “Where are you from?”

What is it with these assholes and cutting you off mid-sentence? 

You swallow your pride and answer, “Michigan.” Eddie hums, nodding his head, clicking his teeth as if tasting the state on his tongue. “I’ll tell you this, Michigan,” he bumps the bottle against your shoulder, and you grimace at the drop of liquor that seeps into your shirt. “We’re not doing your shitty piece of a story, but we’ll graciously give you a nice view of the show from the side stage.” He grins, patting your shoulder once and winking.

A staff member passes by you, alerting the band that they have less than a minute to be on stage. You open your mouth to object to his offer, but the boy is downing the rest of the bottle and shoving the bottle into your chest, “Enjoy the show, Michigan.” 

You watch in disbelief as he walks off with his band members, the other members not even glancing your way as they holler and cheer down the corridor of the venue. For the 80th time tonight, you clutch the band of your bag and curse to yourself.

Fuckin’ dipshit rockstars.

Against your better judgment, you, again, swallow your pride and watch the show from the side of the stage. You decline any drinks offers, wanting to stay as sober as possible for the interview after the show (if you can weasel one out of them). 

Corroded Coffin knows how to put on a show. Each band member works the crowd in ways you have rarely witnessed in this industry— it’s not difficult to see their appeal to the younger generation of music listeners.

None of the members outshine the other; they are all equally in the spotlight, playing their part to create a well-oiled machine of an act. Granted, most of the show is concerningly chaotic; Gareth kicked his foot into his drum set near the end, Jeff smashed the fret of his guitar over the side of an amp, Eddie made out with a fan and Gareth, and the other member you can’t seem to name for the life of you sprayed the front row with multiple bottles of liquor.

It’s chaotic, an endless list of violations without a doubt, but the fans eat it out of the palm of their hands.

You don’t even bother trying to get their attention when they run off the stage, quietly watching from afar as they’re cheered on by VIP fans, managers, and staff. Security rushes them to the green room, where a line of fans waits with various pieces of merchandise to be signed.

You follow, silently taking in the busy scene, saying nothing when you catch a few members stealthily swiping tiny bags of party favors from fans. It’s a movie of never-ending noise and movement, and you’re wondering how they put up with this every night.

You glance at your watch and grunt in annoyance, half past midnight, well past the time you’d hoped to be back in your hotel room.

You stand aside and watch the room as the squealing fans go to each boy, getting autographs and Polaroids to commemorate the moment. Gareth is a flirt, shakes every girl's hand and only lingers for the ones he fancies, gazes into their eyes like they’re the only girl in the room, and smirks when they giggle and lean into his touch. Tells them they’re pretty, compliments their dresses and tops, and gazes at their chest for too long until staff breaks the moment and tells the girls to ‘keep the line moving, ladies’. 

Jeff is almost the same, except he’s less performative with it. He’s got a hint of a gentleman in him, thanks each fan for coming, and asks how they liked the show with a sneaky glint in his eyes and a sly smirk. Winks at one of the girls and leans in to whisper something in her ear, something you can’t read from his lips, but later on, you will see them step onto the tour bus together, snickering like sneaky teenagers.

The bass player, the one whose name always slips your mind, has gone off somewhere with a groupie; you watched them slip away from the madness the second he stepped off stage. 

And Eddie— Eddie can’t stop glaring at you. Can’t stop looking at you and making you squirm because he wants you gone. He’s got an arm draped around a girl's shoulder, neck craned down to hear what she whispers, and through the chaos of the room and the pretty girl practically pawing at his chest and giggling in his ear, Eddie still manages to find the time to look at you. Curly bangs wet with sweat sticking to his forehead, cheeks rosy and flushed with adrenaline, wide eyes diminished beneath smudged black eyeliner. He looks like an animal, damp and matted, searing gaze dripping with malice. 

You almost take the bait and cower.

A hand is placed on your shoulder, breaking your silent staring contest with Eddie as a man steps into your view. He is taller than you, older with lines of age sinking into his skin, glaring down at you over the end of his cigarette as he speaks, “Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You wonder how he was able to pick you out, but your itchy jeans and suffocating boots quickly remind you that you don’t exactly fit into the crowd. You nod, sticking a hand out and telling him your name. “You must be Richie, the manager?” You assume, kindly smiling when he takes your hand with a friendly grip in greeting.

“I’m here to interview your boys. We called this morning,” you remind him. He nods, puffs out a cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth as he speaks, “Yeah, uh… The thing with that is,” he tilts his head to scratch at the stubble on his chin, “I’m not so sure the boys’ll be up for that.” 

You breathily laugh, glancing at the boys behind him, ignoring when Eddie glances your way, “Yeah, I gathered that already.”

The man hums, reaching up to pluck the burning paper from his lip, blowing the smoke away from your face before speaking, “Yeah, Eddie’s not too keen on big media. Bad run-in from the past.” He explains. You nod understandingly, “The Face?”

The man nods, taking another hit, “Tore ‘em to shreds.” You nod, crossing your arms over your chest with a breath, “I remember.” He offers you a hit, and you shake your head, kindly waving him off.

“Shitty, you came all this way, though. Where you from?”

You don’t look at him as you respond, too focused on the man across the room, his attention locked in on the fans now that he sees you’re being taken care of— like an unwanted intruder being exterminated. But you’re not an intruder. You’re a journalist, a writer, a listener— and you’re damn good at it. 

Before you can thoroughly think about the repercussions, your mouth is running, gaze still locked on Eddie, “I can get them on the cover.”

Richie pauses his rambling at that, pauses the lift of his cigarette to his lips, and looks at you, waiting for you to say it was a joke or something— but it’s not. Your gaze flitters to him, your expression unwavering as you wait for him to respond. “The cover?”

You nod once, watching as he takes one long drag of his cigarette. “We can do one big interview with them all,” you begin, “I’ll tag along for a few shows to gather more on the experience, get a photoshoot booked and have them on the cover for the July issue.” You’re pulling strings, tugging at what sounds enticing and will get you where you need to be. You’re good at your job, you’ve done this before, and you know how to bend things to your will because the rockstars— the rockstars are always easy to break.

Richie glances over his shoulder and grunts, rubbing a hand over his face before turning back to you, “Okay, um,” he sighs and curses under his breath, “Let me see if I can talk them into it, yeah?” He sticks the cigarette between his lips and starts searching his pockets. “We’ve got a residency tour in New York next,” he announces, finally fishing out his wallet and sifting through cards until he finds what he needs. He offers the card to you, “Think you can meet us there?”

You take the card and glance over it before glancing at the boy once again. You nod, and he smiles, “Give me a call when you land; I’ll let you know if it’s a go.”

He leaves without another word, and you stay standing for a bit, rubbing the card between your fingers as you watch the boys meet the last of their fans tonight, Eddie no longer looks your way, and you hope he does for just a split second so he can know— so he can realize that he lost.

You give up when he seems too preoccupied with the girls, stuffing the card in your purse and making your way toward the exit. You’ll have to settle for rubbing it in when you see them in New York.

You spent the better part of your week convincing Anna, your manager, to give you the benefit of the doubt and allow you to pull through with a cover story. Anna wasn’t so excited when you told her you offered them a cover, but Anna is never excited by your ideas; she’s always worried until the final product comes out like a fine piece of gold. Treasure. You create treasure, and Anna knows this, so she finally relents and lets you go through with it— “You better get me the biggest story ever made. Bigger than Madonna.”

You can do bigger than Madonna— and seeing as your subject is four young men at the peak of worldwide fame, ‘bigger than Madonna’ will be a piece of cake.

You grab the hotel phone the second you get in, dialing the number on the creased business card you’d fished out from your bag. Your knee bounces in anticipation, teeth digging into your lip as you listen to each agonizing ring, almost thinking Richie gave you a fake card before finally, the phone picks up, “Hello?” It’s groggy, like he’d just woke up.

“Hi, it’s Rolling Stone Magazine,”

He groans on the other end, and you can hear the rustling of sheets, and you assume he’s sitting up in bed, “Rolling Stone Magazine… Oh— oh, uh… are you here?” He asks. You nod before answering with a short yes. 

“Are we on for today?” You ask. He’s silent for a few moments, nothing but sleepy, distant grunts filtering through the speaker. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, we’re on just uh,” you pick at the seam of your jeans as you wait for him to finish his thought, “Come to the garden at around three; they’ve got rehearsals, and you can try to squeeze in after.”

You thank him and end the call, placing the phone back on the stand and sighing as you glance around the room. This will be your home for the next month; Anna advised you to stay for the entire residency tour despite your reassurance that you can complete the story in a week— “A big story, birdie. A massive one. A good one. That doesn’t happen in a week.”

So, one month. Twelve shows and thirty days. One month.

Eddie doesn’t like rehearsals. 

He thinks they’re stupid and useless and take up too much time of the day when he could spend it doing something else. Could be writing, could be out having fun with the boys and getting high as a kite, could be fucking that redheaded groupie, Lany. He could be doing so many things, but instead, he’s up on stage in an empty arena listening for feedback in the mic and testing the amps for the guitars. 

“Let’s do that last track one more time; I think I’m picking up a bit of feedback on you, Gareth.”

Eddie sits down on the edge of the drum riser, sticking a cigarette between his lips and lighting it up. He tilts his head back and blows up toward the beaming lights, squinting at the bright rays and imagining them enveloping him. He closes his eyes and imagines it’s the sun, thinking about Hawkins and the last summers he spent with the gang. Thinks about Dustin and Lucas and Max and Mike. Steve, Nance, and Robin. Thinks about how he hasn’t called or visited in a while, even though he got their card on his birthday.

He feels shitty for not calling home; he itches to make the call now and let them know that he misses them and wishes they could fly out more often to watch the band play. They’re all busy, though; the kids are about to start college— dusted the shit out of high school, which Eddie obviously flew in to watch them walk the stage— and the older half of them are all getting jobs, looking for their next big step in life, and Eddie misses them.

His reminiscent thoughts are cut through with the sharp and loud slamming of the arena door, grasping his attention in seconds. He blinks a few times to get the light out of his eyes, squinting at where the noise came from— and Eddie’s mind is fresh off a joint, so he’s not a hundred percent sure if he’s just envisioning that journalist from the other day or she’s actually here.

He stands up from the drum riser, stepping further into the stage as he watches you walk down the rows of seats; barely acknowledges the stage manager when he asks him to play the riff from track four until Jeff walks into his line of sight, “Come on, man, I wanna get this over with.”

Eddie situates his fingers over the frets of his guitar, watching as you find a seat in the third row and settle in, settling your bag in your lap and holding it to you as you silently watch the crew work the stage. He plays the riff a few times, until they can fix that god-awful ringing noise behind the higher notes, and when they finally wrap up rehearsals, Eddie makes a beeline to the front row where Richie is standing, quietly chatting with a staff member about where he wants the road cases to go. Eddie doesn’t care much for their conversation, steps in, and promptly interrupts, “Why the fuck is that journalist here?”

Richard turns to him and raises his eyebrows, “Sir?”

The staff member leaves as Eddie leans in and points over Richard's shoulder to where you sit, still quietly watching the stage, bright lights illuminating your face like you’re some god-sent fucking angel— and you’re not. Eddie knows you’re not. He sees straight through your friendly act. “The journalist, Richie. Why is she here?” He slowly repeats.

Richie glances at you and looks back at Eddie, “She’s doing a story on the band—” “No, she’s fucking not.”

Richie stares at Eddie, blinks for a silent moment before speaking, “Son,” —and sometimes Richie reminds Eddie of Wayne, and it scares him, “She’s gonna put you on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine.” Richie points your way. Eddie falters momentarily, mindlessly blinking and shaking his head, “Cover?”

Richie laughs and pats Eddie on the shoulder, “Yeah. The fucking cover,” he says, “so, whether you like it or not, you’re doing the interview. This is what the band needs.”

Eddie shakes his head, curly strands brushing the muscles of his shoulders, “We don’t need a goddamn cover, Richie. We’re not doing a fucking story—” “Yes, you are.” Richie doesn’t mean to make his voice boom through the arena, but it attracts attention either way, and he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose before clapping a hand onto the back of Eddie’s shoulder, turning both away from the stage.

“You’re putting out an album in a few months. You want it to sell, don’t you?”

Eddie clenches his jaw, teeth grinding against each other as he glances over his shoulder, annoyed when he catches you watching— almost smirks when you quickly look away as if you’d been caught red-handed. Despite Eddie’s strong will, he nods because fucking obviously he wants the album to sell— but at what cost?

Richie nods and squeezes Eddie’s shoulder, “Good. Then you’ll do the interview. She’ll be with us for all of New York, so play nice. We need a good piece.” and leaves Eddie with a pat on his shoulder. 

Eddie stands there for a moment, gathering himself and trying to cope with the fact that some fucking narc will be on their back for the next month. He doesn’t see or hear you walk up to him until you say his name. The barricade separates you, your fingers gripping the black railing as you stand before him. Eddie’s hands are on his hips, not moving an inch as he looks at you.

“I know you don’t want me here, but I… I’m just doing my job, and if you can cooperate, this will be easier for the both of us.”

And Eddie— god, Eddie can’t fucking believe the audacity.

“Did you fuck Richie?”

He watches you pull back, blinking at him as you stare silently. Eddie tilts his head, eyebrows raising to push the answer from you, “No, I didn’t—” You shake your head and blink hard in confusion, “Why would I—” “Because you want a good story.” Eddie snaps, “Right?”

Because that’s all anybody ever wants from him. A good story. A tale to tell their friends about. Tell them the secrets they pulled from Eddie Munson, tell them about the famous rockstar that fucked them backstage, tell them they know what makes him crack. A good story.

You gape at him, lost and shocked by the sudden confrontation. 

You straighten up and tilt your head, eyes growing harsh with anger as you respond, “No. I didn’t fuck Richie. I don’t fuck to get where I want, I pull strings, and I make it work,” you snap, “I treat people with the respect they deserve, and I get what I want. You could learn a few things from that.”

And with that, you’re gone. Leaving Eddie behind with a twisted face of annoyance. He watches you walk over to where Richie is and greet him, but he doesn’t stick around long enough to watch or tune in to the conversation, storming through the arena and grabbing his coat to get in the car and tell the driver to take him to his hotel.

One month. Twelve shows and thirty days. One month.

Eddie can play along, he thinks. How hard can it be?

————

part two

[sitesupply]

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[hometoursandotherstuff]

Someone in one of my groups submitted this "cheap charmer" fixer/upper that's down the block from her. It has potential and you can live in it while you fix it, little-by-little. I'm going to call it a 19th Century High Style home, b/c the front was clearly altered at some point. This home is in Cincinnati, OH, has 5bds, 6ba, & is priced at $260K. Let's have a look inside and see what needs to be done:

I really don't know what they did here, but they did something. This is not original. You can make it nice, though. This home is in the North Avondale section of Cincinnati.

The entrance hall has a vintage light fixture, curved ceiling and French doors. It's awfully dark. Why would they pick this color?

Thru the French doors, this room is the first one off the hall (enjoy the virtual staging).

Look at this fireplace- Thankfully, no one ruined the gorgeous carving on the surround. It's non-functional. I guess they didn't want to fix it, so they blocked it off. At least they left the firebox.

Across the way, there's this beautiful room in the tower. The fireplace looks wonderful in here, too, under the white paint.

Here it is, virtually staged.

The kitchen is a bit of a disaster. Right now, it has ample, but ugly, cabinetry and modern appliances. I mean, you can cook in here for now.

The cabinets are in rough shape- some are broken. I would at least paint it a livelier color.

Ugly door in the hall. Someone painted the original stairs and the beautifully carved finial. I don't think that the shelves are original, but they're not bad. A few balusters are broken- They're so delicately turned.

This staircase is beautiful.

There are remnants of its beauty- that's an original door on the right.

The primary bedroom is in the tower.

Virtually staged and cleaned up.

This would make a nice walk-in closet. Or, I'd take the wall back down, depending on the layout.

This bath was given a bad reno. The house has been cut up into odd rooms. I would take some of the walls down. You never know if you'll find something original.

The bedrooms are certainly angular. This one has an en-suite. I don't love the closet doors.

This room is just weird. Maybe it was a dressing room, b/c of the mirror?

The basement level is rough. It has lots of room, though.

I don't know why the cement is crumbling.

Is that a bar? If it is, this could be a super cool rec room.

They put this deck on the back. My parents painted their deck with this "redwood" paint and I was so angry- what made you do this? You're supposed to stain the wood.

I don't know if you could call this a patio. This poor house has been thru some ugly DIY renos. It's on a .32 acre lot.

Oh, the deck is on the side. Okay. They've got fire escapes, so that's up to code, I guess. There's a long driveway and potential for patios. So, they added the stone to the facade.

What did they do to this house? Looks like they blocked up a window on the left.

The yard extends back. It's a nice plot of land.

Nice mature tree and a pretty front yard.

This home deserves some love.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/997-Burton-Ave-Cincinnati-OH-45229/34227306_zpid/?

[comaron]

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[syoddeye]

the warren, part six - natural

price x f!reader | 5.9k words | series page | ao3 tags: background ghoap, italicized flashbacks, skinny dipping, bathing, cunninglinus, vaginal fingering, breeding kink, darkfic. a/n: fireworks followed by fireworks. shout out to early and the arrangement. mdni banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

This must be what it feels like to open a tomb.

Fetid air sweeps over your cheeks. Warm and stagnant, smelling of earth and metal.

The room is maybe eight by ten feet and sinks another six down to an unfinished floor of exposed dirt and rock. Thin pipes run from under the floorboards and into the wall, disappearing further underground. An empty, dusty stack of wooden shelves stands bolted to the cement walls. You’d think it’s an old root cellar—if it weren’t for the door.

Four paneled. Old and weathered yet sturdy looking. You don’t dare hop into the pit to test the heavy lock affixed to it; no way you could climb out.

You take a photo, shut the hidden hatch, and smooth the rug over it.

It’s nothing. Has to be. Kate would’ve told you about it if it mattered. You haul the couch over it anyway and tuck into bed with a knife. In the small hours, you decide to call the landlady at breakfast, perhaps Phil too, for good measure.

~~

“Oh, that? Old storm cellar.” Kate sounds amused, as if your trepidation is a cute joke. “The Warrens were originally from Tornado Alley. Hated storms. Brought that hate with them.”

“Where does the door lead?”

“A storage room. I emptied it.”

You lean against the counter, staring at the rug with your thumb caught between your teeth in thought. Since your arrival, you’ve seen two storms of note. Thunder and lightning, but nothing like the furies that roll over the Great Lakes, the ones that rattled the shutters and windows or leaked from cracks in the ceiling. Certainly no tornadoes. You, of all people, know what it is to carry a fear. A hatred.

“Everything alright?”

You fish for reassurance. “Yes. I feel silly, that’s all.”

The hook goes ignored. “Mhm.” 

“Guess I’ll move the couch back.” You laugh, apologize for troubling her, and leave the couch where it sits.

You don’t call Phil. You’d sound ridiculous.

Later, you sneak some extra work in, at least you try to. A mechanical whir putters then skips. You swear a wisp of smoke leaks from the disk drive. The old laptop that could, no more. Rendered a fossil, unresponsive to your troubleshooting. Frustration burns your belly, whittling your patience to naught. It fractures at the ring of your phone.

“Yes?” You snap, instantly searing yourself with the white-hot brand of guilt. “I’m so sorry, hello?”

John chuckles. “Bad time?”

“John. Oh, no. I–I’m not scheduled today, am I?”

“No, you’re alright. Shop’s slow, so I thought I’d check in.” He pauses. “If you’re busy, I can chat later.”

“I’m not. Unexpectedly so,” you shove your laptop off your lap, rising from bed. You stretch and pace to the kitchen. “Mind if I keep you company? See the kittens?” Best clear your head.

“I’d be delighted.”

~~

The kittens are feral. You know this, yet their instinctive rejection smarts. From a sun-bleached lawn chair, you watch them tussle and spar in the shade of John’s building. Their mother, the first time you’ve seen her, lounges on the welcome mat. She’s a proud creature. Big and gray like a storm cloud.

You haven’t come around to John’s understanding concerning the cats. The queen tolerates one of her kittens, nearly too old to nurse, as it tries to latch. You wonder if the baby’s a female. If she, like her mother, will fall pregnant in a few months. If she’ll end up with an unseasonably late litter, born to frost and snow rather than wildflowers and sunlight.

“Beautiful thing,” John observes, emerging from the garage with an ice-cold soda. He slots it in your hand and plants himself in the chair beside you. “Mama and her babies.”

“It’s something.”

“They’ll be off on their own soon. They’ll do fine.”

“And if not?” If one of the area’s predators doesn’t get to them, the road awaits.

“Then that’s that. Nature takes its course.”

You hate that he’s not wrong. Falling prey to a beast or an accident is simply what happens to creatures like the kittens. You chew your lip, thinking of how immutable that truth might’ve been once, but now? With the means to prevent all the unnecessary heartache? Knowing John’s attitude on man’s interference, you don’t voice it. Knowing your own.

You catch him staring. There’s something in the way his eyes linger. A quiet intensity that betrays the hunger he’s set aside for your benefit. Unspoken but raw. Crude. It claws at you as much as it does him.

Later, in the shower, you reacquaint yourself with your softer parts. You rouse a lovely pressure but fumble. It slips through your fingers and down the drain with the water.

~~

Your first inventory trip to Ponderosa arrives. The ride is more pleasant than the last, and John shoos you away to the library when you try to help at the town depot. He warns you it’s a lot of dull conversation and lifting, so you slink off.

The whole town’s decorated for the Fourth. Its two hotels are bursting at the seams, sidewalk patios filled with folk. A shuttle to a resort ten minutes away stops in front of the coffee shop, making the decision to delay your visit for you.

The Ponderosa Public Library is cozy and welcoming. The gleaming white stone floor of the entrance lends a hallowedness. Phil Graves’s drawl drifts through your head at the sight of a local history display positioned near the front, but the honeyed voice of the librarian hooks your attention. Draped in a floor-length cardigan, the kindly older woman eagerly waves you in. She’s thrilled to register you with a temporary card when you inquire.

“I can count on one hand how many visitors have signed up this summer. Two!” She laughs. “Your name?”

~~~

In the pre-dawn stillness of the desert, the landscape is a vast, empty stretch painted in muted hues of gray and indigo. Hints of morning light graze the earth and highway, devoid of traffic aside from the occasional tumbleweed. The openness feels expansive yet intimate. Alien, yet familiar. Desolation and your lonely home of some years. Where life makes the best of it. The most stability you’ve ever known.

You arrive in town five minutes past seven.

Passing the gas station, you keep your head down and ring hand displayed to let the synthetic gemstone reflect the sun. It doesn’t stop one trucker from leaning out of his cab with an appreciative whistle.

The library’s office light is on, so you knock on the staff entrance. Robin lets you in thirty seconds later, chattering on about a game show. You clean the bathrooms while she prepares the rest of the branch to open. You finish with minutes to spare and settle at the boxy computer that keeps your back to a wall.

The usual patrons file and out in as you send a dozen inquiry emails to writing gigs and delete rejections. You write a father of the bride speech for $50, your biggest job yet. Every sentence is a penny, and pennies add up. You’ll have enough for the car, gas, and computer in a few months. Everything is planned out and locked safely away in your head, except for one detail.

You traipse slowly along the geography shelf, hand poised like a dowsing rod, waiting for a feeling. Your fingers brush a spine and shiver. Idaho Cities and Townships. Paging to the index, you trace your finger down the list like you’re looking for the right scripture in church. The psalm to sing. Something pulls your finger to a place called Grouse Bay. It burrows under your skin and nails. Hope. 

~~~

You revere librarians. They’re the only people you’ve met who never pry, lest it be to help you. Jeanne, the librarian of this particular branch, leaves you to peruse without hovering. The bangles on her arms clink together like a bell on a cat. She minds herself until you approach the checkout with a short stack.

“Excellent choices, sweetie. These’ll keep you plenty company.” She scans them, apprising you of the upcoming fireworks, but abruptly pauses. Her eyes stare past you. “Are you expecting a handsome fella? A Brawny Man lookalike?”

From outside, John waves with a smile. You return both. “I am.”

She whistles low and slides the books to you with a knowing look. “I take it back. He’ll be plenty of company.”

Outside, John hooks a finger in your tote the moment you’re within reach and peers inside. Nosy. 

“A couple of romances, nothing you’d like.”

“That so? You don’t think I’d like…The Arrangement?” 

You bat at his hand, clutching your haul and tilting away as you walk. “I highly doubt it.”

A waggish grin lights up his face. If the man on the front cover of that particular text bears a resemblance to him, it’s pure coincidence.

On the ride home, his hand inches over your thigh. You let it rest and take another long shower.

You still can’t scratch the itch.

~~

Despite John’s preparations, the Fourth of July cleans the grocer out of booze, cigarettes, and just about everything else. The store shuts after lunch, and he talks you into a boat ride. 

“I didn’t know you owned a boat.”

“I don’t,” He hefts a cooler onto the tailgate, the last stash of crusher beer inside. “Kate does. Nik just patched her up.”

“Wish he’d fix my car.” Nikolai mentioned the part was delayed two weeks and blamed a train derailment further West. 

Kate’s home is an aging two-story half a mile down the lakeside road. Two juniper trees bracket the entrance, with twin rows of bluebells and dogbane lining the path. Her Ranger sits under a carport, flanked by a muddy ATV and an old Bronco.

You shoulder your bag and walk to the rear of John’s truck, studying the unfamiliar vehicles. “Who else is joining us?”

“Hello, rabbit.” A gruff voice purrs. Outdoors, Simon looks larger than life with no fixture or frame to duck. His muscles bulge under a black t-shirt, the skin on his arms more bronzed than his face. However, as he steps directly behind you, leaning over you to grab the cooler, you see faint tan lines around his eyes.

You whip around to face the cab, trying to not look so obvious with your failed escape attempt, and see John’s mouth flatten. Simon’s chest brushes and bumps your back, pelvis ghosting your hip as he effortlessly hauls the packed cooler over your head. The smell of burnt rubber, oil, and sweat is fleeting but intense.

“How’s the boat?” John slams his door. You flinch and hastily close the rear gate. 

“Glorified sardine tin.” Simon clears his throat and spits, then jerks his head. “C’mon.”

You follow in silence, crossing the road and descending a creaky staircase built into the slope of the hillside leading to the lake. Kate’s boat is bigger than you imagined, a double-decker pontoon. She and Nik stand at the mooring fixed to an aluminum dock, and as you step onto the last shallow flight, a man emerges from the cabin.

His grin is a crescent set on a chiseled jaw and hard to look away from. He isn’t as tall as Simon, but cuts just as imposing of a figure with wide shoulders and thick arms. He bounds closer, greeting the three of you like an excitable dog. Simon passes by, mumbling something that makes the man straighten and lock on to you with eyes an unnerving shade of blue, cynoid. Nothing like John’s.

John gently nudges you ahead and supplies your name. “And this is Soap. He’s Simon’s partner.”

Partner. That’s not as comforting as you want it to be. “Soap?”

An accent wraps around his words, catching you off guard. “Aye. Soap. Heard a lot about ye.”

“Good things I hope?”

He leans, voice dropping into a conspiratorial but genial whisper. “Plenty. Though if ye got a naughty streak, I won’t tell.”

The breeze off the lake doesn’t abate the heat his compliment evokes. A whiff of acetone blends with mint wafts off him, but it’s his nostrils that flare. He’s sniffing you. “I don’t–”

“Soap!” Simon barks.

“Chat later.” He whispers, then answers Simon’s call, disappearing with his counterpart.

A bit dazed, you greet Kate, and she steers you aboard. John unmoors the boat with Nik muttering in his ear, and you’re shown the prime seat at the bow. Kate takes the helm, and within minutes, the pontoon putters away from shore to join the dozens of vessels dotting the lake. Simon and Soap return with armfuls of bottles and cans, someone turns the satellite radio on, and John fits himself to your side. You don’t know the last time you celebrated the Fourth, and here you are, toasting two Brits, a Scot, and a Russian. If there’s a punchline, you hope to find it.

A flask eventually appears. You refuse, watching Soap’s mouth pucker in disgust and Nikolai drinking deep like it’s water. John squeezes your shoulder, his arm draping over you with his thigh pressed to yours.

He murmurs, “Why don’t you go see Kate? Get some girl talk in?” 

Kate doesn’t seem the type for girl talk, but how the others seem to hold their breath at John’s suggestion propels you to your feet.

You find Kate atop the upper deck, sprawled with a book and a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. The boat rides the wake of passing speedboats, forcing you to crawl and sit cross-legged. You barely hear the men below save for another toast.

“Too much for you, huh?” Kate asks, taking a drag.

It’s a conscious decision to not mention girl talk. “Yep. They’re…a lot.”

She snorts and lets the conversation wither early on the vine, probably for the best. She is your landlord.

Basking in the sun, you drink your warming beer and watch the water. Listen to the whoops and hollers across the lake.

When your father moved you across state lines to a ramshackle home perched atop a steep hill, you often crept onto the roof to do just this. They called that lake an unsalted sea, vast and untamed. Choppy with whitecaps and an unfathomable shade of blue, always darker than the sky above. You lived in fear of it, listening dutifully when your father carped on your morbid fascination. He banned you from trekking to its shores.

As a child, he suffered visions of you getting swept up by a rogue wave. You believed him, wanting him to care. As a teenager, you wondered if it was his way of protecting you from the men who prowled the docks, the boogeymen in the dark. His tacit acknowledgment of your growing older. Now, a thousand miles and a lifetime away, you know it’s because he simply didn’t want another prisoner to escape.

The first man whose love you wanted tried to trap you with water. The second dragged you to a desert. Looking down at John, your stomach twists. The third time’s a charm. He’s not like them.

“Rabbit.” Soap’s shaggy head pokes over the deck’s edge. “Mind if I join?”

Kate turns a page, you scoot, and Soap hoists himself up.

“So. You and John. What’s that like?” He laughs at your wince. “C’mon. Dinnae be shy. Been a minute since someone’s turned his head.”

“It’s…new.”

“New. Aye. Steamy? At eachother like–”

“Christ,” Kate grumbles, suddenly rocking up to a seated position, simultaneously stubbing out her cigarette as she slides to the edge. “I don’t need to hear this.”

Soap snickers. “Dinnae mind her.”

Sensing a sliver of an opening, you redirect. “John said you and Simon were partners. How long have you been together?”

“Years, I reckon. Hard to picture life before him. I was a mess. Workin’ at his shop’s done me good.”

“Oh, I thought you were partner partners.”

He grins. “No, yer not mistaken. We’re partners in business an’ bed.” 

With a gentle dig, his elbow finds your ribs, and you feign an affable chuckle into your drink. The cheap beer’s too tepid to stomach, but you swallow, hide a grimace and push on. “What brought you here?”

Soap rolls his shoulders and finally casts his gaze elsewhere. “Wanted to see the world. I was an artist. I fucked off from home at sixteen an’ never returned. Wandered for years. Traveled all over.”

Sixteen. Incomprehensible. Not that eighteen was much better, but you weren’t alone. 

“And you stopped here?” You came to Grouse Bay to hide. Picked it at random. To think someone else did the same seems kismet.

“I ken. Ye probably think I’m daft. Of all the places I’ve seen, how come fuckin’ Idaho? Of all places? I dinnae. Set its hooks in me.” He glances at Simon. “Love’s got a way of changing people, aye? Transformin’ them. It could be ye, putting down roots next.”

The comment nips your soft underbelly. You pivot again. “Did you paint? Do you still create art?”

Soap turns. “Nae so much anymore. I mostly draw. Dipped my toes into painting, but too much to carry. The art I make nowadays…It’s gruesome.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Taxidermy. ‘S what Simon and I do,” His eyebrows shoot up, teeth flashing in a puckish smile. “Ye didnae ken?”

Revulsion tightens your throat. “I didn’t.”

He bites his lower lip, clearly eager to fan your disgust like a fire. A hairbreadth of control keeps his mouth shut long enough to rethink it. Instead, his focus drifts once more to his partner. 

Despite the acidity lapping at your throat, curiosity opens your mouth. “Do you know how Simon came to Grouse Bay?”

Soap’s lips press tightly together, enough to sap their color, then bend into a brief scowl. Without warning, he stands and rips his shirt off in one smooth movement. He tosses it, crows a complaint about the heat, and doesn’t look over the upper deck before launching off the pontoon.

Howls of laughter erupt, but surprise tethers you in place until John calls your name. Apparently, a sunset dip is tradition.

Ducking into the cabin under the premise of changing, you whisper to Kate, “I don’t have a swimsuit. John didn’t tell me about swimming.”

“He must’ve,” Kate quarters a lemon on the tiny counter and tucks a wedge into the bottle’s narrow mouth. She shoves it through with a thumb and licks the pad. “Nobody will bat an eye if you go in your underwear.”

“I’m not–that’s too–”

“You’re shy. That’ll pass. I’ll tell John you need his shirt.” She’s gone before you can argue.

A short eternity squeezes into less than a minute. John appears in the doorway, and beyond him, you hear Nikolai’s deep laugh.

“Kate says you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy.”

“Well, I’ve come to give you this just in case.” 

You thought you’d see John shirtless for the first time under different circumstances. Not in a cramped boat cabin, surrounded by his drunk friends. Your chest tightens. All the muscle you’ve only glimpsed and imagined is there in front of you. A torso sculpted by labor and practicality, rugged with scars and fat cushioning his stomach. And, to your delight, decently hirsute. His hand drops to his belt.

“Shirt’s yours. Need me to turn around?”

It feels more intimate than any kiss he’s given you, and it seems a test. You muster your nerve, set aside caution, and peel off your dress.

“Blue and white. Festive.”

“And you’re in green.”

He kicks off his jeans with a shrug. “Not my birthplace, and not for long.”

Standing at the stern, you entertain second and third thoughts, toying with the shirt’s hem. John waits in the water, expectant. You catch a flash of white—he’s nude. Toward the bow, you hear the others. They’re all nude.

“What about Kate?” You ask, voice warbling with uncertainty. 

“Kate never joins. She watches.”

“Watches?”

“For other boats. Voyeurs. Threats.”

You feel stupid for asking.

The shock of the cold water hits like a full-body slap, stealing your breath and sending a sharp jolt through your limbs. Arms wrap around you as you surface, and the scruff of John’s beard scrapes the juncture of your neck, chin pushing the wet shirt aside to briefly suck your neck. It’s sudden, it’s a lot, knowing what’s behind your back—

“John!” You sputter indignantly, giggling nervously as his broad hands slide to squeeze your hips. 

“Gimme a second.” He noses your wet skin and plants a few kisses before relinquishing his hold. “Sorry, sweetheart. Hard to keep my hands off you when you look so good.”

Sufficiently flustered, you promptly forgive him. “It’s fine. Just not in front of the others, please.”

“Right,” he chuckles and pinches your bottom as he paddles past. “She’s shy.”

Affronted, you swim after him.

As much as you hate to admit, Kate was right—your shyness melts with the sun’s slow descent. You spend the rest of the daylight in and out of the water, racing the men and learning to automatically avert your eyes from their frankly proud nakedness. By the time evening falls, you’re worn out, dressed, and idle as you munch on a sandwich Kate packed. It feels surreal. The entire day. Breathtakingly normal despite the skinny dipping.

Not weird, just different.

Eventually, everyone finds their place for the fireworks. You nestle into John’s side, swapping your towel for a blanket. He’s still bare-chested, shirt drying over an empty seat. It’s natural, resting your head on his shoulder. Fits perfectly. Simon, Soap, and Nikolai climb to the roof. Kate reclines in the captain’s chair. Beneath the cotton weave, John’s hand strokes your knee, and the other rests across your shoulders. The conversations lull as the whole lake seems to hold its breath.

Flashes of red and white burst overhead, their reflections shimmering over the rippling, dark water. Blue sparks spill in glittering arcs, lighting the night sky in meteoric explosions. Cheers from across the lake erupt alongside them. John’s hold doesn’t lax. For nearly an hour, he keeps you close, palm searing your skin. Your attention strays from the show, instead admiring his crow’s feet, the mole on his nose, and the silver woven into his beard. The fireworks cast a glow, making him look almost ethereal. Not angelic, otherworldly. The lines and marks on his skin map to places you’ve never been. Never thought you’d go.

The sky returns to an unbroken, inky black, the scent of sulfur settling in a fog. Kate ferries you to land, and you disembark ahead of John with his keys. In the drive, you pop the tailgate and then load your things into the passenger seat. 

“Bunny.”

You turn to see Soap hauling the cooler, huffing and puffing a bit. The thing’s empty, so he must’ve hurried up the stairs. He crosses the road, tossing his burden into the truck. 

“Bunny?”

He shakes his head. “Must’ve misheard. Said ‘bonnie’. Endearment of sorts. Listen, I was hopin’ to get another chance to speak with ye. You’re a good time when you let loose.”

“Thank you. I haven’t in a while. Felt nice.”

“I can tell. Simon said ye were wound tight. He frighten ye?”

To the core of your being. A congenital fear. You swallow it. “No.”

“Really? Big fella scares me.” Soap pitches his voice low. He casually stretches and grips the window crank, effectively caging you into the wedge of the door. His nostrils widen like earlier, pupils dilating in the light. “Now. Need ye to tell me somethin’. Been eatin’ me all day, and I cannae be a dog and put my nose wherever I’d like. Gotta be good.”

Instantly, ropes harness your thoughts, prepared to draw and quarter them into the bleakest parts of imagination. The desert, the inland sea. 

The plastic handle creaks under his grip as he forces the words out between his teeth. “Did ye find—”

“Johnny.” Simon. Soap immediately reels backward, tugged by an invisible thread. 

“Here, sir!”

Sir? Johnny? 

“ATV. Now.” 

Soap doesn’t so much as spare a parting glance, obediently scurrying to the four-wheeler. You stare, dumbfounded, and jump when the driver-side door creaks. John smiles wryly, his shirt adorning his neck like a damp scarf. The trail of hair disappearing into his waistband is a momentary distraction from the brute stalking beyond the windshield. Simon’s scarred flesh is a beacon in the moonlight. His heavy brow focused solely on the man perched atop his vehicle. You hear him seething, growling under his breath at Soap—Johnny—and John’s door shuts.

“C’mon, sweetheart. They’re alright.” He coaxes you into the cab, patting your knee with a sigh. “Lover’s quarrel. Simon’s a jealous man.”

“Jealous,” you echo, gawking at the two men outside. “Of me?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised.” John starts the truck and lowers his window. He leans out some as Nik and Kate share a smoke at the end of her walk. “Night, Kate. Nikolai.”

Nikolai leers behind his cigarette, gesturing with it in your direction. A few words of Russian escape with the smoke, a throaty laugh on their heels. Kate looks impassive. Bored. Her house disappears in the rearview. A restiveness itches under your skin, exacerbated by the quiet crackling of the radio. Your head’s a crowded place. The silence’s a good place to unburden it.

“So. Soap’s real name is Johnny?”

John chuckles. “Nobody but Simon calls him that, but you didn’t think it was Soap, did you?”

“I’m assuming it’s to keep things less confusing.”

“Correct. I actually employed him for a spell, when he arrived. Earned the name ‘Soap’ on account of his mouth. Needless to say, his career in retail was brief. Kept flirtin’ with the customers.”

“And he got with Simon?” 

“Simon swept him off his feet.”

You scoff. “That’s difficult to believe.”

“Simon has his ways.”

Nothing in your short, tense encounters suggests Simon to be a man capable of love or romance. You doubt it is uncharitable to think so, either. Ferine and rude, calculated and off-putting. Everything he does aims to disarm by making the very air around him feel heavy and wrong, whereas Soap seems keen to impress upon you his friendliness, conveying himself as human conciliation. ‘Opposites attract’ has limits. 

Yet.

“Soap said love has a way of changing people.”

John hums in agreement. “Most powerful force there is.”

Can’t argue with that. Force for good or otherwise, though—that you may dispute.

You don’t tell him to, but he shuts the truck off in the drive. Cats scatter as he escorts you, voicing their displeasure at your late arrival. Under the exterior light, you fumble with your keys, his gaze heavy on your cheek. In the time it takes to turn the lock, you berate yourself. Plead with a jury close to hanging.

It’s swimming all over again. Are you shy? Timid? Are you allowing the long, creeping reach of your abandoned husband to touch you before you let John try? The verdict passes your lips.

“Won’t you come in?”

“It’s late.”

“Please come in.”

It takes two invitations to coax John Price into the cabin and a third to the shower. 

A shuddering sigh of relief comes with removing your underwear and dress. The freedom from wet cotton eclipses the nervousness that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. The urge to cover yourself in front of the man who is not your husband sings loud, nearly shrieking when he brushes his knuckles down your arm and gently turns you around. He starts the water, returning to press his front to your back, the slight tackiness of lakewater and sweat melding you together. His fingertips run a track from your flanks to the sides of your breasts, a hum buzzing into the skin of your shoulder when you grasp the counter.

When Dusty—No. No. He’s not here. John is. 

You banish the venomous guilt that tries to unseat your want and let John tug you into the shower to wash the day off.

He’s hard for most of it, his swollen cock skimming your hips and ass, glancing over your belly, and nearly driving the strength from your legs. He seems unfazed, reverent, and single-minded in his self-imposed task. It’s embarrassing, the way you squirm and fidget at every touch. Difficult to tell if it’s arousal or the unfamiliarity of intimacy.

John takes your place under the spray and chuckles softly when you finally look down. His fingers scrub through his body hair to the thatch at his cock’s root. You suck in a breath. He’s proportional—thick, heavy, and flushed. Hangs between the two of you, untouched, but you know it would burn your hand. Your tongue. The dizzying rush from that last thought alone reassures you because you don’t remember the last time you knelt because you wanted to.

Neither of you dress. Both of you barely dry. He insists on a light, hovering at the bedside lamp until you nod. When he climbs onto the bed, murmuring little nothings, your blood’s roaring in your ears, drowning out his encouragement. He opens your legs for a good look, but he might as well wrench open your ribcage. 

“Quite the sight.” John whispers. His palms slide from your knees to your upper thighs, the rough pads of his thumbs stroking where your thighs meet your pelvis. 

You imagine fastening an anchor to your brain, then a lure. Stay here, stay focused. 

“Yeah?”

His eyes flick to yours, narrowing as he reads into the single word. “Yeah. Beautiful.” He slowly slides and sinks to kiss your thighs, positioning himself between your legs. His shoulders stretch them further, and an arm snakes around and pulls you closer all too easily, hand groping a greedy handful. His breath hits where it’s wet, coarse hair tickling skin.

The first contact rips a sharp breath from you, which he immediately meets with a hum that buzzes to the base of your spine. The fingers on your thighs brush soothingly as he continues, jaw pressing further. His mouth latches, tongue dipping lower and in, laving along your entrance before circling to your clit. Each stroke and circuit deliberate, adjusting to the sounds spilling uninhibited from your mouth. Your hands reach and thread into his hair with a moan.

He groans softly into your flesh, nosing the fat above your sex, chuckling when your hips pitch. His hand travels up your quivering inner thigh to ease a finger in, pulling away to sink it into the first knuckle with a wet sound. 

“Look at you.” John sounds wrecked, beard and chin drenched in spit and slick, tongue licking the excess from his lip. Eyes boring into you with that look again. Unmasked hunger, barely tethered. The one you touched yourself to in the shower.

“Smelled you all day, smelled this,” He emphasizes with a pump of his finger, kissing your clit at the strangled, small noise you make. “Leaking into your pants, even after a swim. Nearly laid you out right there, during the fireworks.” 

A filthy whine erupts at the thought. You picture it vividly. John tearing your dress off of you, hauling you to the floor of the boat. Nik and Kate and Simon and Soap—all of them watching John mount you, ignoring the spectacle for a different show. Would any of them intervene? Would you want them to?

You clench at the thought, and he smirks.

He introduces a second finger alongside the first, hushing your reedy whimpers at the stretch. “The needy thing knew I was near. Knew that I could scent her crying out for me. Poor thing, neglected and mistreated. Needed a man to fuss over her.”

Your face grows somehow hotter. Not enough that you’re naked and under him, he needs to strip you bare and sweetly flay you alive. “John—”

He cuts you off, tutting. “Don’t be embarrassed—it’s natural for a man to want his mate.”

His fingers plunge to the webbing, ratcheting up to earnestly fuck you now that he’s teased you into incoherency. “Never gonna leave you lonely,” he rasps, tucking his mouth back over your pearled clit. 

Every year, the lake ice cracks and fractures with the arrival of spring. This is no different.

Muscles flexing and fluttering, dimly aware of the praises he murmurs against your cunt, you shatter. 

He doesn’t withdraw his fingers until you score his scalp and beg, and even then they slide over your slit, cupping the slippery folds of your pussy. He kisses and wipes his cum-soaked whiskers over your spasming thighs and stomach, his free hand planting beside you. John looms, pleased but not quite sated. 

He pets your cunt and waits for the worst of your trembling to cease. “Perfect,” he affirms, giving it a wet pat. He grunts, then abruptly knocks your legs open a second time with a knee, removing his hand to slick his cock.

Your eyes bulge, vision clearing in an instant at the view. Sat ignored for too long, his cock flushes a deeper shade of red, precome clinging to it like wax and seeping into his hair. He wraps his hand around the thick of himself, shuddering, eyes screwing shut as he strokes.

You think your orgasm might’ve knocked something loose. You reach a shaking hand and touch his knee. 

“J-John? I-I can’t…I can’t, not yet.” You are selfishness incarnate, asking him to quash his hunger once more. 

His eyes snap open. His pupils drill into you, flitting between your twitching cunt, his cockhead, and your face. Stygian and starving. 

“I’m sorry. Please.” 

He swallows, chest heaving with his unwhetted appetite, its festering close to spoiling. For a moment, fear poleaxes you into the mattress when he shuffles on his knees closer anyway, knees pushing under your thighs. 

“Not yet? That’s…okay,” John breathes raggedly. He nods, fisting his cock faster. His free hand glides from the valley of your breasts to your stomach, tracing a circle. “We’ll get there, sweetheart…Can I…?” 

Biting your lip, you nod.

He sighs, hips bucking slightly. “You’ll be taking my cock in no time. No tears, now. Wipe ‘em off.”

You obey immediately, not having realized you’d started crying, and see his cock jump in his hand at that.

John chuckles a little brokenly, struggling to speak through gritted teeth. “Soon, I can feel it. Gonna empty that head of yours, weed out what’s holding you back, and fill you, fuck, here.” His fingers press over your womb, and he jerks forward. Hot ropes of come shoot out, coating his fingers and your skin. He rocks into his fist a few more times, the motions stuttering, until leisurely sinking back to his haunches. 

After he withdraws and returns to clean you up, wiping the sweat off your brow before the cum on your belly, he tucks the both of you into bed. He turns off the lamp and claims the side closest to the door. He spoons you with his heartbeat to your spine.

Staring into the night beyond the window, you apologize again.

“I want to. I really want to.”

“I know, darl. I know.” He kisses your shoulder. “What did I say? We’ll get there.”

He falls asleep wrapped around you. You, however, lie awake trying to remember what it is to share a bed with someone willingly. With someone who wants you. 

Eventually, you wriggle out a hand and grab your phone, dimming its brightness all the way down. You haven’t checked it since work and swipe to your messages. A text from an unknown number sits at the top of your notifications.

>> F741 >> hold