#rot osbourne

[rotfics]

warning: execution, abuse mention and death (part based on a scene from the walking dead game)

Dredge held the throat of one that Ani had requested him to. He was no slave. He was no soldier. He was a volunteer, for her and Mr. Osbourne, as he called him. Dredge loved and respected them both as authority figures, and often did things for them.

This person he held was a sinner, a sinner deemed by Ani. She never deemed someone a sinner without a reason. Ever. She took her lawful role very seriously.

Ani was a god of punishment, nightmares, darkness, and the like. And she never had someone punished, or executed, without a reason.

A choked voice snapped him out of his trance.

"Don't..D-Don't...I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Dredge did not listen to their begging. Ani had told him what to do, what they had done, and he trusted her. She was never unlawful. His claws squeezed on their throat.

Another voice rang from beside them. "PLEASE! NO! D-don't-"

Dredge rolled his eyes and he looked at the source.

"Don't kill him," The other man said. He looked tired. Sad. Dredge just stared. "He's all I have left."

Dredge just looked at the man.

"I'm sorry he hurt them,"

Dredge huffed, never once releasing his claws grasp. The man choked against the sharp, purple claws against his throat. Dredge turned to stare at the other man. He remained stoic, but grunted.

"Your son hurt people."

"HE DIDN'T MEAN TO- He-"

"I don't care if he meant to or not."

"Please-"

"He did what he did. I won't be the one to judge what happens,"

"What...what does that MEAN?"

"I'm no God of judgement, but she is."

Dredge just huffed and looked behind him to Ani, who glanced at him and gave him a sign to stall. He turned around, starting to grip his massive claws so hard, the man began to choke.

"N-no...NO,"

“No…what? What’s your defense?”

“He didn’t know what he was d-..”

“Yes he did.” Dredge let out a disgusted sound.

“B-but-“

Dredge looked at Ani, who gave a slit throat gesture. He turned back and with zero emotion, gripped his claws until bones audibly snapped; And the body of the man he held went limp. A scream erupted from the still living person in front of him.

"HOW COULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?"

"..I dunno, how did your son fuck up all those innocents?"

A sob rang through the lot. "He is all I have left-"

"Was. He was all you had left. Now you got nothin.”

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS! HOW CAN YOU BE THIS COLD?!"

With another huff, Dredge blinked. "Your fuckin' son sure left a lot of innocent people suffering everywhere. In the cold."

Shouts rang behind him. "GET BACK HERE- GET BACK HERE! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"

Dredge just shook his head as he prepared to open a portal home.

"YOU GET BACK HERE! YOU GET BACK HERE AND FINISH THIS SHIT!"

The sound of the electronic portal rang out.

"DREDGE!"

Dredge didn't even look back as he walked through the portal.

Retribution was upon them all; Living and dead. The marching of Anis ravenous soldiers of the damned got closer and closer.

"Y-YOU PUSSY BASTARD! YO-YOU-YOU-....y-you...n..no..."

Thunder boomed.

“Get back here..”

#canon!dredge #ani mortedeus #rot osbourne #execution #death #payback #no seriously a lot of death #uhhhhh #punishment

[babyslia]

rot and zoeys upbringing (violence, sexism, hanging, tragic shit, not everything zoey did but w/e)

rot and zoey have always loved, cared for and protected one another, ever since birth. they were identical twins. rot, the god, at an early age of his stolen vessel (zoeys brother) revealed what he was; a god, a god of rot, decay, disease.

zoey, a little girl at the time, also alienated from her parents and.. off, in general, accepted rot with enthusiasm and open arms, much to rots surprise, and even hugged him close. rot immediately held her close emotionally, doing small.. acts as a god, that kept her alive and healthy.

he observed her slightly sick behavior, killing small animals… leading up to human villagers, and rewarded her for doing so.

the town was sick with mad, extremely violent and hateful morals, and rot had no issue watching his sister take lives.

the day of her execution, he did watch. the village priest, their father, asked zoey if she had anything to say. zoey spat on him and grinned, ramming her knee into the face of the executioner so violently, that said executioner died on the spot, then and there. she was hanged by the panicked and disgusted priest.

rot could not actively come to her aid lest he be found out as a malevolent god and not a human, and it did hurt him. he was furious. and he brought her back. initially she panicked but upon seeing her brother, she calmed down.

He told her what happened. he told her what he was. he was shocked a bit when her reaction was that of hateful, violent retaliation, but only against their father.

Not that she had no reason to hate their father. he was a sexist, violent and horrid man who punished zoey for being female. rot was also born female, but early on in lie, he confessed to feeling like a boy, not a girl. this led to their father scrabbling for a son in any way, and zoey being mistreated for being a girl. rot was named joseph, after the father, when he came out as a male. rot (he already had his name, as a god, duh) was disgusted by the bigotry.

rot already HATED is "father" for tons of reasons; abusing his sister, being sexist, forcing his "wife" to give birth, forcing zoey to be.. basically a slave.

So the day on zoeys hanging, he attended. he stood staring forward. every other villager attempted to get his attention and he ignored, or shouted at them.

"Get the Hell away from me, you FILTH," was all he spat at the people that came to him, as tears flooded his eyes, staring at his sisters body. Rot was full of rage. he possessed a fetus to be born, sure. he was born alongside zoey. and day one, he LOVED his sister. even as a god, he loved his sister, and he'd do anything for her that he possibly could.

-fast forward into the day after zoey's execution-

the priest kneeled at he altar, cleaning something up, and he looked up. there was a humanoid shadow cast across him.

"The church is closed," he stated, going to stand. the shadow didn't move.

footsteps.

"I said, the church..is.." was all he got out before the figure in the door charged him, slamming him to he floor.

"Y-YOU-" was the last gasp he managed. his daughter... the one who was executed, grasped his throat and grinned.

"You." Rot began and walked over to Zoey and their father. Rot sneered down in disgust.

"SON- Son- s-son, he-he-h-help," the priest choked.

rot scoffed.

"I am not your son. I am a GOD. I took the body of your unborn and made it mine."

"Th..there is only ONE G-Go-"

rot kneeled and gripped the priests chin.

"WRONG. and I am the God of sickness, of illness, disease, plague."

the priest coughed up blood, zoey's nails dug so far into his neck, they pierced his neck. rot laughed.

"i am your God now, you false prophet. i know what you've done." rot stood up and looked to his sister. the pupils of the priest widened, and is face became horrified in recognition and rot laughed, cruelly.

there was rage in rot's eyes.

"so. Who do you think brought. her. back." he spat into his "Fathers" eyes", and pointed to zoey before standing up and walking of, leaving him and zoey together. rot looked at his hands. He did.. Love their mother (even though rot was an implanted god). zoey did too. her passing... infuriated rot. his eyes pricked with tears and his throat closed up, but he choked out,

"zoey...sister...make him SUFFER, as much as you can." with a small "please" whispered at the end.

zoey did not need a second before she ripped the priest apart..in ways.. but collected his clothes and put them on after. She was dressed in rags, after all.

-

a few hours in, a scream rang from the church. the villagers ran to see what was going on.. to be met by the disemboweled, strung up parts of their priest. To their horror.. he was still alive. he looked up, with a mouthful of blood,

"She..she's...back... run,"

they turned to see a grinning shadow (zoey) toss a torch onto oil that the church had been doused in, and slam the doors closed with an iron bar between the handles as the flames enveloped the entire building.

rot stared and motioned for zoey to embrace him, and she sighed, running into him. Rot made a face at the burning people at their feet in disgust, and let out a breath as well, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

"...No one is going to hurt you again. I'll make sure of it." he said, kissing the top of her head.

“I will destroy anyone who tries to.”

zoey went to his side again. she knew he meant it. her smile wavered as he clung her tighter.

he murmured a declaration of love against the top of his sisters head as his eyes glowed in the darkness to every other body the life just drained out of. he sneered to himself again as he watched the last parts of life escape the villagers that reached for them before collapsing. he scoffed again at their efforts.

“..i’m proud of you, zoey.”

#theyre very close #zoey osbourne #rot osbourne #oc shit #violence #murder #patricide #religion #mass murder

[snakeliciousbaby]

Extra doodles for the buffy/tma au :)

Drusilla is an Eye avatar gone Spiral!

#btvs #tma #tma au #Drusilla #buffy summers #oz osbourne #willow rosenberg #buffy #oz #willow #my art #btvs fanart #refuse to let these rot in my old art folder #you know what else is rotting lmao-- #anyway sucks when your allseeing visions are corrupted by your spiralling insanity. big bummer

[befuddledbrynntrovert]

my gender is campy spoopy halloween-evoking metal music

#nightwish -- scaretale #finntroll -- under bergets rot #iron maiden -- fear of the dark #ozzy osbourne -- bark at the moon #stuff like that

[chaxinitus]

Mashups have given me a strangely specific brainrot. Rocking a new album and one of the tracks uses Call Me, Maybe as an instrumental.

But because of this decade old classic I immediately went “Crazy Train!” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iuE_L-SuUzA

#Mashup #Mashups #Carly Rae Jepson #Ozzy #Ozzy Osbourne #Call me maybe #Crazy Train #Brain Rot #Brainrot

[saytrrose]

I’ve recently been brain rotting over my Welcome Oc that I realized I’ve never shared- so here’s Henry Osbourne!

He has a very human appearance and name due to lore- basically he worked for the WHRP but through the website he ended up getting pulled into the neighborhood, having to seemingly take on a role of someone himself while trying to detective his way out. So he was never a born puppet in the show!

This is Sully! Sylvester The Scientist, but Sully for short. This is my friend @a-fucking-nerds WH oc! I include him because we ended up making them SO much ship art 😭 the story was really growing up, Henry as a child always loved Welcome Home, as it was his favorite show and his favorite puppet in particular was Sully, and he loved trying to recreate his little science experiments from home, the type of things they’d teach kids in elementary school you know like creating a planetarium from a water bottle and such!

Henry grew up to be a lawyer, and yeah if you’ve noticed from his puppet version tie- he’s gay but very very closeted due to his time period so he’s.. yeah single middle aged man loser. When he found out about the research team he applied, because ofc he really did recognize the show, which ultimately a month into working with the team resulted in his current circumstances.

Ship art galore!

YEAH HAHA It’s funny because Henry gets transported into Welcome Home into a mini puppet version of himself and then sees Sully and has gay panic from when he was a kid because I mean?? What would you do if you met your first fictional crush gang… He’s very good at hiding his emotions though! Sully is super oblivious so even if Henry wasn’t I think it’d be fine fr

Also bonus: I drew this one but @a-fucking-nerd colored it :)

#welcome home #whrp #Henry Osbourne #Sylvester The Scientist #Sully #Henry #welcome home oc #most of these ship art doodles are references off doodles I found on Pinterest I believe #I love using Pinterest for pose and ref ideas fr fr #GOD I LOVE THEM

[birboon]

Conceived in the Eye of a Secret

title from Ozzy Osbourne's "Mr Crowley"

A Steddie AU fic - Detective! Steve Harrington [oneshot, potentially multi-chapter) — 6k words

Steve Harrington was seventeen when he saw his first dead body. He wasn’t even out of high school – not even a senior – when he stumbled across Barbara Holland floating face down in his pool. He’d just gone outside for a piss, not wanting to wake his then-girlfriend, brain still fuzzy and whirling from the warm beers Tommy H had stolen from his dad the night before, and there she was; skin tight around her bloated form. Steve had taken one look at her short hair and the leaves knotted there, matted with blood and chunks of soft grey tissue that he’d prayed, God, please wasn’t part of her fucking brain, and vomited. The smell, more than anything, was what sent him over the edge: Rank and pungent, an edge of sickening sweetness. He’d been able to smell her cheap perfume, too.

She’d been dumped there during the night. Steve thought she’d gone home - she was supposed to have gone home, but there police found her car still parked down the street, untouched. ‘A crime of passion’, they’d called it, and even now – almost twenty years later – Steve didn’t understand why. Barbara Holland’s face had been beaten to an unrecognizable, pulpy mess of flesh and blood. Shards of her skull had ruptured through her skin, her left eye had been burst from the blunt force that the sick fuck had hit her with; it had dribbled like veiny egg-yolk into Steve’s pool, mixing with the water like oil.

Steve liked to think himself a passionate guy. But he didn’t go around murdering people.

 Instead, he caught the murderers – preferably before they’d had the chance to do the murdering but like everything in life, it was easier said than done. Hell, he could count on two hands the number of cases that had passed through the rigorous filtering of Hawkins PD before landing at his desk in the tiny, cramped office that the Homicide Department called home. The Homicide Department being him, sole and singular, bent over anaemic manila folders with little more to information than a polaroid snapshot and the name of the deceased.

So, yeah. Steve was seventeen when he saw his first dead body, and for some reason he’d made it his life’s goal to see as many as possible. If only to prevent them from becoming cold cases, forgotten and locked away in some filing cabinet to gather dust – to prevent them from becoming like Barb. Since the Holland case, there hadn’t been another unsolved murder in Hawkins. A fresh-faced, fresh-out-of-college Steve Harrington had made sure of that. And for thirteen years, Detective Harrington had kept it that way.

Still, he never quite got used to seeing a corpse – the smell never did become easier to handle. With the more violent deaths, and Steve grimaced as he stared towards the twisted, strewn remains of the human before him, it became especially hard to bear. Hopper had taught him to chew gum to settle his stomach at particularly bad scenes, and Joyce – ever the astute pathologist – had given him a small jar of Vick’s VapoRub the second time he’d ever come down into the morgue (he’d had to excuse himself halfway through the autopsy the first time, and she’d smiled understandably as he trembled his way to the bathroom, legs shaking and face pallid). But even a hefty smudge of the strong-smelling ointment wasn’t enough to cover the stench of a rotting carcass entirely, and Steve’s stomach turned as decay permeated the room.

It was October, but it was hot, which only served to make matters worse because the heat only exacerbated the whole ordeal. And whilst the rest of Hawkins, and Indiana in general, Steve supposed, were out enjoying the autumn sunshine, he was stuck in a sweat-box apartment with three other men and a day-old cadaver. The room was stagnant, ripe with death.

“What a shit day to die,” he muttered, and though he hadn’t meant to say it out loud his words got a murmur of agreement from the others. It was a Monday.

The woman – Steve glanced down at the clipboard in his hands – Maureen Gildman had been brutally slain. She lay in a pool of her own viscous blood, face carved-up hideously like the jack-o-lanterns that were beginning to emerge in the windows of his neighbours, and the young detective made a mental note to take Dustin to the pumpkin patch before the Holiday was over. Halloween was the kid’s favourite time of year. Unfortunately, it seemed to be a favourite of all the psychos too. Steve checked his watch.

Four Fifty-Seven PM. A Monday.

A simple glance around the room showed varying picture frames lovingly arranged on the walls and sat on bookshelves stocked with cheesy romcoms, void of any actual books. Most were in good condition, if a bit dusty, but Steve wasn’t about to lecture a dead woman on cleanliness. Not when a picture of her young daughter stared over at him, flecked with tiny beads of maroon, thick and congealed atop the pink dress she’d worn to the last middle school dance. Dt. Harrington hoped the girl wasn’t still waiting to be picked up at the school gates, considering the last class would have let out almost three hours ago. Steve checked his clipboard again. Divorced, he thought solemnly, and for a moment let himself empathise with the dead.

He'd seen forensics scrape the burnt remains of brownies into sterile baggies as he’d arrived on the scene, and it said more than he’d wished to know. The girl had been with her father over the weekend, and it was him who had dropped her off that morning. No doubt Maureen had been busily preparing to have her child back with her, cooking up something sweet and special as a prize for surviving another Monday.

“You got a preference?” The words cut through Steve’s thoughts as he turned to the photographer in question. Johnathon gave him a grim, lazy smile, his lips pressed tightly together. “Y’know, for a day to die?”

A layer of dust was collected on the camera in his hands. Particles bounced around in the sunlight pouring through the shuttered blinds. There was something sour in the man’s gaze as he watched Steve, but he didn’t think that the contempt was aimed towards himself – at life, maybe. Johnathon was probably reflecting on the choices he’d made during his career that had led him to that moment.

Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, fiddling with the strings of the lining. “A Thursday might be nice, maybe.”

Johanthon watched him through dark eyes. He lifted the camera to his face, squinting as he levelled it towards the detective’s shoes, and Steve stepped out of the frame as the shutter clicked and the flash illuminated the puddle of crusted fluids that were soaked into the shaggy carpet. A yellow tent marked with a bold, black 12 was posted beside it.

“Maybe,” the other man agreed. The camera dropped back down to his chest, and he shrugged. Steve chewed at his tongue, looking away as Johnathon dropped into a crouch, lens angled towards the body. Maureen looked grossly ethereal in the white light; the flayed skin on her naked chest was red, glowing.

Steve looked down again. Ms. Gildman was the third in a recent string of murders that the Hawkins P.D wanted to clump together beneath the moniker of a serial killer. Ever since the term had been coined by the FBI in the seventies, it seemed every small town was desperate to have one to their name. Obviously, Steve didn’t quite agree. There were casual differences in the demeanour and traits of the killings that had him pegs them ostentiously as all separate, sad crimes. Crimes of passion, he thought grimly. Right. Passion.

Maureen was missing both breasts. They’d been sawn off with a serrated object, upon quick examination – Steve’s money was on a bread knife, stolen from her own kitchen, but the murder weapon wouldn’t be identified properly until Joyce got the chance to take a closer look. The… breasts were found hidden within a tall, exotic-looking potted plant. An empty box of matches had been found there, too, opened and spilt onto the blood-stained carpet. Steve imagined that whoever had murdered the woman got cold feet, meaning to burn the balls of flesh but abandoning the plight at the last moment. Or maybe they had refused to light, and after four frazzled, burned-out attempts they had been forced to leave before the police arrived on scene.

Either way, Steve found nothing passionate about it. Disgusting, maybe. Driven by desire? Absolutely. But there was no passion, just the empty and unfeeling actions of a disturbed individual.

He stepped away, ducking back beneath the police tape. He’d seen enough.

Nodding to the paramedics waiting patiently in the hallway, equipped with a stretcher and a body bag, Steve crept away. Several neighbours had been escorted from the building in hysterics – in particular, the old woman who had found the woman after smelling the burning confectionary that had been baking as she’d died – but those that hadn’t were standing in their doorways, arms crossed, faces framed with dismay. Steve couldn’t quite figure out if they really were upset, or just desperate to know what was happening.

Chief Hopper appraised him with dark, judging eyes as he approached the stairwell, holding out an arm to stop Steve’s descent into fresh air. A burned-out cigarette hung limply from the older man’s lips, smoke drifting from the glowing embers fleetingly. Steve inhaled sharply, desperate to purge his nostrils. He wiped his nose.

“Careful when you go down there, kid,” Hopper grumbled. Steve raised an eyebrow. “I got two words for ya: Press and chaos.”

“That’s actually three words, chief, but who’s counting?” Jim barked out a rough laugh, and the young detective continued: “Not you, evidently.”

“Don’t push your luck, Harrington,” the older man snapped, but he was smiling and, well, Steve was just glad someone still had that ability, no matter how joyless and thin it was. The chief clapped him on the back as he pressed forward, calling after him. “And don’t say I didn’t warn ya!”

Hopper was right, of course; it was chaos. Always was, but Steve supposed that his wishing for a moment of peace was just that: Wishful. A duo of officers were posted at the main entrance to the building, chatting lightly with each other. Through the screen doors Steve caught a glimpse at the gathered crowd of reporters – a heaving, squirming mess of free-for-all filled with flashing cameras and eager journalists, all desperate to catch a glimpse of the deceased or ambush someone who had.

Upon spotting them, the sea surged, and Steve was half-worried that they’d bring down the doors, but the men in charge of crowd control didn’t seem at all bothered. They shot him a lame look of distaste – one that said ‘oh look, there’s the great detective’ and Steve grimaced.

“Detective Harrington! Detective, could you give us a – “

“Harrington! What did the deceased look like?”

“Detective is this a serial killer?”

Detective! Detective! Detective!

He ducked behind a supportive dry-wall in the centre of the apartment building’s ‘reception’ area, eyeing the stapled pamphlets and posters hanging there miserably. Only one caught his eye – it stood out from the rest simply because it had tried: Nestled atop the dull pastels and black print was a seemingly hand-made poster advertising a band, all dark reds and metal greys, collaged with newspaper cut-outs. Corroded Coffin (what happened to naming bands nice things, like The Doors or Wham! ?), were playing at a club Steve hadn’t visited in years, The Upsidedown . He hadn’t been there since Dustin had been unceremoniously dropped into his lap, not since he’d made Senior detective, what, six years ago?

 Dt. Harrington mused, almost-sadly, that he hadn’t even been out for drinks in at least three months – and that was only because he’d been dragged by Robin on one of the Forensic-team outings. He’d gotten shit-faced off of cheap cocktail pitchers and shots of rose tequila, and had to explain to his son why he was going to have to get the bus to school the next morning because ‘daddy’s sick, buddy. Real sick’.

Without thinking, the detective snatched the sheet of paper from the wall, leaving a strip of paper behind, still tacked to the wall, and folded it carelessly into his pocket. And then Steve finally made the point of searching for a fire exit.

It wasn’t hard – cheaply printed white sheets of A4 with a bold red arrow and text reading ‘IN CASE OF FIRE’ were hung carelessly close to the ceiling, one pointing to the next in the most boring treasure hunt ever created. Honestly, though, Steve did think there would be treasure once he found the big X (or, in his case, the back exit to the building). It would come in the form of peace and quiet, and no out-of-context quote headlining the papers, and he was anxious to uncover it.

But when he made it to the outside world, swinging on the fire-retardant handle, Steve was met not only with a crisp October breeze and brilliant sunshine, but with a cheap tape recorder being shoved under his nose. He recognized the neat script inked onto the label that was stretched over the plastic and frowned, pushing it gently away.

“I told you, you can’t just turn up at these things,” he said, herding her backwards as he stepped out into the light. His tone was cold enough for the woman in question to drop the arm holding the device out towards him. She cocked her head, reeling after him like an annoying blowfly on a body. “And before you ask, Nancy, my answer is no comment.”

“You’re not looking so hot right now, Steve,” she said softly. Steve scoffed.

“You know exactly what a man wants to hear, don’t you?”

“Are you okay?” Nancy probed gently, and finally caught up with the man, she settled into stride beside him. He looked down at her and her frilly shirt and smiled gingerly.

“I’m doing just fine, Wheeler.”

Nancy’s mouth twisted bitterly at the disconnect in his voice and Steve sighed. They’d dated for three years – four, if you counted the sweet high-school romance they’d fooled themselves into believing – before an inevitable, explosive end. Life got in the way, he told himself. Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler were as different as two people could be; fire and ice. Steve had hoped he’d be able to thaw the woman, get her to settle down, but she’d wanted different things. He’d wanted a family, and she wanted to soar.

Steve had gotten his family, in the end, in the form of a robust, confused four-year-old. And Nancy, well. She was doing what she’d always dreamed.

The woman rewound her tape, bringing it to her mouth: “See: Detective Harrington at the end of his rope. Is this the first case the prodigy can’t solve?”

Steve rolled his eyes, tucking his chin to his chest as they crossed the parking lot opposite the swarm of spectators round the front of the building. The ranks of journalists had settled their unprofessional nature by pressing their faces and cameras against the misty glass, like toddlers at a zoo trying to see into the lion’s enclosure.

“You’re not going to scare me into talking about my feelings, Nancy,” Steve said, casting a glance towards her. She shrugged, spinning the recorder in her fingers.

“Worth a shot,” came the reply, accompanied by a shrug, and Nancy escorted him back to his car, shrouding him in companionable silence. Her low heels clicked on the gravel, and she spun to him when they reached his BMW. A hand wrapped itself around his wrist, and it was Steve’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You know you can talk to me, right? You were joking, I know, but… Sometimes I worry about you, Steve.”

Dt. Harrington’s smile waned. “I should be the least of your worries,” he shot back. He’d aimed for a light teasing, but the words came out with a heavier weight than he’d expected. Even he reeled back from them, and Nancy squeezed his wrist reassuringly. His pulse raced under her touch. Just friends, he reminded himself (was that all It took? Just a touch from someone that wasn’t his boss or his son? God, he needed to get laid – yet another thing that he hadn’t had the luxury of indulging in lately).

“I care about you. I always worry about the people I care about.”

Steve shook her off gently, opening the driver’s side door: “Be good for Hopper when he finally drags himself out of there, Nance. Tell Mike I say hi.”

 He slid behind the wheel before she could reply and unravel the fragile life he’d built for himself.

…

Three hours later, and Steve was drowning in paperwork.

It was cruel, really, how much time he spent in an office that wasn’t even his. Officially, it belonged to the department but most of the time Dt. Harrington saw it as a glorified janitor’s closet. Because whilst it looked good written down on paper, the chipped name plate with Steve’s name on it – one that he was one-hundred-percent sure had been engraved by the resident fear-mongering asshole Officer Hargrove - dared him to question why the opaque glass door didn’t say the same. He’d worked for the Hawkins PD for over a decade: You’d think they would have the audacity and respect to give him a permanent work residence.

But alas, not everyone could be so lucky as the violent crimes unit – especially not homicide. And so Steve settled for less than he deserved and he waited it out patiently, because, in the end, that was how he’d wound up where he was today:

‘Never chase an opportunity,’ his father had told him – and this was when Steve had become co-captain instead of sole captain of the swim team, faced not only with his own disappointment but with his old mans’ too. ‘If you deserve them, they’ll come’.

Steve never had made captain of the swim team outside the constant, companionable badgering of James Rowe, and he’d never outgrown the tiny, un-flourishing seeds of wisdom that Harrington Senior had dredged up during his childhood. Somethings were worth waiting for, he’d deigned. But most of the time they weren’t.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it from his forehead with a rough sigh. His shoulders were stiff and sore from being hunched over a desk that took up so much room in the cluttered office that he could hardly breathe, and his wrist ached from underlining and circling the clauses and misspells in Deputy Callahan’s write-up. A myriad of red-penned scribbles tracked over the pages strewn across the table and not for the first time Steve felt like some kind of kindred spirit to the kids Tommy H had made do his homework back in high school. Why even write it in the first place if you knew it was going to be obsolete?

Because they liked to waste his time, that’s why.

God, Steve hated Mondays.

He gathered the loose-leaf documents into a pile, tapping it against the desk to straighten the pages into semi-reasonable conditions, and pushed them to one side. He balanced a heavy-duty hole-punch on top, just in case the weather decided to act it’s month and send a blast of crisp wind through the tiny window held open by the string of the blinds covering it. It had happened once before, years ago, and Steve had spent the rest of his night on overtime just picking up pieces of paper and filing them back to their original places. He didn’t feel like going through that again; his back wasn’t what it used to be, and Steve wasn’t sure his knees would be up to the challenge of crawling along a hard wood floor.

Picking his pen up and dropping it with a quiet clink into the mug resting by his computer, he pushed away from the table, letting the wheels of his chair take him the distance to the door. Steve opened it gingerly, poking his head out and hoping that it wasn’t true that a woman’s work was never done: If Florence made him take another casserole home, he was pretty certain Dustin would begin to refuse meals, and if there was one thing Dt. Harrington didn’t need added to his list of difficulties, it was a fussy ten-year-old.

Thankfully there was no secretary in sight – in fact, it looked like half the police force had abandoned ship. The entire precinct was a waste land. Officer Powell sat in one corner, feet kicked up on his desk, throwing paper balls at a whirring fan, and Maxine Mayfield – a regular to the station, but not for unsavoury reason – watched with an unimpressed gaze as she waited for her brother’s shift to be done. But, really, that was it. That was the grand entertainment that Steve’s nightlife offered.

His keys rattled jovially as he locked up the office, and he ruffled the red-head’s hair in a drive-by mussing on his way to grab his coat from the rack. Robin’s was gone already – no surprise there – so all he really had to worry about as he was leaving was double-checking he had everything, and avoiding the vengeful, fisted hands of Max as she leapt from her chair with furious, delighted eyes:

“Harrington,” she hissed, and Steve smirked at the warmth he detected in her tone. She obviously hadn’t meant for it to leak through, because her eyes widened, and the girl scowled.

“Happy to see me, Max?”

“No!”

“You are,” Dt Harrington teased, and he crouched down in front of her with a stupid grin on his supposedly stupid face. “You so are!”

“Am not!”

Steve waggled a finger in her face, winking to Powell over her shoulder as Max grabbed for it, bringing it to her mouth with the threat of biting it clean off like a carrot stick. “Face it, kid. You love me. You find me funny!”

“You’re stupid,” the ten-year-old snapped back, releasing his hand, and grabbing the lapels of his coat with tiny fists instead. She pulled him forward like she was being the bad cop in a duo of interrogating officers. Steve let himself get tugged along for the ride, grinning.

“Says who?”

“Says Billy,” Steve rolled his eyes, prying her limpet-like fingers from his suit. He straightened up, leaving her adorable, angry face glaring up at him. Her cheeks had gone as red as her hair. There was no heat in her voice though, not really, and she looked away from his soft gaze, blushing. “But I still think you’re cool. He’s stupid too.”

“Yeah, Max. He is,” the man agreed, hands on his hips. “You know who else is stupid? Chief Ho –“

“Harrington!” Steve paled, letting out a nervous bubble of laughter as he turned to the voice. Jim levelled him with a disappointed stare that sent waves of childhood nostalgia through the detective’s gut as the station doors swung shut behind him. He was wrangling a cuffed man by the elbows, tiredness seeping through his eyes, through his voice. “This isn’t a day care. Come and help me.”

Steve furrowed his brows, confused, but approached, nonetheless. He stepped with caution, unsure. “Uh, isn’t exactly my forte, Hop.”

“Cut the crap, detective. You went through basic training just like the rest of us,” the Chief sanctioned, and the lack of patience in his voice caused Steve to walk that little bit faster. At his approach, the guy in custody’s attention rocketed straight towards him.

Now, Steve was never one to judge a book by it’s cover. Really. But with a quick and critical appraisal of the man currently being arrested by his superior, it was kind of hard for Steve to avoid.  Because when the man turned, his hair turned with him – all of it – and it flicked over his shoulders, framed by the cheap halogen lighting above, like something out of a Whitesnake music video. Because the tight black jeans, the worn leather jacket, the Savatage t-shirt, the glint of cool silver adorning his knuckles and fingers, did nothing to quell the uncomfortable heat creeping its way up his throat, and Steve cursed himself for never fully getting over his childhood crush on Nikki Sixx.

“Yeah, detective, cut the crap,” parroted the man, and Steve revelled in that voice being aimed towards him. He swallowed, dragging his eyes up from the chains looped around his waist like a belt (and were those handcuffs in place of a buckle? Christ). A smirk was plastered over top of the rocker’s face, his brown eyes fully aware, it seemed, of the thousands of thoughts flooding through Steve’s mind. “Help the old man, why dontcha?”

Hopper gave the guy a rough shove and he stumbled, letting out a breathy laugh, and, stupidly, Steve reached forward to steady him. He regretted it the minute he touched the man because the flutter of eyelashes and sarcastic ‘my hero’ had Dt. Harrington stumbling instead.

“Fingerprint him,” the Chief said gruffly, physically manoeuvring Steve’s hands from the convict’s­ - remember the type of people who get themselves arrested, Steve – shoulder down to the cuffed hands pinned behind his back. Jim held him there for a moment, giving the other man a knowing look. His grip on Steve’s wrist tightened: “He’s in for drunk and disorderly. You remember how to put that into the system, right?”

“Yeah, but – “

“Don’t get distracted if you ever want to make it home tonight,” Hopper relented, backing away. Steve frowned.

“Where are you going?”

The chief grinned, throwing his hat onto his desk and shrugging on his coat. “Hot date, you know how it is.”

Steve resisted the urge to scoff, clearing his throat instead, and he gently urged the man in his charge forward as he watched, more miserable than ever, as his boss practically skipped from the building.

He pushed the cuffed man into a chair opposite an empty desk and turned the computer on begrudgingly. Chin in hand, he stared towards the blank windows-start-up screen as the PC’s fans whirred angrily into action. Steve felt eyes burning into him, and pushed hair from his forehead as he turned to the unwelcome attention:

“What?” he sighed. He was met with an exaggerated smile.

“Judging by your reaction, I guess you don’t.”

“What?”

“Know how it is,” the man continued, and Steve could feel himself begin to grow impatient, frustrated, annoyed. Spotting his flustered state, the smile on their face crept even further up their cheeks. “Having a hot date?”

He was leaning over the desk now, cheek pressed against a balled fist in some childish mirroring of Steve, and the detective felt the area beneath his eyes grow hot. He blinked, sitting back in his chair: “I know,” he said, aiming to keep his voice steady and calm – professional, because that’s what he was. A professional. Steve hated the way a dark eyebrow cocked at his response. “I know,” he repeated sternly, trying to force some conviction into his words.

“I don’t see a ring.”

Steve frowned, flexing his right hand awkwardly as he turned back to the computer screen, suddenly incredibly aware of it. “I’m not married.”

“Ah.” Steve’s eyes flickered to him, then down to the chipped nail polish on his fingers, and back to the screen. He swallowed, opening a folder to begin the digital booking procedure. He double clicked on a tick-box by accident as the man decided to speak once more: “So, you’re a player, then?”

Steve cursed breathlessly, exiting the file and reopening it. There, a blank slate. Dt. Harrington wished he could do the same thing in real life and restart this whole ordeal – he wouldn’t be letting Hopper sneak off the next time around.

“Name?”

“Eddie – Edward Munson… Is this an eye for an eye situation? Do I get to know just who my charming captor is?”

“It’s not required for me to tell you,” He stated, stealing a glance over towards Munson. The guy was still staring at him, eyes squinting, half-closed, as though Steve was a mystery he was trying to decipher. The click of keys as Steve added the man’s credentials to the document filled the brief silence. “Any middle names?”

“No.” A simple statement. Normal procedure. Then: “So, about your ‘hot dates’, detective… You go on lots?”

Dt. Harrington wanted to slam his head against the keyboard. He inhaled slowly (hold for four, just like Robin had taught him) and let the air out in a whining, exaggerated sigh. Half of him wanted to throttle Munson with the cuffs chained around his wrists, and the other half wanted to entertain him, purely out of personal, incredibly non-professional interest in the other man’s interest.

“Not anymore,” Steve admitted. He clicked into an empty box asking to describe the crime committed: “My colleague said you were being admitted for drunk and disorderly. Is that right?”

Eddie Munson snorted. “Your colleague?”

“Yeah.”

The other man rolled his eyes and began scratching at an ink stain on the wooden desk. “If you mean the big guy, then yeah. I don’t know about any disorder, though. Thought I was just being thrown into the clink with the rest of the bums.”

“You’re homeless, then?”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up beneath his shaggy fringe, hiding there, and he had the audacity to look offended as he sank down into his chair. “Fuck no. Why, do I have trash in my hair?” He brought a hand up to thread through his wild locks, snickering at Steve’s unamused face.

“It’s not funny to make fun of the less fortunate, Munson. What’s your address?”

Eddie stiffened. “Uh, okay. Funny thing, actually – “

“You are homeless?” Steve guessed, and he figured he was actually close to the truth by the way the other man’s face seemed to humble and calm down from it’s crazy that he’d had posted there since they’d met.

“No, dude, I live in a van!”

“Like, in an RV?”

“Er,” Eddie hesitated. “Yeah, sure. Like in an RV.”

“What’s the license?”

Eddie answered disdainfully and watched as Steve typed the information into the designated box, frowning, but he made no attempt to interrupt the detective as he continued filling in the rest of the information. Steve treasured the quiet, broken only by the hushed conversation across the room where in Max continued to verbally abuse Powell’s attempts to shoot a crumpled post-it into the waste basket.

Steve turned to Eddie, then, examining him with a crude eye; Munson puffed his chest beneath his gaze like the preening bird of paradise he’d seen on that nature documentary Dustin had forced him to sit through (David Attenborough had lulled him into a false sense of security -  those birds were vicious).  Dt. Harrington wondered if the man realised he was doing it, but one glance to his smirking face and smudged eye-liner was enough to stop that thought in it’s tracks.

“Do you have a criminal record?”

“Not that I know of,” Eddie replied coolly. He narrowed his eyes as Steve turned to type something into a search engine, leaning forward and craning his neck to try and get a closer look. “What are you doing?”

“Fact-checking,” Steve murmured in reply, and felt his chest deflate, rest easy, when he saw that the man was telling the truth. He was clean as a whistle. Related family members - his father – were a different story all together, and Steve didn’t let himself linger on the crooked, malicious black and white mugshot that leered at him through the screen. Put away for second-degree manslaughter, he thought grimly, and looked back to the Munson sat before him. “It checks out.”

“Well, good,” Eddie said roughly. There was a gravel to his voice that had the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck standing to attention. “I’m a man of many qualities, detective. But I’m not a liar.”

There was an undercurrent of upset, embarrassment, at what Steve had possibly been assuming -  or even hinting towards – and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s just- uh, you know. We have to do it for everyone who comes through,” he stammered, and cleared his throat again, avoiding eye contact with the other man. “Don’t think you’re special or anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Munson shot back, and there it was, the classic grin that Steve found somewhat endearing now that he’d seen that face void of it. Eddie sent him a wink, and he supressed the shiver in exchange for a well-timed eyeroll, scrolling up and down the document to check for anything he’d missed. He checked ‘no’ for anything stating that the incarcerated was exhibiting foul or unsavoury behaviour. ‘No’ was also checked for the box that asked whether a superior officer had been overseeing the whole thing, because Steve was so going to throw it back in Hopper’s face if anyone questioned why a Homicide detective was detaining people.

Steve sent the file to the printer in his office. Mainly because he wanted to escape the digging eyes of Eddie Munson, but also because he didn’t know how to use the one set up only a couple feet away. When he pushed himself out from beneath the desk, standing up, Eddie frowned, copying the motion, and Steve shook his head, pushing him back down into the seat:

“Stay here.”

“Where are you going?” If anything, Steve would say that the man sounded concerned. How cute.

“I’ll be back,” he reassured, and Munson’s eyes widened a fraction.

“Okay?” The other man said, like he didn’t know what else to say. Steve sent him a stiff smile before he began that awkward, half-run half-speed walk to his office. His heartbeat thudded in his ears and if he didn't know any better he'd say he could hear the tumbling of blood as it rushed through his veins as Eddie Munson's eyes followed his every move.

What was wrong with him? Just a few hours ago he was investigating the brutal slaughter of a poor woman. Someone's mother, someone's daughter, was dead, and for the first time in years Dt. Harrington was struggling to keep the case at the forefront of his mind. He braced himself against door, closing it softly behind him. He wasn't in high school anymore, Steve had to remind himself. He couldn't just drop it all for the first cute girl he saw.

But and Steve tried to stop the train of thought before it began, failing miserably. But, Edward Munson wasn't a girl. That made it different, surely?

No. It didn't. Steve had been with guys before - he'd learnt more in college than how to assess the arcs of blood splattered against the wall. He was just tired, and lonely, and he'd had a rough day. Steve snatched the papers from the printer harshly, wrinkling them slightly. He just needed to get it out of his system, that's all.

Preferably not with a drunk dude admitted to a police station.

The term 'beggars can't be choosers' breached the sturdy wall he'd suddenly built up in his mind, and Steve banished it instantly. He wasn't a beggar. He was Steve Harrington. King Steve. The best homicide investigator Hawkins had seen in half a century. If anything, everyone else was begging.

When he came back out of his office, his tiny, insecure pep-talk to himself had boosted his spirits some, and he strode jauntily back to the desk with the same cockiness he'd had when he was younger, before his work had both taken over his life and drained him of it at once. He eyed Maxine Mayfield uncertainly where she was perched on the end of an adjoining desk, listening with the same intense, serious look she always kept on her face as the hand-cuffed man talked aimlessly at her about whatever the fuck a guy like him had to talk about. Music, probably.

Steve sent a sharp glance towards Officer Powell, but the man had fallen asleep with his feet kicked up and his neck flopped awkwardly over the back of his chair. He would feel that position when he woke, and Steve felt a little bit gratified. Served him right for leaving a ten-year-old unsupervised with a criminal.

Not that Dt. Harrington really thought that Munson was a bad guy. Usually when drunks got brought into the clink it was because they’d been partying too loud and disturbed a neighbour, and, honestly, Eddie seemed sober. But that was beside the point.

Steve stood with his hands on his hips, watching the two of them, and felt a begrudging smile tilt the corners of his mouth: “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” Max cried, kicking out at him with her swinging legs. She missed him by about three feet, but he got the picture quite clearly. Eddie rolled his eyes, shaking his chains at Steve.

“Nothing important, Steve,” the man purred. Steve’s heart hammered in his chest, and he wet his lips, looking away from the eyes plastered onto him. Eddie tracked the move like a predator, and something about the way he gave his full attention to Steve had the detective shuddering beneath his gaze.

“Max, you’re not supposed to speak to strangers.”

“You were talking to him,” the girl said indignantly, and Eddie’s dazzling smile caused Steve to falter in his reply, like the man knew just how to hotwire his brain. He blinked.

“Yeah, well. That’s my job,” he shrugged, pushing past her sit back down. The red-head scowled, kicking out again, and this time her shoes brushed against his slacks. He shoot her a dirty look: “You shouldn’t have told him my name, either. Where’s your brother? Go bother him.”

Max’s brow furrowed and she pulled her legs up, crossing them on top of the desk. Her eyes flickered between the two men, and she pressed her lips together in indecision. “Can I stay if I’m quiet?”

“Sure. But I want silence. Anything more and you’re out. That’s an order,” Steve enforced, lacing his tone with authority. He knew it would work – it always did with kids. Remind them that you’re in control, give them an ounce of duty, and they felt instantly important. Max nodded furiously, making a show of zipping her lips, and Steve threw the document in his hand down onto the desk, turning his attention to Munson.

The man was looking at him – no surprise there, but Steve still felt oddly uncomfortable – with wide, excited eyes, his lips parted slightly. Steve could see the pink of his tongue trapped between his teeth, and cocked his head slightly: “You good, Munson?” He pushed the paper across the desk. “I need you to sign this for me, then we can get to fingerprinting.”

Eddie swallowed and shook his head. “No, uh – yeah I’m good. I’m super good,” he informed. He paused, scrutinizing the detective as he stole a pen right out of Steve’s hands before he had the chance to offer it. He scribbled a rushed, messy signature that slopped over the dotted line that it was aimed for, and stood quickly, slamming his palms flat on the table in a way that generated a thunderous sound. Steve raised a brow as Max jumped, lips twisting in her attempts to maintain her vigil of absolute quiet. Munson levelled him with a… what was in that stare? Steve couldn’t quite make it out, struggling to compartmentalise the muddle of emotions burning there.

“So you’re ready to go, then?” the detective proffered, rising to join the detainee.

“I’m all yours, Stevie.”

“Please, call me detective. It’s protocol.”

“I’m all yours, detective Steve.”

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. The tangy scent of copper drifted from his tie and he swallowed as he rounded the desk. This was going to be a long night.

He hated Mondays.

#steddie #stranger things #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie au #steve harrington #eddie munson #rockstar eddie munson #detective steve harrington #concieved in the eye of a secret #fanfiction

[an-abyss-of-stars]

☮ Rhaemond 70s Era Fic ☮

The year is 1978, 22yr old Rhaena Targaryen, is a singer/songwriter on tour in the States with her band Black Star. A folksy/bluesy rock band with music that rushes waves of ecstasy and ethereal beauty over whatever size crowd they play for. Rhaena graces the stage with all the grace and majesty of a fairy Princess or a glorious Goddess-like enchantress. Silver tresses and colourful flowing cape-like gowns that twirl and spiral with her every move, her sleeves hang like wings and flow as such as she spins and glides across the stage. She's known for losing herself in her music, as if she leaves her body on the stage and ascends to a higher place, her voice hypnotizing and mesmerizing her audience.

She's a marvel.

She's unreal.

A must see live.

With songs that spoke of mythical tales, dragons and burning lands, magic and royalty. And yet the song that was topping the charts recently was about a tortured lover, a dark figure who could not be shaken no matter how hard she tried. It was a song that left her screaming soaring notes out into the air, with so much anguish and internal rot, her rasping notes playing on par with the ripping final guitar solo.

And yet, the effervescent Rhaena Targaryen was not romantically tied to anyone, as far as the public knew.

They couldn't place the man she spoke of, but her emotional tale still ripped at the audience just right, connecting the feeling and the emotion...an unrequited love gone wrong.

An aggressively beautiful voice paired with the perfect music backing her. With a band that consisted with her as their lead vocalist, her twin sister Baela as both vocals and their lead guitarist, their half-sister Aemma as the keyboardist as well providing backing vocals with her other half-sister Aerea their bassist. Rounding out the band were Rhaena's two cousins, Aegon as their drummer and Daeron as their 2nd guitarist.

Black Star as a band and their music, was a growing sensation. So much so that Rolling Stones magazine had sent their very best writer to cover them, someone who reluctantly knew the genre well...knew the band even better...and after analyzing the lyrics, was quite certain he knew who that popular song was really about...

In 1978, 24yr old Aemond Targaryen, had worked his way up the writers ranks at Rolling Stones magazine. He'd always been an avid lover of music and culture, and while he could hold his own decently enough on guitar, it was more of a private activity as opposed to a career path. No, his talents lay on the written page, with his added photography skills. In his time at Rolling Stones he'd had the opportunity to interview some of the best the 70s had to offer. From Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham from Fleetwood Mac, Ozzy Osbourne and Tony Iommi of Black Sabbath, Dio, Buck Dharma of Blue Öyster Cult and even Donna Summer.

He'd worked his way from covering lower up and coming musicians and bands to meeting some of the greats. So it was to his surprise and slight disappointment when his chief editor slapped down a newspaper on his desk that read in bold letters "Black Star Shooting All The Way To The Top" and asked him to immediately jump on the task.

Maybe it was because he hadn't heard that band name in years...ignored it purposely for 4 years to be exact. Maybe it was because the moment his brothers had told him they were moving to Germany to "solidify their sound-" he stopped listening all together. Burning at the fact that his pretty little cousin...the one woman he wanted to stay within his orbit...was moving across the world to a whole nother continent, let alone country, just to get away from him.

Possibly it was because Aemond had been the one who fucked all it up to begin with. He'd been an idiot then, told her he loved in a letter...only for her to drive up just to see him making up with his on again off again girlfriend, Alys Rivers.

Rhaena had never let him explain, she wouldn't hear a word of the truth, the fact that Alys had practically lunged onto him, kissed like it would be forever. Only to turn around and dump him the week afterwards, Alys had said it was because "his heart wasn't in it", and truthfully it never was...

Only, Rhaena was back. And now there was a song playing on the radio, one that seared through him as it practically detailed the whole of their backforth relationship. There were technically three songs about him to be exact, although the other two seemed far more covert in their delivery. And now he was being forced to follow her...and the band…on their tour for their final 3 shows. Rolling Stones wanted it all, close and personal candid shots, interviews with the whole band, but most importantly he was meant to shine a light on their mysterious enchanting lead singer. To have her decode the songs and lyrics on their latest record.

If Aemond could look past the bitter sting of regret and the annoyance of how fate seemed to be weaving his life around. Then maybe he could see this for what it was, an opportunity to win her back...just maybe…

#aemond x rhaena #rhaena x aemond #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen #rhaena targaryen #rhaemond #modern au Rhaemond #i have absolutely NO idea when I'll actually start writing this 😂😂 #but i really dig the concept #so hopefully this rather long synopsis is good enough for now 😂😂 #i also couldn't narrow myself down to 1 or 2 mood boards SO i used 3 😂 #like i haven't entirely nailed down the character looks i want for this one? #like do they have regular Targaryen/Valyrian features in this? #do they have regular hair colours and 70s era hairstyles? #many questions 😂😂

[chaptersbycaz]

𝘄𝗶𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼: 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝘇𝗲𝗿

this is it!! the intro for my beloved main wip, stargazer! i've had this wip for more than a year now and i haven't even finished the first draft of the first chapter, but this is the one that's rotting my brain... super duper excited to be writing about it someday, but for now, let's get into some info about it!

𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ° 𖦹｡⋆☽

if you like: rock music, rivals to lovers, the 80s, 90s and 2000s, alternative culture, sapphic pining, secret relationships, queer and bipoc representation, and character driven stories, then this may be for you!

genres: coming of age, slice of life, romance

setting: san diego, california; present time

ratings and content warnings: stargazer is intended for audiences 16 and over. this story contains heavy material such as strong language, mental illness, drug use and addiction, death, homophobia, transphobia, bullying and child abuse. more will be added if necessary. discretion is advised!

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 ° 𖦹｡⋆☽

arabella winters, a talented guitarist, returns to san diego after her mother's tragic passing. battling anxiety, she joins her friends' band searching for spade for a music contest, encountering an opposing band, hunter and the hounds, and their charming drummer, rudy osbourne. as they navigate a tense rivalry, a friendship between the two of them grows, deepening into a hidden romance. amidst the chaos of competition, friendships are tested, and arabella grapples with decisions that could either align the stars of her life or scatter her amidst the constellations. will love's force pull her together or tear her apart?

𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲𝘀 & 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 ° 𖦹｡⋆☽

stargazer's entire concept revolves around love. not just romantic love, although it's one of the biggest themes within the story, but all other kinds of love, like the kind you have for your friends, for your family, and even for the things you do. it's also an exploration of grief, trauma, mental illness, and how adolescents process all of that stuff without glamorizing any of it. combining all of that, through arabella's story, i wanted to show that even if you've been hurt before, and you carry all kinds of baggage and scars, you're still worthy of love and capable of loving others. everyone is. and that's what it's all about!

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗹-𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘀 ° 𖦹｡⋆☽

although the story focuses on two different bands, collectively all together, i tend to call them the all-stars.

arabella winters: searching for spade's talented guitarist struggling with grief and anxiety navigating her new life in san diego

rudy osbourne: hunter and the hounds' easygoing drummer whose eye arabella catches

regina han: searching for spade's highly well-liked frontwoman with a desire to win the competition

avi garcia: hunter and the hounds' determined frontman who harbors a deep personal grudge against regina and her band

rachel han: searching for spade's drumming prodigy secretly hiding contempt for her seemingly perfect older sister

ever davis-jones: hunter and the hounds' no-nonsense keyboardist who tries to keep their friends in line

jordan miller: searching for spade's nonchalant bassist and token boy best friend

conan flynn: hunter and the hounds' timid yet sweet bassist with a growing crush on avi despite thinking that he's straight (he's not)

𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ° 𖦹｡⋆☽

i've had the characters of arabella and rudy in my head for years prior to sitting down and working on stargazer, they're actually ocs that i made when i was 12, re-recycled when i turned 14, then re-recycled again a year later. there's a lot of influence specifically from scott pilgrim vs. the world, heartstopper and various romance stories from the 80s, 90s and 2000s.

music also played a big hand into helping shape this story into the way it is now, which is why it's such a big theme. the entire plot revolves around music someway, especially rock music. it really helped to form the vibe of stargazer, and i'm very happy to be integrating something i love into my work!

𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ° 𖦹｡⋆☽

♡ lovesong - the cure

♡ everlong - foo fighters

♡ teenage dirtbag - wheatus

♡ kids in america - the muffs

♡ about a girl - nirvana

♡ first date - blink-182

♡ head over heels - tears for fears

♡ take on me - a-ha

♡ are you bored yet? - wallows

♡ there is a light that never goes out - the smiths

♡ kiss her you fool - kids that fly

♡ touch tank - quinnie

♡ time after time - cyndi lauper

♡ sunday - the cranberries

♡ ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn't've) - the buzzcocks

♡ blue hair - tv girl

𝗳𝘂𝗻 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘀 ° 𖦹｡⋆☽

♡ arabella and rudy's relationship was originally supposed to be toxic, but then i jumped ship when i realized that wasn't the kind of story that i wanted to tell with them, plus i figured that the world needed more healthy, functional relationships in fiction

♡ i created this story during my metallica phase, and unintentionally designed arabella and rudy to sort of physically resemble kirk hammett and james hetfield respectively...... i swear it was an accident

♡ i did originally post a really old version of this story up on ao3, but it has since been deleted

♡ arabella and rudy originally played different instruments, arabella played bass and rudy played guitar instead.

and that's all i got for stargazer! if you've made it to this little section at the end, thank you so much for taking your time to read about my silly lil wip and my silly little ocs <3 it means the world to me as someone entirely new to writeblr, so if you wanna hear more about them or talk about something else entirely feel free to reach out however you please!!!

#stargazer by caz #my wips #wip intro #wip introduction #wip #coming of age #slice of life #romance #love story #drama #writeblr #creative writing #2000s #90s #80s #nostalgia #alt rock #chaptersbycaz

[death-to-posers]

As promised, here’s that list of people I will/won’t write for, and also my boundaries etc.

Will do:

Smut✅

Angst✅

Fluff✅

Some averagely kinky stuff✅

x reader fics✅

platonic ships & fics✅

sodomy✅

Queer fics (f character x f reader, m character x m reader etc, I will write for non binary readers too. Please specify the gender you want the reader to be when you request or I will default to non binary)✅

Won’t do:

R*pe/Non con❌

Adult x minor ❌ (no weird pedo shit)

Anything that glorifies or sexualises severe domestic abuse❌

Pregnancy fics (I can’t I’m sorry.)❌

Shit kinks💀 (come on now..)❌

Vomit kinks (why.)❌

Foot fetish related stuff❌

Incest❌

furry/zoophile shit❌

vore❌

eating disorder/self harm stuff (I know a lot of people originally used this as a coping mechanism but it eventually evolved into the romanticism of anorexia and self harm and I do not stand for that.)❌

Might do, depends on the request:

Ships between two real people (unless they’re an actual couple I will probably be against this)

People/bands I will write for:

AC/DC (all members)

Alestorm (all members)

Abbath (all members)

Alice In Chains (all members)

Abbath Doom Occulta

Bathory (all members)

Behemoth (all members)

Billy Idol

Björk

Black Sabbath (all members)

Bon Jovi (all members)

Burzum (all members but it’s just Varg so this goes without saying)

Cannibal Corpse (all members)

Carpathian Forest (all members)

Courtney Love

Celtic Frost (all members)

Darkthrone (all members)

Disturbed (all members)

The Doors (all members)

Dream Theater (all members)

Evanescence (all members)

Foo Fighters (all members)

Ghost/Ghost B.C. (all members)

Gloryhammer (all members)

God Seed (all members)

Gojira (all members)

Gorgoroth (all members)

Green Day (all members)

Hanoi Rocks (all members)

Helloween (all members)

Hole (all members)

Immortal (all members)

Iron Maiden (all members)

Joan Jett & The Blackhearts (all members)

Judas Priest (all members)

King Ov Hell

KoRn (all members except David Silveria)

Lamb Of God (all members)

Lana Del Rey

Limp Bizkit (all members)

Marilyn Manson/Marilyn Manson & The Spooky Kids (all members)

Mayhem (all members)

Megadeth (all members)

Metallica (all members)

Misfits (all members)

Morbid (all members)

Motörhead (all members)

Murderdolls (all members)

My Chemical Romance (all members except Bob)

Necrobutcher

Nickelback (all members)

Nirvana (all members)

Old Funeral (all members)

Ov Hell (all members)

Ozzy Osbourne

Pantera (all members)

Powerwolf (all members)

Pearl Jam (all members)

Queen (all members)

Rammstein (all members)

Rob Zombie

Repugnant (specifically Mary Goore)

Ronnie James Dio

Rotting Christ (all members)

Sabaton (all members)

Serj Tankian

Sirenia (all members)

Slaughter To Prevail (all members)

Slayer (all members)

System Of A Down (all members)

Type O Negative (all members)

Twisted Sister (all members)

Tool (all members)

Varg Vikernes

If there are any members I’ve excluded it is most likely because I fucking hate them. If you submit a request for someone and I refuse to do it then it’s either because: it makes me uncomfortable to write for said person especially if it’s smut, I don’t know enough about them to write a fic or I hate them. It’ll probably be one of those three reasons so please understand and respect that. If there’s someone/a band not on this list or the “won’t do” list, it doesn’t necessarily mean I won’t do them. I might have simply forgotten to add them so please ask.

I will also write for certain non-musicians such as historical figures and/or fictional characters. Give me a shout in requests and I may or may not be willing to write for them. As an example, I will write for Manfred and Lothar von Richthofen. Not musicians but I adore them.

People/bands I will NOT write for:

Any kpop bands.

Any actors/actresses

Deftones (there’s no negotiation. I will not write for Deftones. End of discussion.)

Blink-182 (same as Deftones)

Falling In Reverse (Same reason as Deftones)

Yungblud (come on now. Be serious. Be so for real.)

Panic! At The Disco (fuck no.)

The Beatles (no.)

Mötley Crüe (no❤️)

Tokio Hotel (nothing against them but no thanks)

One Direction (come on.)

C*rey Taylor/most of Slipknot. (I will write for Joey and Jay though, my pookies)

Mindless Self Indulgence (foul ass band I despise all of the members)

And when I said I won’t write a romantic fic between two real people I meant it. Platonic is more than okay, we love some platonic bandmate fluff but beyond that is a fat no unless they’re actually married/dating. So it goes without saying that I will NOT write Davisdurst, don’t even start. Do not.

- 𐕣𝕶𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖎𐕣

#black metal #abbath #death metal #doom metal #heavy metal #metal #metal music #metallica #norwegian black metal #nu metal #fanfic #fanfiction #x reader #system of a down #serj tankian #rammstein #ac/dc #alestorm #alex terrible #alice in chains #bathory #behemoth #billy idol #björk #black sabbath #bon jovi #burzum #cannibal corpse #carpathian forest

[music-addiction-disorder]

It's been a while since the last metal-poll here on @music-addiction-disorder , for those interested... the last one was about "Metal Duets", 26 people voted and Lita Ford & Ozzy Osbourne won with 34,6 %. I've been tagged several times this week in different Slayer videos, that got me thinking it was about time for another poll. So, to all you Slayer fans out there i ask... "What's your favorite of these 10 Slayer albums"?

My all time favorite is "Show No Mercy", because style-wise it's one of a kind in their catalog and it still speaks to me even to this day.

Slayer was formed in 1981 by Los Angeles schoolmates and guitarists Jeff Hanneman and Kerry King. Tom Araya soon joined on bass and vocals, and drummer Dave Lombardo joined last in 1982. They played in a style reminiscent of early Exodus, influenced heavily by Iron Maiden and Judas Priest, before their attendance at a mid-1982 Metallica concert convinced them to play faster and heavier.

The group's name is an acronym for "Satan Laughs As you Eternally Rot" as shown in the first press vinyl's runout of their debut album (also written in the back sleeve of Divine Intervention) and part of this referred in the lyrics of "live undead" song: "Laughing as you eternally rot, searching for human flesh and life's blood, Live Undead, Dead" from the album South Of Heaven.

In January 2018 the band announced the end of Slayer after a final tour which ended in November 2019.

@1000deleting @metalgreg @nospheratusblack @author-of-all-sins @gloria-glitter @manuaani @moonstar-magic @maidenintexas1 @x-heesy @wayward-cat @machetazos88 @inkedupblondie @goblinkleaver @imtryingmybestbutimscared ...

#@music-addiction-disorder #polls #slayer #speed metal #thrash metal #Youtube #Spotify

[rotfics]

drabble of ani, rot and dredge interacting

He hopped up to the portal with Ani and Rot.

Rot smiled and patted his head. "Good job."

Ani looked back and huffed. "Soldiers will be deployed to take care of the rest of them."

Dredge looked up as they portaled home. "How DO your soldiers work, Mrs. Ani?"

"Mindless things that do as I say, made from wrongdoers."

"Ohh."

Ani and Rot both smiled, and Ani piped up.

"You did very well as a volunteer today."

Dredge sat up, eyes widening.

"We are both proud of you for carrying out justice."

Dredges eyes watered up a bit, Ani and Rot smiling and going to embrace him. He shed tears before becoming more professional.

"T...thank you, Mrs. Ani and Mr. Rot."

Ani smiled and leaned in to kiss his cheek, making him cry a bit more. "Of course, mi ayudante."

They both let go and made a portal home.

"Go home, go be with Royce and Kin. They're going to bed, and need you."

"O..ok.." Dredge sniffed a bit. Ani pressed her forehead to his, as a cat would, as she is feline-based, and wiped his tears away. Rot and Ani knew it was from their approval making an impact on him.

"Te amo mi chico." Ani kissed his head.

"Go home."

Dredge hugged Ani a bit before going through a portal home.

-----

Ani leaned up a bit and wrapped around Rot in their God form, purring.

"I do adore him, my love."

"Yes, I do too."

#I FORGOT ABT THIS #its cute #canon!dredge #ani mortedeus #rot osbourne #violence

[thealmightyemprex]

Peter Parker : You may think that Spider-Man ought to prevail, with the Captain and Gwen stuck somewhere safe and sound ,Green Goblincaptured and rotting in jail,Doc Ock no where around

Harry Osbourn :(drinking next to a portrait of Norman Osborn ) But theres no happy ending not here and not now,this tale is all sorrow and woes .You dream that Justice and Peace would win the day,but thats not how the story goes

Doc Ock:You might think a father so brave and so true would live to a nice ripe old age,but I am sad to say I have bad news for you the curtain rings down on the stage

Aunt May,Robbie and Mary Jane :Yes theres no happy ending not here and not now

Harry:This tale is all sorrow and woes

Doc Ock :You might dream that Justice and Peace win the day but thats not how the story goes

Peter:I once loved a girl ,she thought well of me,we thought we'd be happy together ,but now Im alone as you can see,and shes cold in her grave forever....

@the-blue-fairie @theancientvaleofsoulmaking @themousefromfantasyland @princesssarisa @ariel-seagull-wings @piterelizabethdevries

#a series of unfortunate events #spiderman #incorrect quotes

[dracolichbitch]

Wip Wednesday!

Tagging @lucien-lachance @illumiera @keleravna @ego-osbourne and whoever wants to join!

Her so called duties as Dragonborn took up a large chunk of her time ever since the fateful day she discovered the secret behind her soul, and thus, much to her chagrin, she’d been forced to neglect her family. The only people she actually cared about. The rest of Tamriel could rot in a sea of gore and guts, so long as the Dark Brotherhood survived. And indeed, it never surprised her how the road back home was always paved with blood.

She’d been aware of this sanctuary for a long time but the last time she’d spoken to anyone from the Brotherhood, they weren’t using this one. It was unfortunate but most of the brotherhood’s going ons, she’d heard as second hand rumors and juicy gossip. The death of the Emperor took Skyrim by storm and she knew it could mean only one thing.

Their dear Mother had finally broken her silence.

Guessing the sanctuary’s passcode was easy, and though she was greeted by a ghost of a brother at the door, it seemed he recognized her as the blood of his blood, and he allowed her to pass with a quiet uttering of “Sister.” She’d only just defended the stairs and made her way into the foyer when she saw it. She knew what it was. There was only one thing it could be. She could feel her presence.

Jura stood in front of the open coffin and her hard gaze softened as it fell onto the Nightmother’s form.

Never did she think she’d ever be graced with the privilege of being in her presence. As her eyes took in every detail of her embalmed corpse, she had to remind herself to breathe.

After a moment of starstruck silence, Jura reached into her bag and pulled out a bouquet she’d made just in case her suspicions were proven correct and they had. Black ribbon held together the stems of nightshade, roses as red as blood, and black lotuses, and just as she knelt down to place it at the Nightmother’s feet, she felt it.

The cold bite of steel against the sensitive skin of her bare neck.

“Who are you?” A low growl, dark and menacing sounded from behind her.

Jura couldn’t hold back her smile.

“You must be new.” She noted, and with the practiced ease of a dancer, or a duelist, she rose to her feet, ignoring how the blade pressed more insistently at her neck, drawing a thin red line against her pale skin as she turned to face her accuser.

The man was tall, with gaunt cheeks and a darkness to his eyes rather similar to her own, and she could tell what he was just as she was sure he could tell what she was. Standing behind him with an arrow nocked was a quite short woman with white blonde hair tied back into a braid at her side. Both of them were eerily familiar to her but she couldn’t place why.

“I won’t ask again. Who are you?” He spoke louder now, the sounds echoing down the mostly empty foyer, and she could hear the quiet chatter from what she assumed was the living area below the balcony behind him go silent as his voice reached whoever was there. The chatter replaced by hurried footsteps.

She tilted her head slowly and offered him a more bemused smile.

“If you intend to make an attempt at killing me, I recommend putting your back into it. Anything less and-“

She was cut off by a boot flying at her face, which she promptly ducked to avoid.

“Jura, you bitch! Quit trying to antagonize people into killing you! It was only funny the first time!” Lyra scolded her as she stalked around the two other assassins to pick her boot up from where it landed. “Don’t you know Lucien really would kill you?”

With a devilish snicker, Jura straightened up and brushed imaginary dirt off the front of her robes.

“I would certainly hope so. I wanted to see if he could behead me with one swing.”

#wip wednesday #my writing #oc: jura rhapsodos

[ngnwnchstr-arch]

*   "   𝐍𝐎   𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑:         A   NEGAN   WINCHESTER   PLAYLIST      (   PART   ONE.   )         𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙽   𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴.         (   ©️   )

001.  how'd  you  like  me  now  by  the  heavy.      i’ve  been  a  bad,  bad,  bad,  bad  man    &    i’m  in  deep.        002.  game  of  survival  by  ruelle.      who’s  in  the  shadows?    who’s  ready  to  play?    are  we  the  hunters  or  are  we  the  prey?        003.  everybody  wants  to  rule  the  world  by  lorde.      even  while  we  sleep,    we  will  find  you.        004.  chosen  one  by  valley  of  wolves.      i  know  what  it  takes  to  be  the  king,    be  the  song  everybody  wanna  sing.        005.  the  river  by  blues  saraceno.      evil  comes  if  you  call  my  name;    the  wicked,    they  shall  rise.      006.  running  up  that  hill  by  placebo.      and  if  i  only  could  make  a  deal  with  god,    i’d  get  him  to  swap  our  places.        007.  unholy  by  sam  smith  /  kim  petras.      a  lucky,  lucky  girl,    she  got  married  to  a  boy  like  you.    she’d  kick  you  out  if  she  ever,  ever  knew.        008.  fairly  local  by  twenty  -  one  pilots.      what  i  shouldn't  do,    i  will.    they  say  i’m  emotional;    what  i  want  to  save,    i’ll  kill.    is  that  who  i  truly  am?        009.  i  will  not  bow  by  breaking  benjamin.      now  the  dark  begins  to  rise.    save  your  breath,    it’s  far  from  over.    leave  the  lost  and  dead  behind.        010.  feelin'  good  by  muse.      it’s  a  new  dawn,    it’s  a  new  day,    it’s  a  new  life  for  me.        011.  love  song  requiem  by  trading  yesterday.      emily  will  find  a  better  place  to  fall  asleep.    she  belongs  to  fairytales  that  i  could  never  be.        012.  black  black  heart  by  david  usher.      i’m  on  fire,    i’m  rotting  to  the  core.    i’m  eating  all  your  kings    &    queens.        013.  radioactive  by  imagine  dragons.      welcome  to  the  new  age!        014.  9  crimes  by  damien  rice.      it’s  the  wrong  kind  of  place  to  be  cheating  on  you.    it’s  the  wrong  time,    she’s  pulling  me  through.    it’s  a  small  crime    &    i  got  no  excuse.        015.  (don’t  fear)  the  reaper  by  blue  oyster  cult.      and  it  was  clear  she  couldn’t  go  on.        016.  empire  by  alpines.      i’m  building  an  empire.    i’m  building  it  with  all  i  know.      017.  everybody  loves  me  by  onerepublic.      head  down,    swinging  to  my  own  sound.        018.  crazy  train  by  ozzy  osbourne.      maybe  it’s  not  too  late  to  learn  how  to  love    &    forget  how  to  hate.        019.  black  by  kari  kimmel.      and  the  demons  all  around  you  waiting  for  you  to  sell  your  soul.

#In character. ⸻ playlist. #oh i ENJOYED this one #i can't wait to add to it #tw long post

[ersatz-anomaly]

Edith Van Alton is downright fucking insufferable the way she acts like she’s perfect and right all the fucking time and she’s waaaaaay too wet for vampires. She already released fucking Dracula only to blame her grandad for it despite him telling her she wasn’t ready to deal with Vampires, and surprise surprise she wasn’t ready.

She even managed to trap him but… let him go? Just to prank him???

DRACULA. THE DRACULA. HAD HIM FROZEN AND READY TO TRANSPORT BUT NO JUST LEFT A ROTTING FISHES HEAD ON HIM AND CALLED IT A DAY.

And she still says she’s perfect and special and amazing, while constantly putting her brother down. She takes no responsibility and it’s really pissing me off. She got outsmarted by Dracula but still sees herself as the smartest greatest monster hunter ever. Like dude. Seriously. Get a grip. You NEED to fucking pay attention to Arthur Van Alton he was the one that actually managed to capture Dracula. And upon hearing that it was a lucky accident he fears he’ll never be able to repeat since Drac is aware this time. Your takeaway is “I’m the most knowledgeable person on vampires! I’m super smart!”????? What the fuck. All you know you learnt from Dracula, and he so easily could have slipped a lie or few in there bc he awoke in a basement to see 3 children standing there wanting vampire info. He knew they had no foundational knowledge so he could make up any old shit as far as she was aware

And she has the audacity to call her fashion sense “luxury goth”. There’s NOTHING gothic about your dress sense girl, it’s actually pretty pedestrian. “Luxury goth” pffft and then she pursues yet another vampire but immediately dumps him bc he’s not a 1-for-1 for the fake vampires she reads in her fics.

Edith you may have blue hair but don’t call yourself ozzy osbourne you’re not that special. And try show poor Ernest a modicum of respect his presence is actually what’s gotten everyone not slaughtered by the Specubi

Seriously we’re at 30 episodes of 49 and you have had no character growth ffs you’re gonna get everyone killed. You already lost the Book of Vampires to Dracula by reading it by the windows at night instead of during daylight hours. Vital vampire research conducted by a corrupt Van Alton seeking immortality, and the only copy of its kind. And you decided late night would be the safest time to avoid a VAMPIRE.

#monster loving maniacs #Edith Van Alton #Arthur Van Alton #Ernest Van Alton #Bonita Van Alton #liveblogging #spoilers