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munson-blurbs · 1 month

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Apologies were in order when Eddie's true whereabouts were revealed, but would a rainy evening bring forgiveness or an even harsher storm? (4.6k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, misunderstanding, anxiety, self-deprication, parental conflict, poverty, jealousy, brief touching, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter eight: mind your own business

A simple conversation changed everything.

Admittedly, it was not your conversation, but one you had eavesdropped on.

You had turned in the final exam for your Experimental Psych class, ruminating over any possible wrong answers as soon as your paper touched the pile on your professor’s desk. Did you get an abnormal amount of Cs in the multiple-choice section? Were your short answers detailed enough?

And then you overheard two guys talking in the hall, one sounding like he’d just chain-smoked a carton of cigarettes.

“Dude, what the fuck happened to your voice?”

“Lost it at a concert the other night. Totally worth it, though.”

“What concert?”

“Death’s Echo.”

You froze, hoping your sudden stop didn’t draw any attention to you. Death’s Echo had a concert? Where was it? Is that where Eddie was on Monday night?

Potential exam mistakes forgotten, you strode over to the guys on a quest for information. “Excuse me.” Your lips curved into your best customer service smile. “Did you say you saw Death’s Echo?”

The hoarse-voiced one nodded. “Yeah, why? You like them?” His eyes narrowed in assessment; you clearly didn’t embody his expectations of a punk music fan. A fair enough judgment, because you certainly weren’t.

“Where did they play?” You pressed, ignoring his question.

“Webster Hall,” he coughed, and his buddy laughed at his apparent pain. “You listen to them?”

“Yup,” you lied easily, not wanting to stick around and have him find out why a “fan” didn’t even know about a local gig. “Um, feel better!” You hurried out of the building, head spinning with this newfound knowledge.

Webster Hall. It was just over an hour to get there, which meant that the concert must have started late; a practice not unheard of for more up-and-coming bands. The prime time slots went to the headliners who brought in the most money.

If Eddie had gone to the concert on Monday, why wouldn’t he tell you? Did he think you’d be angry? Disappointed?

Or maybe he just didn’t want you to know he was blowing off work for a concert, you reasoned, and your opinion beyond that is irrelevant.

Should you ask him about it tonight? Could you? He might hole himself up in his room, ignoring your knocks and only coming out after your shift.

Maybe that was for the best.

His harsh words from last night continued rattling around your brain, barely taking a reprieve during the test. Honestly, you were grateful you wrote down actual psychological terminology instead of I am a total hypocrite over and over until self-deprecation filled the pages.

Tomorrow was your last official day of your undergraduate career, your own personal deadline for confessing the truth to your parents, and yet you were no closer to being ready than you were when you first made that silent promise.

The problem spun a web woven from neurons and synapses, its delicate threads slowly taking over your mind and catching the most daunting tasks.

NYU Essay revisions Graduation The motel Eisen’s Eddie

Too much. It was all too much, but you couldn’t shake them from their entrapment. You wanted to squeeze your eyes shut and only open them once everything had been resolved.

You had a fleeting thought of boarding the bus and remaining seated as it rolled past the motel, leaving it all behind and reclaiming your sanity. Running away was always an option, in theory; realistically, you would be overwrought with guilt before the bus made it to the next stop.

What you’d once considered loyalty was now stained with splotches of cowardice.

Maybe one day, you would be able to see yourself the way you wanted to be seen: as a trailblazer, a go-getter, a woman in pursuit of her dreams.

Today was not that day.

Rain streamed down from the clouds in thick sheets as though compensating for the week’s idle threats of stormy weather. It pelted against the motel’s windows like a steady drumbeat that wouldn’t be drowned out by your clock radio cranked up to its maximum volume.

Darkness loomed in the night sky, heavier than usual. Wind accompanied the rain, jostling the power lines and making the lights flicker.

If the electricity went out tonight…

You couldn’t finish that thought, not when the front door swung open to reveal Eddie, drenched from head to toe. His curls clung to his forehead, his cheeks, the back and sides of his neck; his chest heaved beneath a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt that was saturated with rainwater.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, unmoving and catching his breath.

This was your chance to apologize. To admit what you know—what you might know. The timing of the Death’s Echo concert could have been a coincidence, but your intuition told you it wasn’t.

Another awkward smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a tentative “hey,” and he was trudging past you without attempting to stop.

Opportunity went as quickly as it came. Every word you had planned had been scrambled like a tornado swept through your brain and left gibberish-laden debris.

The version of you that had confidently confronted him about smoking pot a few weeks ago would have scoffed at the way you failed to utter a simple apology. But this was much more complex.

Eddie’s forgiveness—if he forgave you—was only half of the battle. His blatantly false accusations about your work ethic had cut too deep to ignore.

Did he really think that little of you? Or was that his own defensiveness rearing its ugly head and taking over?

Then came a cry from down the hall.

“Of fuckin’ course!” Eddie boomed loud enough to be heard beyond his closed door. “Goddammit!”

You abandoned the desk, grabbing your essay papers and bolting to his room. He was at the window, violently pushing down on the pane, but it remained open. The shirt he’d been wearing earlier laid right next to the door as though he’d peeled it off as soon as he stepped into the room.

Your eyes landed on the dusting of hair that was now plastered to his pecs, another effect from the weather, the soft brown tendrils partially obscured by his demon head tattoo.

This wasn’t the first time you’d seen him bare-chested. The night he had arrived, he answered your knock in only his Calvin Klein boxers. He was wearing Fruit of the Loom tonight, the elastic waistband exposed from the weight of his rain-sodden jeans.

Heat burned in your belly, a sensation you hadn’t experienced in a long while.

“Little help?” Eddie grunted impatiently, and you nodded, tossing the essay onto his nightstand among a sea of his own handwritten papers.

Had he caught you staring?

He moved over, bringing both of his hands to the right side so you could press both of yours to the left. The combined force was enough to smack it closed, the resulting burst of wind sending the papers airborne. They floated to the ground, paragraph-laden parachutes, but all you could focus on was the patch of carpet beneath you. It was completely soaked, visibly darker where the rain had seeped in, and it squelched under your sneakers.

“I’ll grab towels.” You started towards the door, pausing to scoop up a sheet of looseleaf that had landed near your feet. It was obviously Eddie’s; his was not as meticulously curated as yours, full of scratch-outs and barely legible, but the words you could make out were enough to pique your interest.

Want what I can’t have

She’s got me mixed fucked mixed up

You couldn’t read any more of it without him noticing, and you certainly did not want to get caught snooping after upsetting him, so you placed it on the bed as casually as you could.

There were extra towels stored in the supply closet, and you jogged back to the lobby, mentally calculating how many you’d need to sop up the mess. Taking as many as you could carry, you perched your chin atop the oversized pile and lumbered into Eddie’s room, dropping them to the ground.

To your dismay, he had put on a new shirt, but it did nothing to temper your thoughts of running your fingertips over his inked skin.

The air was now rife with the scent of burning tobacco, the cigarette between Eddie’s lips already smoked halfway to the filter.

“Thanks.” It was muffled and gruff, hardly an olive branch, but it was enough to tug the corners of your mouth in a tepid smile.

You wanted to stay, wanted to ask about what he had been writing, but Eddie snatched up your essay papers from where they’d scattered before you could ask. He shoved them towards you, leaving the edges creased where they crinkled under his grip.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t vandalize them,” he sneered. A gray cloud whorled from his lips as he spoke, but it didn’t hide his sarcastic grin.

You steeled your gaze and forced yourself to look just above the glowing ember and into his eyes. “I’m sorry.” You let your apology float downwards, watching for any indication of a softening expression, but he remained tense.

“You didn’t even bother asking where I was,” he spit.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, less abrasive this time. “I assumed...because you were so mean to Ben…” Any further explanation felt too much like an excuse, so you left the sentence unfinished.

Eddie’s chest deflated slightly, his bravado extinguished. He’d been expecting a fight, you realized.

You refused to give him one.

“Were you at Webster Hall?” Your voice deliberately turned up at the end, careful to pose it as a question rather than a declaration. Certainly not as an accusation.

Eddie flinched, his forefinger and thumb quickly pinching his cigarette to keep it from falling. “What?”

“Monday night,” you said. You pushed your right foot into the mound of towels, hit with a sudden bout of antsiness. “Was your errand seeing Death’s Echo play at Webster Hall?”

He said nothing, just looked at you. Really looked at you, assessing whether or not you deserved to know the truth.

The admission came out gradually, as if it was being met with resistance, pulled from a place so deep he had forgotten its existence.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Eddie took another drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs until forced out with a cough. “Wanted to hear how they sounded with their new, ah, frontman.”

Lower lip tucked snugly beneath your front teeth, you nodded. “And how did they sound?”

“Great. Really fuckin’ great.” His wry smile held more sadness than amusement. “Better than when I was with them.”

Your heart lurched. Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand, giving it just a little squeeze before letting go. “I know that’s not true,” you said. “I heard you playing on Sunday, and you’re good, Eddie. Not just anyone could pull off playing Metallica without an amp, but you did.”

You wished he could see himself from your perspective, see the man whose talent was too vast for a dingy subway station, whose music deserved to be heard by sold-out crowds at The Garden.

Eddie didn’t agree, but he didn’t disagree, either. His face remained neutral, and given the circumstances, you considered that a win.

“I can work tonight. Hang the new wallpaper.” A lightning-speed subject change, but you were becoming accustomed to seamlessly shifting tracks to follow his train of thought. “I’ll be back out as soon as I finish this.” He lifted the cigarette to his mouth again and you nodded, closing the door behind you.

Part of you expected him not to return. If his brain worked like yours, he would overthink the conversation, replaying it over and over until he’d wrung out all the positives and left it saturated with the negatives. He’d opt to stay in his room and smoke out his pack, leaving the wallpaper job unfinished. But you heard the door hinge creak and his footsteps pattering into the lobby.

One thousand words flooded your brain to form myriad sentences, from a joking long time, no see to a much more serious who were you writing about?

Ben thought Eddie had feelings for you, ones that stretched past the platonic confines. But he’d only met him once, briefly. He didn’t really know him.

Want what I can’t have She’s got me mixed up

Did you really know him?

Eddie had an endless list of things he couldn’t have, which often was the case for people facing poverty. As for the girl who had him mixed up, you couldn’t narrow that down, either. The only women you’d seen him interact with were Phyllis (an unlikely muse, but it wouldn’t be the most bizarre case of unrequited love you’d ever heard of), your mom (again, not likely), and you.

There was no doubt you had him mixed up. Maybe even fucked up, as he’d written and crossed out. But had you had enough of an effect on him to warrant poetry or song lyrics–

Song lyrics.

It all clicked into place: The band; more specifically, the drummer who happened to be his ex-girlfriend. He’d gone to see them play. He could have spoken to her, and maybe realized that a spark was still present. A real spark, not whatever pathetic flicker you might have felt that night when he’d held your hand as you removed wallpaper, or when you’d exchanged gentle touches after his unfortunate wasp’s nest encounter, or when he’d loomed over you in the subway car and a delicate dip in your belly made itself known.

You decided that this explanation, the one in which you had little to no involvement, held the most logic. His inspiration was his past love–potentially his current love–and your argument was a mere distraction from a much more complicated situation.

A natural silence fell over the lobby, a healing balm over the wound you’d taken turns picking at and reopening. It was the perfect setting to finish editing your essay, and yet you found the task impossible. Any threatening grammatical errors paled in comparison to the slight movements of Eddie’s back muscles, visible through his white cotton shirt as he smoothed down the wallpaper panels.

The pronounced flex of his tricep as he drove the paper cutter above the moldings with utter precision.

The soft grunt that escaped his lips as he pressed on his thighs to stand up and admire his handiwork.

You didn’t know how long you’d been staring at him before the slamming front door snapped you out of it.

“L-Looks good,” you managed, throat suddenly bone-dry.

Eddie crossed his arms, took a small step back, and nodded. Wide brown eyes scoured the wall for any uneven edges or unglued seams, his lips pursed in concentration. “Not my best work but, uh, it’ll do.” He smirked at you, then jutted his chin to your left.

A middle-age man stood beside the desk, rainwater dripping off of the slope of his nose. He held an umbrella, turned inside out and rendered useless by the wind.

“Sign out front says ‘vacancy.’” He grumbled and swiped at his bushy eyebrows, revealing a sliver of beer gut when he raised his arm. “Just need a room for the night.”

“Mhm, of course.” You found your footing with a polite smile and collected the stranger’s money, just as you always had, just as you were supposed to. Because you were at work, and that was your job–not watching Eddie hang wallpaper.

As you scanned the wall behind you for a key, a warm whisper tickled your ear, breath tinged with a smoky aroma. A shiver reflexively wiggled down your spine as Eddie spoke, your body unused to this level of proximity.

“Put him away from my room. He looks like a snorer.”

You tucked your lips into your mouth to stifle your laughter. Eddie was right; you weren’t quite sure what it was about the man, but he did look like he snored. Loudly.

You meant to look over your paper after your shift, but sleep was too seductive to resist. Just one more day, one more final exam, and then you were done. At least until August.

Summer stretched before you, and though you would still be spending nights behind the desk, your days were wide open.

Days that might be spent alongside Eddie.

There was no formal apology from him last night, a fact that nagged at you throughout the bus ride to school and prevented you from looking past the first page of your essay. That, and the burdens of shame both you and Eddie carried: yours from the blatantly wrong accusation, his from…what, exactly? Why was he embarrassed to tell you where he’d been?

The wound was still too raw last night to press on it, to ask further questions; instead, you kept the conversation light and airy. The only foray into dangerous territory came from Eddie himself when he asked about the vandalism at Eisen’s. You couldn’t answer fast enough before clumsily pivoting the discussion to the warming weather.

And maybe it was your inner people pleaser that craved reconciliation, needed it to unfurl and bloom like a budding rose, that lowered your guard and bade you to talk with him. But people-pleasing didn’t explain the warmth that crept through your body, lazily winding through your veins, when he laughed at your jokes.

That laugh–the gentle nose scrunch it evoked, the lightheartedness it exuded, how it chiseled away at the remaining iciness between you. It was all you thought about that night, your heart relaxing as the friendship was no longer in limbo.

But when you got to class and flipped through your essay one last time, that newfound homeostasis meant nothing. Yes, there were ten pages present and ready to be stapled, but unless your conclusion focused on angsty song lyrics, you were missing the final page.

Dread’s chill pricked at you, followed by an overbearing wash of heat. The granola bar you’d scarfed down threatened to make a reappearance.

Stupid. How could I have been so careless? All I had to do was check before I left home, but I was too busy thinking about Eddie to do the bare minimum.

It was a bad dream; you’d wake up and find yourself in bed with your full essay safely stored in your bag. All you had to do was wake up and page ten would be a continuation of psychological development in infancy.

Your eyes opened hopefully, but you were still in the classroom, and the page still beared Eddie’s sloppy scrawl:

I’m the castle She’s the queen Can’t be a king I’m too obscene

The lyrics a few lines down stopped mid-sentence:

Crushed beneath a broken dream Failed to launch now I

You were wasting precious time. If you left now, you could probably make it home and back before the professor left. You’d have to fork over the money for a dollar cab and forgo your afternoon coffee, but it was a sacrifice you needed to make.

Stupid stupid stupid—

Your name being called drew you from your pit of self-loathing. It wasn’t Nora; the voice was too masculine and too far away for it to come from beside you.

It was someone with the same name. Just a coincidence.

And then you heard it again. Loud enough so it echoed down the hall, but not frantic. And yet your heart fluttered in your chest.

Eddie.

There was no way; he couldn’t be—

You squeezed past Nora and thundered towards the door, trying to quell your hopes before they rose too high.

But there he stood, sweat pasting his hair to his forehead. His chest heaved beneath a white cotton undershirt that was tight around the biceps. Deep brown eyes lit up when he spotted you in the doorway, his lips curving in a triumphant smile.

“I have your paper!” Sure enough, your conclusion paragraph was clenched in his calloused hand.

You could have cried with relief. Fueled by gratefulness and residual adrenaline, you flung your arms around him. Your hands found his back muscles; at first tensed, almost reflexively, but quickly relaxed. The paper crinkling between your torsos jarred you out of the moment, and you took a step back before he could return the gesture—if he even would have.

“Sorry, I…” Words suddenly evaded you, eviscerated by the musky scent of his deodorant. He didn’t appear to be uncomfortable, all soft doe eyes and lazy grins from his unlikely heroism, but…still. Your relationship now teetered between employee and friend, and you couldn’t afford to knock it off-balance. “How did you get here so fast? And how did you find me?”

Eddie exhaled a chuckle. “Took a cab. And when I got here, I asked every other person where the psychology classes were.”

“You walked from where the dollar cab dropped you off?” How many blocks was that? No wonder he was sweating.

His cheeks, already flushed from exertion, tinged a deeper shade of pink. “N-No, I, um…it was a regular cab.”

Sheer disbelief widened your eyes. He must have dipped into his meager savings to shell out the money for an actual cab, putting him even farther behind in his journey home.

“I…” There were one thousand ways to finish your sentence.

I can pay you back.

I can’t believe you did this for me.

I am so sorry I ever doubted your character.

I wish we’d hugged just a moment longer.

You finally settled on a string of words that required no courage at all, just a genuine thankful smile. “I have your lyrics. Let me turn in my paper and I’ll grab them for you.”

Eddie’s timid expression shifted into one of amusement. “Shit, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Was wondering where those went.”

Opportunity splayed out in front of you, tempting you to ask him about the woman who had him mixed up. Every cell in your body ached to know if she was the same queen he’d placed on a royal pedestal, unattainable despite his valiant efforts.

Was it fear or politeness that held your tongue? You weren’t supposed to see the lyrics in the first place; how could you justify your questions? Sorry I read your innermost thoughts without permission, but could I pick your brain about them?

Any doubts about your intentions were confirmed when he took the page from you, cocked his head, and asked: “What’d you think?”

There it was. Your opening. You could see it, practically touch it, your fingertips brushing the chance to admit that the songs’ mysterious inspiration gnawed at you—

But then he might ask why you wanted to know. And, quite honestly, you lacked the energy to figure it out for yourself. The desire was too strong to be nosiness, too personal to be gossip.

Not to mention the inexplicable sourness that burned your esophagus when you’d considered the high probability that he’d written them about his ex-girlfriend.

“Really good,” you managed. “I can’t wait for the finished product.”

Coward.

“Me, too,” he agreed with a laugh. “I’m sure the folks at the train station are dying to hear it.”

“The rats’ll give you a standing ovation.”

He snickered. “My biggest fans.”

A hand squeezing yours prevented you from getting lost in the slight dimple that appeared when he smiled. Nora now stood beside you, expression innocuous to Eddie or any other man, but her dark brown eyes silently asked, are you okay?

I’m fine, you replied with a squeeze of your own, grateful for someone who swooped in seeing you with a man she didn’t know.

“Nora, this is Eddie,” you introduced her. “He’s–he’s my friend who’s been helping us out around the motel. Eddie, this is Nora, best friend and study buddy extraordinaire.”

“Ahh, Wallpaper Boy.” Nora furrowed a brow. “You go to school here?”

Eddie cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head. “No, I…she left her paper, so…” He trailed off as though embarrassed by his chivalry.

“So now she can graduate!” Nora wrapped you in an embrace so tight that you briefly worried about your shoulder dislocating. She leaned in knowingly, her tone teasing with an air of seriousness. “And keep me company at the ceremony, right?”

You rolled your eyes, acutely aware that Eddie was watching the entire interaction. The last thing you wanted was attention drawn to the fact that you weren’t attending graduation. “Maybe,” was all you said, and Nora left it at that.

There was an awkward beat before anyone spoke again, and it was Eddie who eventually filled the silence. “Heading home now?” He asked you, already starting towards the building’s doors.

“No, I’m going to Eisen’s. I promised Ben that I’d help clean the graffiti.” You braced yourself for a volatile reaction, or at least something akin to annoyance, but his response was more surprising than any snarky remark.

“I’ll come with.”

Cocking a disbelieving brow, you did your best to keep your tone free of judgment. You were waiting for the gotcha, but you couldn’t let him know that. “Seriously?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, why not? I’ve got the day free, and I have some…expertise in graffiti removal.” He relented with a shrug when you and Nora exchanged curious glances, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “My trailer got hit a time or twelve back in the day. The tragic life of a Satan-worshiping freak, y’know?”

“But I bet the vandalizers were upstanding citizens.”

“Keys to the city and everything.” Eddie stuck out his hand, palm up, and you could see the details etched into his pale skin. Calluses decorated the pads of his fingers; you’d assumed they were mostly from guitar playing, but now you could add physical labor to their origins. He looked down at his hand, then back at you. “Shall we?”

Your own hands were suddenly slick with anxious perspiration, like a middle school student on her first-ever date. Even that juvenile scenario held more significance than this—two friends scrubbing down a hardware store was a far cry from the Sandra Brown romance novels you secretly devoured in high school.

And yet, you felt it—that soft electricity that crackled through your whorls of fingerprints when you slid your palm against his, the jolt of energy as he tugged you forward and laced his fingers with yours. If he noticed the nervousness that embarrassing seeped from your pores, he didn’t mention it.

Nora, ever astute, excused herself with a story about not wanting to miss the bus, but not before whispering in your ear, “he’s cute.” An approval that would almost certainly be followed up with a phone call later to discuss the fine details of the afternoon’s escapades.

There are no ‘escapades,’ you reminded yourself. You’re removing graffiti, not embarking on a Parisian vacation.

Eddie led the way until he reached the building’s doors, blinking as his eyes once again adjusted to the sunlight. “I, uh, I have no idea where we’re going.”

You laughed at his candor. “Follow me.”

It was an opportunity to break the grasp, to unleash the anxiety that threatened to cleave you and Eddie back into two separate pieces. He was dangerous because he was temporary; if you allowed him in even farther than you already had—beyond the confines of friendship—his inevitable departure would destroy you.

Let go. Let go. Let. Go.

And yet you kept holding on, adjusting only to take the lead. Eddie’s thumb brushed against yours, pausing just at the knuckle to press down in subtle acknowledgment.

Hi.

You pressed back with an accompanying smile.

Hi.

This time when you reached the subway station, you both jumped the turnstile.

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jacksmannequins · 2 months

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(this is just some of them; i left out a few that i knew would sweep otherwise, like melodrama)

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ignoremyworld · 4 months

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Remember me?

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Eddie is a metal star living in New York and needed a bite to eat. It doesn’t get awkward until he runs into his past

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The streets of New York City were busy. Even at night. Of course the thousands of people taking pictures weren’t helping.

Eddie had just gotten done with his gig at Webster hall and decided to take a late night walk to get fresh air after being stuck, sweaty and gross on a stage for three hours. He was still wearing his outfit from the show, a pair of baggy cargo pants with his bandana tucked into his back pocket and his cuffs hanging off one of his belt loops, a cropped re designed version of the hellfire logo, a fishnet shirt under that and his hair up in a bun to get the sweat off his neck.

Even if the streets were busy he didn’t mind. Walking past shop after shop he’d look through the windows to see what kind of stuff they were selling. A sports memorabilia store selling sport cards and merch like hats and jerseys. A little yarn shop filled with different textures and colors. A subway shop that he desperately wanted to stop into and he would if he hadn’t forgotten his wallet.

Staring through the subway window he saw the cashier making their customer the desired sandwich. He watched as he, somewhat, skillfully put the cheese and meat onto the bread, taking some bacon and putting it in their weird microwave. Eddie’s stomach growled and as it did he remembered about Apple Pay. He had about $73 dollars left on there so he walked in and hoped they took tap.

Waiting in line he heard the door ring signaling someone had entered. Hearing their footsteps stomp behind him and a sharp breath was taken. As the line slowly moved forward, Eddie could hear the aforementioned guy behind him put his phone up to his ear as the ringing became muffled.

He heard the guy start to whisper to the recipient on the phone, curious but not enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. The few people in front of him had came and left and it was soon his turn. He wrapped up his order with a foot long, a cookie, chips and a drink. The took his phone out and got Apple Pay ready when the man that was behind him, now next to him, spoke.

“I’ll pay for it man” a deep voice had spoken up beside him.

The sound of gravelly morning voice made Eddie jolt. Taking him back to Hawkins. Laying in bed with…

“Steve” he said softly, his heart beating ten times faster than it was.

He turned his head to meet Steve’s eyes. Still brown like firewood after the flames have been put out. His hair had changed. What was once tall and fluffy, helped by Farrah fawcet spray, was now laying beside his cheeks with the tips dyed blue. He had gotten more freckles since the last time he saw him.

The last time Eddie had seen anyone really. He had left in the middle of the night to go with his band mates to start his dream job. No one knew he was gonna leave, he knew they’d make a big fuss about it and a part of him couldn’t stand the look that would have been on Steve’s face when he said he’d be leaving.

The cashier broke the long silence between them “so, which one of you is going to pay? There’s a line forming”

Steve walked up to the register and handed the man his card, not taking his eyes off Eddie.

“Been a bit hasn’t it” Steve said. Finally tearing his eyes away from Eddie to look literally anywhere else.

“Yeah. A bit” Eddie replied, a wave of guilt washing over him

“Seven years is a long time” Steve whispered, taking his card back from the cashier “and you never called” he said before walking out.

Eddie chased after him and caught his arm. Pulling him back

“I wanted to call! I really did but I knew you’d be mad at me. Just like you are now! I’m so so sorry Stevie.” He said feeling tears well in his eyes.

“Don’t call me that” Steve snapped “you lost that privilege when you left and didn’t say anything. Not even a note Eddie! You have no clue how hurt and worried I was about you. It wasn’t until rob had said she saw you on television that I knew you had left us. That you had left me” tears had started to slip from Steve’s eyes and Eddie desperately wanted to place his hand on steves cheek like he used to and kiss them away.

“I know stevi- Steve. I know. And I’m so incredibly sorry. I wish there was some way I could make it up to you.” Eddie had sighed and let go of Steve’s arm “but unless you let me, there’s no way I can fix what I did”

There was a silence. The sound of cars rushing by was the only thing that was heard between the two.

Steve broke the silence and said “you can start by coming home with me”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

WELL that took such a long time. I want to start making longer stories and maybe continuous parts. Should I make a second part

And please any advice on writing or tips are appreciated as I’m still new to this.

Hope you liked it!

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #steddie #stranger things #eddie #steve harrington #steve stranger things #stevexeddie #modern stranger things #rockstar eddie munson #rockstar Eddie #remember me?#Steve #part two?

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thebowerypresents · 3 months

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Tierra Whack Celebrates Debut Album’s Release at Webster Hall on Friday Night

Tierra Whack – Webster Hall – March 15, 2024

Philadelphia rap queen Tierra Whack has been getting the party started worldwide with her infectious rhymes for several years now. (It’s probably only a matter of time before she graces the multipurpose-room stage on Abbott Elementary to battle Tariq Temple at a F.A.D.E. showcase.) Whack channels creativity and visual aspirations into her poetic lyrics and the videos that accompany them. From the Grammy-nominated video for “Mumbo Jumbo” to the recent Alex Da Corte–directed “27 Club,” her flair for fashion exudes further joy and pop, as witnessed on World Wide Whack, her debut full-length. She celebrated its release Friday night at a sold-out Webster Hall.

With a large inflatable of the World Wide Whack avatar occupying a third of the stage, the rapper appeared adorned in her silver clown suit mirroring the attire from her album’s aesthetics. Opening with track one from her latest, “Mood Swing” appropriately began with “I’ve been trying new things.” Throughout the show, the crowd indulged in a call-and-response, which warm-up DJ Kill Sing kicked off with a cry of “worldwide” and requested the “Whack” reply. The admittedly nervous singer would cover the majority of the new songs, from the bounce-inducing “Ms Behave” to the melancholic “Two Night,” Her confidence building thanks to the supportive crowd, Whack effortlessly weaved among rap, pop, and R&B with her new material. On lead-single “Chanel Pit,” music box melodies danced amongst the spits of cultural references, like Vin Diesel and Resident Evil. Closer “27 Club” grooved to more R&B vibes for a downtempo, contemplative swan song, enrapturing the front row.

Tierra Whack didn’t leave her stans without a trip down memory lane, including fan favorites like the bop “Pretty Ugly” and “Fuck Off,” which elicited raised middle fingers across the room. Everybody on the floor happily sang, “He likes my diamonds and pearls,” along with “Hungry Hippo.” For the first time live, Whack performed her section of Lil Yachty’s “T.D.” before calling it a night. Despite the house lights turning on and exit music playing, everyone stayed put, chanting, “World Wide Whack,” leaving the stage crew unsure if they should halt operations. DJ Kill Sing indicated it might not be the end to this unforgettable night, as a wigless Whack returned to confess she was already shedding her costume. The crowd-manifested encore had the Philly native run off “Peppers and Onions” atop the barricade, before dropping to the floor amid her rabid admirers. —Sharlene Chiu | @Shar0ck

Photos courtesy of Edwina Hay | thisisnotaphotograph.com

@thesearenotphotographs

#Abbott Elementary #Alex Da Corte #Bowery Presents #DJ Kill Sing #East Village #Edwina Hay #Lil Yachty #Live Music #Music #New York City #Photos #Review #Sharlene Chiu #Tariq Temple #Tierra Whack #Webster Hall #World Wide Whack

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nevernonline · 9 months

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Seventeen as songs by your favorite non-kpop artists? 🙏🏻🤗

✧. seventeen members as some of my favorite songs.

thank u sm for this request?? I love it! sorry it took me a little bit, I had to limit myself to 3 per member :') also I made you a spoty playlist of all the songs here.

choi seungcheol:

state lines - novo amor

0310 - yerin baek

means something - lizzy mcalpine

yoon jeonghan:

the moon song - karen o

white trainers - olivia dean

let's fall in love for the night - finneas

hong jisoo:

beach boy - benee

archetype - omar apollo

luv note - chloe moriondo

wen junhui:

remind me - emily king

leaning on you - haim

dream song - samia

kwon soonyoung:

hate to see your heart break - paramore

no shame - 5sos

you are the best thing - ray lamontange

jeon wonwoo:

heartbeats - jose gonzalez

part of me - noah gundersen

nobody gets me - sza

lee jihoon:

beautiful escape - tom misch

live laugh love - sasha alex sloan

mother may i sleep with danger - joy crooks

lee seokmin:

from the start - laufey

when i hate myself - ben kessler

keep driving - harry styles

kim mingyu:

god in jeans - ryan beatty

goodnight n go - ariana grande

autumn - niki

xu minghao:

late night thoughts - shy martin

better distractions - faye webster

savage good boy - japanese breakfast

boo seungkwan:

count on me - ashe

room service - holly humberstone

walk - griff

chwe hansol:

worth it - beabadoobie

this hell - rina sawayama

pure love - hayley williams

lee chan:

bad for business - Sabrina Carpenter

if we were a party - alexander 23

ungodly hour - chloe x halle

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turnallthemirrors · 11 days

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no thoughts just Sorry - Live from Webster Hall

#sydposting

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tayley · 8 months

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Reporting live from Webster hall where Hayley just called taylor a king onstage

she’s so true for that

#ask #anon

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tolerateit · 2 months

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#meg talks #Spotify

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farfarahleeya · 8 months

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With the rise of Instagram Reels and TikTok videos, it seems as though blogging has become a thing of the past... or has it? Let's see if blogging is still relevant in the age of Instagram and Tiktok.

The Early Days:

Blogging first became a thing when Justin Hall created what he called his "personal homepage" on Links.net, where he reviewed HTML examples from other online links (Zantal-Wiener 2020). 3 years later, Jon Barger, a fellow blogger, coins the term "weblog", reflecting the process of logging the web. Another 2 years later, Peter Merholz, a programmer, shortens the term "weblog" into "blog", to which Merriam-Webster would declare as the word of the year in 2004 (NDMU 2018).

~ TLDR ~

1994 - Justin Hall's "personal homepage" on Links.net

1997 - Jon Barger coins the term weblog

1999 - Peter Merholz shortens "weblog" -> "blog"

2004 - Merriam-Webster declares "blog" as their word of the year

The prime time of internet exploration (for the masses) between the late-90s and early-00s are also home to the births of iconic blogging platforms such as Blogger and WordPress (NDMU 2018).

These early days were the chance for the readers and writers of the world to digitalise their bibliophilic habits as they ventured new ways to connect with bookworms across the globe.

The Evolution:

Right in the midst of blogging's mainstreaming years, the public launching of YouTube in 2005 sparked the evolution of blogging. With that, the wonders of blogging were no longer confined to the wordsmiths of the world.

YouTube's culture of video blogging, or vlogging, appealed to those who preferred audio and visual stimulation, thus continuing the reach of blogging as a whole (Maslanka 2017). This video blogging culture brought forth most of the blogging cultures still in tact today, such as the aforementioned Instagram Reels and TikTok videos, which are forms of blogging that invoke creativity in a different medium than what blogging first started as.

The Question:

lyrics captured from Spotify

So blogging evolved from choosing the right writing style to choosing the right background music, but what does that mean? Does no one do the former anymore? Is everyone just trying to accomplish the latter?

Take, for instance, you feel like cooking something new. Some people would turn to a cooking channel on YouTube, while some prefer clicking on the recipe blogs that their search engine compiles for them. My friend would rather watch a video about the newest technology, whereas I would like to read about it in a blog post instead.

It all comes down to personal preference.

Numerous blog platforms are still around and are home to a growing number of blog accounts that cater to different genres of digital communities; because just as many people there are on this planet, exists a vast range of interests, preferences, and personalities. These aspects result in the creation of digital communities that almost anyone can find a seat in. These different groups then evolve within themselves to create their own set of cultures, norms, as well as trends.

So perhaps someone who spends their days watching Instagram Stories and TikTok Lives may seem to think that blogging is a dying flame, but to someone who replies to tweets and writes fantasy fiction on Tumblr, would disagree. In fact, posting short snippets of your day or sharing your thoughts in a tweet is a form of blogging in itself, specifically known as microblogging. Microblogging is an example of blogging cultures trickling down to make room for the readers and writers of the world who enjoy doing so, but in a more casual setting.

It is also important to note that personalities are not a black and white thing. Preferences are not an either or situation. There are many people who enjoy both reading blogs and watching videos.

・・・・・・

Besides leisure pursuits, blog accounts can also be used professionally. Setting up a portfolio blog could serve as a digital gallery of one's work (ThemesKingdom 2019). For example, a programmer's portfolio blog could include the programs they have coded or their experiences with different programming languages. The inclusion of a portfolio blog to a resume helps future employers grasp the personalities, morals, and ethics of the potential employee.

And along the lines of career-oriented blogs are money-making blogs; a solid option for the adventurers who seek a non-conventional career path. These type of blogs often rake in revenue through brand partnerships, affiliate links, premium content or private consultations (Polner & Bottorff 2023).

The Answer:

Definitely! I would confidently say that blogging is still relevant in the midst of Instagram and TikTok's uprising.

While there is no denying that Instagram and TikTok may be more popular amongst certain demographics, the future of blogging continues to march on, because as long as there are bookworms around, blogging will remain relevant ⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

︵‿︵‿ References ‿︵‿︵

Maslanka, M 2017, The Vlog Blog: History of Vlogging, MotionSource, 28 July, viewed 27 September 2023, <https://blog.hubspot.com/marketing/history-of-blogging>.

NDMU 2018, History of Blogging, Notre Dame of Maryland University, 22 March, viewed 27 September 2023, <https://online.ndm.edu/news/communication/history-of-blogging/>.

Polner, M & Bottorff, C 2023, How To Start A Blog And Make Money In 2023, Forbes, 31 July, viewed 29 September 2023, <https://www.forbes.com/advisor/business/start-a-blog/#:~:text=Blogging%20Is%20a%20Fast%20Way,can%20start%20earning%20any%20money.>.

ThemesKingdom 2019, 5 reasons why you should include a blog in your online portfolio, ThemesKingdom, 29 May, viewed 29 September 2023, <https://themeskingdom.com/blog/reasons-to-include-a-blog-in-online-portfolio/>.

Zantal-Wiener, A 2020, A Brief Timeline of the History of Blogging, HubSpot, 19 October, viewed 29 September 2023, <https://blog.hubspot.com/marketing/history-of-blogging>.

#MDA20009 #week 4 #blogging

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endiness · 1 year

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Loved You A Little (Live from Webster Hall) THE MAINE FT. TAKING BACK SUNDAY & CHARLOTTE SANDS

#themaineedit #takingbacksundayedit #the maine #taking back sunday #john o'callaghan #adam lazzara #musicedit #dailymusicians #blogmusicdaily #usermusic #!gif

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moominofthevalley · 6 months

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The Haunting

Mafalda Ginovesi, a widely despised professor, invites a group of strangers to inspect a haunted house.

emily rose, trystan thorne, mafalda ginovesi, luke watanabe, ruby webster

teen | wc: 3.5k | book 1, chapter 1

Am I walking towards something I should be running away from?

Vines protruded along the brick walls of Braidwood Manor, protecting the rotting carcass within. Windows were oblong and uneven, with raindrops plummeting onto the foggy panes. Pebbled stairs leading to the entrance were protected with moss, infested with tiny writhing bugs. Braidwood Manor, originally built with care and storge, sat abandoned atop a lonely hill. Mold and cobwebs possessed its inner walls, and every guest who dared enter the halls was met with aching remorse. No inch of love persevered in such a diseased and vile corpse.

“Journeys end in lovers meeting,” Emily Rose whispered, a stone laying at the pit of her stomach. She debated heading home. Running away before everything started, never seeing the unveiled atrocities of the manor; unable to fulfill the promise she made to herself. Emily gritted her teeth, her jaws clenching with fear and guilt. The doorknob was cold and brute and even a strong woman like her struggled to bust the door open. Her eyes widened at the withered stranger before her, her skin jumping at the other being in front of her.

“Are you…Mafalda Ginovesi?” The older woman scoffed, standing up from the distressed couch.

“No,” The woman croaked, “I’m Ms. Thompson. The caretaker.” A frostiness settled on Ms. Thompson’s face, her tone bitter and cruel. Emily nodded, handing her two suitcases to the dutiful caretaker. Thompson motioned Emily to follow her, her frail body heading upstairs. Their steps were met with a witchy creak, almost as if stepping on a dying creature. Emily’s chest ached, lost in an unforgotten memory, one that she longed to be buried six feet under. Surely, anything that dies will eventually be forgotten.

“You will sleep in the yellow room,” Thompson spat, both of them standing in the center of the corridor. Colorful doors covered the antique walls and a brass mirror hung across Emily. She studied herself before entering the room, goosebumps on her shivering arms. Her skin was milky, devoid of all blood, her earthy eyes too uneven to be on her face; almost as if they were just floating in front of her.

“Miss?” Thompson asked, dropping Emily’s suitcases beside her. She shrugged the uncanniness away, grabbing her bags.

“Right. Sorry,” Emily huffed, her hand curling about the doorknob. The caretaker grasped her shoulder, stopping her. Emily turned, meeting Ms. Thompson’s serious gaze. Something sinister lurked beneath her pupils, the darkness of her eye menacing and wicked.

“One more thing,” She warned, her grip tight despite the frailness of her hands, “Don’t ever leave your room at night.”

“What?”

“I leave the manor after I set dinner. I don’t stay during the night. I leave before the sun sets.”

“Okay, but w–”

“I live over in the town, Hartfeld. Miles and miles away.”

“I understand.”

“We couldn’t even hear you, that far away, and in the dark.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“Nobody can hear you that far away, you understand? No one ever wants to come to Braidwood Manor in the middle of the night.”

“Will you just fucking tell me-”

“In the night,” Thompson whispered as her eyes twitched, perhaps recalling a burning memory, “In the dark.”

Emily rolled her eyes. She nodded plainly, shutting the door behind her. Dusty yellow walls cornered her, and another fragile mirror stood beside the door. A bed sat in front of her with more yellow trinkets scattered about. Emily shook her head, enticed by Thompson’s foreboding words and irked by how increasingly monochrome her room was.

She sat on the yellow bedsheets, quietly gasping. Even the ceiling was a bright yellow. Though the print had long died out, faint pale lines ran up and down the walls. The lines were thick, almost resembling rusty iron bars. Anybody of sound mind could go mad staring at the ungodly wallpaper for a minute longer. She darted down to the wooden floor, creaky and scratched. A knock at the door interrupted her jumbled thoughts, her eyes trained on the stranger before her.

“Are you a part of the study?” A woman, possibly not too much younger than her, asked. Her face was warm and welcoming, opposite Ms. Thompson’s. Alarmed, Emily sat up from the bed.

“I am,” she stood up, crossing her arms, “Who are you?”

“Ruby Webster – who are you?”

“Emily Rose,” she replied. Bags peppered under Ruby’s eyes, properly covered by her tortoiseshell glasses. A coffee stain was evident on the hem of her sweater, the circle now damp and wrinkly. Uncrossing her arms, Emily stood face-to-face with the stranger. Ms. Thompson’s warning repeated in her mind, though she dared not tell Ruby what was said – at least not yet.

“What room do you have?” She asked, her hands on the doorframe, peering into the hallway. The corridor had only two other doors, the closest being a pleasant emerald door left ajar. A scratched-up orange door sat across from the green room, its vibrance now dulled. The final door, leading to the red room, emitted a cruel energy throughout the corridor. Emily shuddered, her nails digging into her palm. She turned back to Ruby, eyes casting thinly veiled fear.

“That one,” Ruby pointed to the green door, “Everything inside is just green!” Emily chuckled, pointing back to the monochromatic room she was designated to.

“Everything in my room is yellow. I don’t really care for it.” Ruby smiled, cheeks glowing a light pink.

“I don’t either,” Ruby answered, “...would you want to check out the grounds with me? When I got here, I noticed a huge garden by the side of the manor, but Ms. Thompson told me to come in before I could go see it.”

“I’d like that.”

* * * *

The garden was heaven on Earth, the grass topped with inklets of dewy rain. Roses and daffodils bloomed on the bright Spring day, circling about a tiny man-made pond; moss plaguing its waters. Sprigs of flowered cattails stood tall at one of its edges, its stem a husky green. The most splendid part of the garden, however, was the weeping willow. Large branches hung heavy green leaves, adorning vibrant yellow flowers. Emily hummed in delight, taken aback at how such a vile mansion could be home to such an innocent plot of beauty.

“So, what do you do?” Ruby asked, the pair lying down on their backs. Angelic clouds glistened in their eyes, the soggy grass soaking their jeans. Before laying her head down, Emily grumbled at the mass of gravestones a few feet behind her.

“I’m a…private detective,” Emily replied, “What about you?”

“I’m a medical examiner. I graduated high school when I was fourteen,” Ruby said, a weak smile forming. Emily turned towards her, debating on intertwining their fingers in a celebratory fashion. She settled on keeping her hands by her side.

“Are you kidding me?” Emily grinned, “That’s fucking impressive!”

“Thank you,” her eyes danced at the compliment, “I usually work night shifts. It’s pretty quiet and peaceful…even though I’m working with dead bodies and murder weapons.”

“Exactly how many hours do you work in a week?”

Ruby flinched briefly, scratching her chin in contemplation: “I think I did eighty or so last week. Eighty-five?”

“Eighty-five hours? How do you find the time to sleep?”

“You’re the detective! Don’t you guys run on coffee and…I don’t know, donuts?”

“Those are cops, not detectives! But…yeah, I do drink a lot of coffee.”

“Anyways,” Ruby giggled, “I have a futon in my office when it gets too late.”

“Ruby, I think you need an assistant.”

“Absolutely not! Some busybody getting in my way, making a mess, and needing emotional support? No, thank you!”

“I think you’re describing a toddler.”

“Toddlers, assistants – same thing, really. I just like working alone.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about. It’s – hey!” Emily stood up, the hair on her neck prickling. With a squinted view, a small flurry of red ran across the field. Her heart sunk, her fluttering eyelids twinged with worry. Without another word, Ruby stood beside her.

“Did you see that?” Ruby shook her head, the tiny dot of red having vanished.

“We’re in a garden. It must’ve been a rabbit, right?” Emily stood still, her fingertips at the top of her holster encasing a taser.

“...Yeah. You’re right. We should probably head back now.” Emily grazed away from the taser, her breath still. Journeys end in lovers meeting.

Grass crunched beneath every step as they headed to the veranda, still curious as to what they had seen. Emily attempted to shrug it off. After all, they were in a garden – it’d make perfect sense for a little creature to streak across the lawn. Nonetheless, the whole ordeal was quite peculiar. She had not counted a single living creature at the arrival of Braidwood Manor besides Ms. Thompson.

“The fuck?” Emily spat, a weak puddle of blood settling by her and Ruby’s shoes. The front door stood ajar, a pool of chilled air seeping through. With a taser in the detective’s hands, Emily ordered Ruby to stay outside.

Signs of a struggle surrounded her. A broken lamp was scattered across the wooden floor and a concerning amount of fresh blood trailed from the entrance to the living room. A bloodied grey button-down curled up on the couch, the sleeves torn. Brows furrowed and goosebumps raising from her forearms, Emily called out, as she quietly walked towards the living room:

“Hello? If there’s anybody here, come out with your hands up!”

No answer.

Emily furthered herself into the manor, clearing the nearest hallway. Floorboards creaked with each step, brushing away the particles of dust and cobwebs off the surface. Cracked walls with rugged paintings and mirrors passed her until a single door stood across from her. Though it was sensibly shut, a bubbling in her gut dared Emily to unlock it.

“...Ms. Thompson?”

The door opened in a blink of an eye, revealing a shirtless stranger. A crimson cut on his forearm continued to bleed out, yet the man seemingly couldn’t care less; for he was more focused on the trespasser pointing a taser at him. His thick bunches of eyebrows curled downwards, and he reached for the closest thing to him: a serving tray.

“Who are you?” The man yelled, his voice low with a soft accent. Darting to the taser as Emily was prepared to shoot, he scoffed. “Ah. I see.”

In a seamless motion, the man hurled the tray, hitting Emily’s wrist. Wincing, the taser flew out of her hands. Without the chance to sputter out another sentence, Emily spun around in the man’s grip, his arms crawling around her neck, her back arching up against his toughened torso. Gasping out tiny gasps of air, Emily struggled to fight her way out. With a final growl, she twisted out of his chokehold, shoving him hard into a wall.

“I’m a fucking detective! I’m a part of the study! What the fuck!”

“You’re a cop?”

“I didn’t say that! Who attacks a stranger with a serving tray?”

The man shrugged nonchalantly, circling Emily with interest. Sparkling eyes of grey studied the ferocious stranger, a hint of allure in his glance. He chuckled to himself, keen on not answering her question.

“You know,” he said, trailing up and down Emily’s body, “I’ve had several run-ins with law enforcement, and they didn’t look anything like you.”

“What? Annoyed? Furious?” She scoffed, arms crossed. Trystan let out a cheeky smile, a dare in his eyes.

“Hm, smart, competent, extremely well-dressed,” he pointed to Emily’s leather jacket, “and dare I say, sexy?”

“‘Sexy’?” Emily repeated, cheeks glowing red as she threw daggers at him. “Go fuck yourself. Do you seriously flirt with people you fight with?”

“Only if they threaten to tase me first.”

Emily rolled her eyes. What a masochistic asshole.

“Well, I suppose you can’t blame me for jumping to conclusions when a strange woman points a taser at me.”

“Fend off a lot of assassination attempts, whoever you are?”

“Trystan Thorne. I apologize for the misunderstanding, Officer.”

“Not officer. Private Investigator Emily Rose. I’m here for a group experiment, I didn’t exactly expect to get attacked on the first day,” Emily rolled her eyes, “How did you get that cut on your arm?”

“...I saw a fox on the way here.”

“And?”

“It bit me after I tried giving them some of my trail mix.” Emily laughed, the blood on Trystan’s arm still slowly trickling down his hand.

“Just now? Another person from the study and I saw an animal out on the grounds before I came in here.”

Without answering, a thunderous shriek from upstairs crescendoed. Ms. Thompson, furious as she was, threw her hands up at Emily and Trystan. Her wrinkled face twisted into a new form of anger unfamiliar to either of them.

“You tourists! Blithering idiots, always making a goddamn mess,” Ms. Thompson complained, mumbling insults under her breath, “You!” She pointed to Trystan, “Did you break that lamp in the living room? Go clean it up, there’s blood and glass everywhere!”

The cranky senile stormed out, stomping back upstairs. With a turn, vintage paintings greeted Trystan, silently wincing at his blistering wound.

“Wait!” Trystan stopped in his tracks, “You’re still bleeding – let me clean you up.”

Sitting down on the living room sofa, Trystan sat down as Emily let Ruby back into the manor. Wearing a non-bloodied button-down from his bag, the front door creaked as the bubbly stranger greeted him and Emily.

“Is everything okay?” Ruby asked, meeting Emily’s disheveled face.

“Fine,” Ruby blinked at Trystan curtly, “The lamp just got–”

“...I know you.”

“Oh,” Trystan said, “Did we, you know…”

“What? No, not like that! I just meant from TMZ! You’re that exiled prince, right?”

Emily turned back to Trystan, skeptical. A fucking prince? In some random experiment? That was surely one for the books.

“Wait. Emily, what are you doing hanging out with a literal prince?”

“Believe me, I didn’t know Trystan was a prince until just now. I was just about to clean up this bite he got. You know that little orange thing we saw in the garden? It was a fox, it bit him right before he got here.”

Emily opened up a medkit from the kitchen pantry, revealing a mass of health equipment within. Ruby sat on the chair across the unlikely duo, studying them as Emily dawned on gloves.

“Can I ask why you were exiled?” Emily asked, wiping a clean cloth against his wound. Trystan chuckled dryly.

“Of course. But the answer is that it’s none of your business.”

“And if I guess it?”

“Well, if you manage to get it right, I’ll tell you everything you most desire on the matter.”

Emily set the cloth beside her lap, grabbing a random tub of ointment from the kit, and slathering it on his wound. Trystan quietly gasped at the pressure, he never guessed an animal bite from a lowly creature caused such pain.

“Hm,” Emily contemplated, “A murder most foul, perhaps?”

“How riveting! Do tell,” Trystan said, casting a mocking grin.

“You must’ve killed someone in a passionate rage after discovering they were having an affair behind your back.”

“How steamy,” Ruby chipped in, throwing a teasing glance at the prince.

“Cheating lover?” He scoffed, “Is that the best you can do? I suppose it’s the occupational hazard of being a private investigator.”

The detective hunted for every minuscule feature on his face. It was clear the guess had slightly hurt him, yet for a prince with years of knowledge on dodging pesky questions, it was a walk in the park for him to quickly mask it with a veil of indifference.

Emily rolled her eyes, “At least you didn’t call me an officer this time.”

“I’m going to hazard that you used to work with the police?”

“Changing the subject awfully quick, aren’t you, Thorne?”

“Just answer the question, Rose.”

The last decade coursed through her as though she was speeding through a film. Years were steeped in aching heartbreak, and though Emily was quite familiar with her burning past; the last thing she hoped for was to create a thick cloud of pity from two strangers she’d just met. She repeated this routine since she was thirteen: never utter anything but the basics about her life to anybody. Something within her heart longed to be brought to light. To crawl out of the dusty attic and into the arms of something frightening and unknown.

“...Yeah. Homicide.” Emily gulped, sticking a bandaid on his forearm.

“You don’t strike me as the type. It’s hard to picture you in one of those blue uniforms.”

Emily exhaled sharply, a memory flashing within her. A limp hand cradling hers, the scent of hardened popcorn, the walls suffocating her. Her eyes went distant, fingers digging into her palms until the stale air within the dwelling brought her back to her senses.

“I grew up with cops. My father was one, like his father and my uncle before him.”

“What happened?”

“He was killed,” Emily cleared her throat, “They never caught who did it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Trystan said, eyes sincere with a hint of understanding. Ruby stayed quiet, yet an empathetic glance from her was more than enough for Emily.

“After that, it was like my calling to follow in his footsteps. I’d honor him and his legacy.”

“What went wrong?”

“Honestly? All of it. Widespread brutality. Abuse of suspects. Forging evidence. Corruption and bribery, all the way to the fucking top.” Anger fuelled her to continue, veins running warm, cheeks turning a crimson red. Her fingers trembled at the mention of her father, though Emily carried on.

“I tried to expose it all. I built a case, I gathered evidence, but those fuckers at Internal Affairs turned on me. They threw out everything I spent years gathering on a ‘technicality.’ And that’s when I started finding dead rats in my locker.”

“They fired you, I’m guessing?”

“No,” Emily sneered, “I quit. But not before losing everything I’d spent a decade working on, not to mention most of my friends. The only person who still has my back is my Uncle Tommy…and he’s retired.”

“There’s an old Drakovian saying: ‘The hero isn’t the one who gets the treasure. He’s the one lying dead in an unmarked grave.’”

“That’s pretty bleak,” Ruby added.

“Eastern European cynicism can be like that,” Trystan replied, “And thank you, Emily, for putting a bandaid on me.”

It was never like her to pour her heart out to two total strangers, yet something inside her ached to do so. It was an urge spilling out, almost as if these two strangers – the workaholic but lively medical examiner, and the mysterious yet oddly flirtatious prince – were to be acquaintances, potentially even friends.

“Did Mafalda tell you guys anything else about this study?” Trystan and Ruby shook their heads.

“No,” Ruby said, “Everything she said in her emails was vague.”

“Mine was too,” Trystan said, crossing his arms. “Maybe she’s just…senile. Outdated!”

“Excuse me?” A dark-haired woman by the front door spat, “Senile?”

The trio stood up, and Trystan’s cheeks flushed. Carrying two raggedy bags into the living room, the ‘senile’ woman propped a hand on her hip. Without a doubt, the woman before them was Mafalda Ginovesi.

“If you ever call me senile again, so help me God, I will send you back to Drakovia with my bare hands, Trystan Thorne!”

Emily and Ruby stayed silent, giggling at the exiled royal’s idiocy. Plump bags belonging to Mafalda sat on the floor in front of them, Emily’s curiosity growing stronger. A scrappy man followed behind Mafalda, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. Trystan smiled apologetically at her, which the professor hesitantly accepted; the perks of being a rich and charismatic moron.

Spring raindrops met the Earth, the windows of Braidwood Manor soaked in condensation. The dimly lit room glazed with warmth from the brick fireplace. Bright embers spat onto the scratched floor, fizzling out with a ‘tsk.’ Rumbles of lightning cried out miles away, hitting Emily with a distant memory, violent stones in her vision. Mafalda Ginovesi and her unnamed assistant stood by the fireplace, eyes darkening with knowledge the rest of the group lacked. Pouring herself a glass of whiskey, the professor swirled her drink of amber idly.

“I think it’s time I tell you all about Braidwood Manor.”

* * * * A/N: This will forever be my favorite fic that I wrote of 2023. I just absolutely love this to bits, though I am a bit sad I abandoned this six-part project 💔

Tags: @choicesficwriterscreations @jerzwriter @logolepzy @mooserii @starsarewithinme @jonathanmoores @shadyinternetblizzard @urcowboyboyfriend @lexicook74-blog @leahtine @jahrobin @icarusfallsforever @kyra75 @calisomnia

let me know if else would like to be added to my crimes tag!

#crimes of passion #moominofthevalley #trystan x emily

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