hopelessmidwesterner

[hopelessmidwesterner]

The Pinky Promise

Rafe Cameron x Reader

swearing, fluff, au where Ward isn't a dick, reader is in college and isn't originally from kildare, pussy whipped rafe, a little angsty at the end, allusions to a shitty past (reader), very domestic and cheesy, loosely inspired by my current student loan debt LOL (pls help)

2.3k words

Rafe comes home to you after a long business trip.

“R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Take care, TCB…” 

It’s Aretha. Or maybe Etta. Rafe can’t remember but he hears it the moment he parks his truck and kills the engine. It’s been a long and grueling couple of days for him - he’s been out of town to visit a few of Ward’s properties: three condos in Charleston, a development in Virginia Beach, and an office space in Little Rock. Real estate isn’t the dream at all but it’ll do for now since you’re still in school and working at the same time. He can’t fathom sitting around and doing whatever he pleases all day while you work yourself to the bone in class and at the local newspaper so he took this up a little after you started dating. The money is good but it gets exhausting just like every other gig. He’s glad to be home. Well, he’s glad to be at your home. 

It’s a tiny one bedroom house that looks more like an upscale beach hut than anything else but it’s your biggest pride and joy since you thought you’d be doomed to living in moldy apartments and your own car for eternity. The Camerons had helped you score a good rent rate on it, of course they had, and Rafe practically lived here more than Tannyhill since you moved in last Spring. It’s just a stone’s throw away, which is a big plus on top of the waterfront view. 

The kitchen windows are wide open, hence the audible music that plays from the little vintage radio you’d thrifted a few months ago, and he smiles when he sees you obliviously wind by the sink with a big bowl of God knows what. As he nears the porch, he can smell that you’re cooking a late dinner. He guesses it’s soup given the time of year but whatever it is, he knows it’ll hit the spot.

Respect ends and simmers into the radio host’s voice the moment he twists the front door’s knob to let himself in and it feels like one big sigh of relief. The host confirms that the song was in fact by Aretha Franklin and she introduces the next song, yet again from a 1960s Detroit act. My Girl swells into the air, almost perfectly in sync with Rafe’s action of slumping his backpack down onto the scuffed wooden floor. 

You’re so sucked into the music and the task at hand that you don’t pick up on his presence or hear the loud bump. Hell, you didn’t even notice when the truck’s blaring lights swept over this side of the house when he first pulled in. You’re humming and standing at the stove, stirring a big pot of something that smells even better now that he's inside. He watches you like you’re a dream, you are, and he doesn’t bother to fight the smile that tugs at either end of his lips.

You’re out of your work clothes, dressed in a baggy tee shirt that he knows is his and a pair of fuzzy socks that go up just past where your ankle meets your leg. You’ve always been an advocate of no pants at home, tonight is no different. Your hair is messily tied back and you have something on your face. He can’t make out what it is since you're turned away but he guesses it’s some kind of lotion or maybe even food that you’re unaware of. He drinks you in one final time then sighs loud enough for you to hear and he basks in the slight jump of fear you do. Always so skittish. 

“Gah! Jeez, Ray. I didn’t even hear you come in. Damn near gave me a heart attack.” 

You’re laughing as you say it so he knows you’re not actually ticked off and you set the big spoon in your hold down into the pot before dusting your hands off on your (his) shirt. He just shrugs and eliminates the distance between you two, taking long strides until he’s towering over you with that same old grin you fell in love with. 

“Sorry. Was just lookin’.”

“Lookin’ at what? Me and my under eye patches? So hot.” 

“Mm, so that’s what these are.” 

He pokes one of the green tinted patches and you swat his arm away, feigning annoyance while his hands find their rightful places on your hips. 

“Don’t touch! I’ve still gotta keep ‘em on for like another eight minutes!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatcha cookin’?” 

“Soup! Your favorite, too!” 

“Crab chowder?”

“Mhm! Boss man let me go a half hour early so I went to the market. Figured I’d make you something nice since you’ve been out and eating nothin’ but hotel food this week.” 

“You always make me somethin’ nice. You’re like Gordon Ramsey but hotter…and nicer I guess.”

You shake your head at his ridiculousness and he pulls you in tighter, earning a delighted squeal from your mouth as he litters your faces with the tiniest of pecks. They’re gentle and unrelenting, trailing from the edge of your jaw to the top of your head. He only gives in and practices restraint when you angle your mouth just right so he actually kisses you because as he came to find a long time ago, kissing you makes the world stop.

You’re warm like a little ray of sunshine despite your somewhat hard exterior and he’s overstimulating in the best way possible. Lips clash, contented hums fill the room, the serum from your patches stains his cheeks, and it’s just the two of you in those precious seconds. He wishes he could do this forever but he supposes a life spent with you will suffice instead. 

“Miss me?” 

“‘Course I did. Did you miss me?” 

“Is that even a question?” 

“Guess not…You hungry?” 

You swipe the glossy residue off his skin with the pad of your thumb and he scoffs once you pivot to rub your hand excessively over his buzzed hair. It’s fuzzy since he just got a fresh cut before he left and you always find it hilariously entertaining for reasons unbeknownst to him.

“Starving. Soup’s almost done?”

“Mhm! Just gotta wait for the rolls to finish. They should be done any minute.”

“Rolls? Babe, you spoil me.” 

You shrug and give him a cautious kiss on the tip of his nose. He doesn’t expect it so he laughs and crinkles his face up once you snake out of his hold to give the soup another hearty stir. 

“Says you. Go shower n’ unpack. It’ll be done once you’re out.” 

“You sayin’ that I smell or somethin’?”

“No, I just know you’ve been on the road all day and showering usually mellows you out.” 

“Well what if I wanted to hang out with you?”

“We’ve got all the time in the world for that. Go. You can eat and tell me all about your trip once you’re done.” 

“You promise?”

You only hold up your pinky after he questions that. It’s not only cute but it’s a callback, too, and it makes his chest heat up with adoration. Pinky promises. It’s an inside joke since you always do that like it’s some soul-binding thing whenever the idea of a promise comes up. It’s childish, maybe, but it’s kind of your thing. 

“Pinky promise.”

“Damn. I can’t argue with that, can I?”

“No, sir.” 

After a much-needed shower and a quick unpacking, Rafe’s headed back down the stairs and into the kitchen with a fresher air to himself. He’s dressed in an old pair of sweats that hang low on his waist and nothing else, water droplets still clinging to his muscled arms and the fine hairs on his head. Your under eye patches are gone now and you’re serving up the biggest bowl imaginable for him to eat since you’re positive he skipped stopping for lunch just to save time. 

“Bon Appétit!” 

You set the steaming bowl in front of him paired with a roll and a glass of his favorite whiskey on ice. He thinks that he wants to kiss you all over again but he starts to scarf down the food instead so you don’t scold him like a disappointed mother. You take your usual spot at the table perpendicular to him with your own food and he fires away without you even having to ask. He carries you through the entire week despite the fact that you guys called on the phone most nights. From the starchy hotel sheets to the boisterous construction managers he worked with, he makes sure not to miss a single detail so it’s like you were there with him. By the time he even gets to the events of his drive home today, his spoon is scraping the edges of the nearly-cleaned bowl. 

“You want more? There’s a bunch left, potatoes were on sale so I made a triple batch.” 

You’re already standing to get him another serving even though you’ve barely made a dent in your own but he stops you with a hand to your forearm. 

“I got it.” 

“But…”

“Tell me about your week now. C’mon, eat.” 

���Fine.” 

You grimace, he grins. Classic. You sit back down and sigh while he gets himself another bowl. He carries it along with two more rolls balanced in his mouth back to the table, which makes you both giggle. You begin to tell him about your week which was much less glamorous than his since it was just routine stuff but he listens and engages like you’re reading his favorite book to him. You have his full attention as you fill him in on this week’s island gossip, the new story you were running at work, and the upcoming tattoo appointment you had. He nods as he shovels the food into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in years and he only interjects once he starts to feel it in his stomach. 

“Mm. This is seriously off the hook, ma.” 

He groans and takes the final bite before his spoon falls and clatters against the ceramic of the bowl. You make the face you always do when he praises your cooking that says ‘you’re being dramatic, it’s just food’ and finish your own with a few more civil bites. 

“I’m being for real. You sure you wanna finish out school? Cuz you could be a great chef. Be my personal cook or somethin’.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Besides, I already do that for free.” 

“You could be gettin’ paid. Jus’ sayin’.” 

“I know. I prefer to be up to my throat in student loans instead.” 

It’s a joke. He knows that based on the little chortle you do in between words while you help him clear the table but he also wants to make sure that you know he isn’t going anywhere, that life doesn’t always have to feel like you’re living on shaky ground that could collapse at any given second. You crave independence and he respects that but a little support never hurt anyone. 

“You know I could basically vanish your student loans by…tomorrow, right? You don’t gotta worry about that.” 

“I…I know.” 

You’re still not used to having someone so giving in your life even though you’ve been together for almost 2 years and it shows by the flicker of absurdity that passes over your face. It’s brief but notable. 

“I just don’t want you to have to do that. You’re not the one who decided to go to college with barely any money in your pocket. I’m the one who did that. Plus, I’m already never gonna be able to pay you back for all the nice stuff you keep buyin’ me.” 

“I don’t want you to pay me back. I don’t expect anything in return when I do that stuff. I get you things because they make me think of you. N’ your loans won’t really even make a divet in our accounts. Dad’s a millionaire, remember?” 

“I know. I’m…you know I’m not used to this stuff.”

“What, kindness?”

“Yeah…but you know what I mean.” 

He does. He always does and that makes life much easier and digestible most of the time. He’s the embodiment of safety and security, something that was definitely not a consistent theme in your lifetime before you moved to Kildare. You still pinch yourself at times to make sure he is real, that this is real, but the pinches have been fleeting with time.

Rafe leaves the conversation at that. He doesn’t argue or insist like he did in the beginning. He just pulls you into an overbearing side hug at the sink and presses another kiss to your temple, keeping his lips there. 

“I’m just sayin’. I’ve got us. I’ve got you. Through college, your career, and whatever else happens down the road. You can breathe for once.” 

You’re quiet for a moment, watching the faucet’s water pour down onto the dirty dishes that you already know Rafe is going to bump you aside to do. It sort of feels like time ceases as you process his words and formulate a response. You could just pacify him with the typical ‘I know’ but you’ve missed him and you’re beginning to understand that he’s authentic in what he says, what he does, and who he is. It makes you feel stupid that you didn’t totally grasp that from the get-go but as he always reminds you, healing takes a frustrating amount of time. 

“You promise?”

It’s just a murmuring of words but it may as well be screamed from the depths of your chest. It rings through his ears, bounces between the house’s walls and echoes into the calm sea out front. He’s prideful over the fact that you’re not just brushing the topic off; you’re following through and acknowledging his semi-vulnerable promise. Well, almost a promise.

He sticks his pinky out before you can even move out of his way and it hangs in front of your face, waiting for the deal to be sealed. You scoff out of disbelief even though you actually can believe it and you hook your own pinky around it, pressing a chase kiss to his knuckles as per usual. 

“No backin’ out now, Cameron.” 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” 

[hopelessmidwesterner]

Welcome To The Real World

Rafe Cameron x Reader

fluff, swearing, reader is new-ish to Kildare, slight angst, like one use of y/n, reader described as a girl, au rafe, dad rock bands (creed, 3 doors down) mentioned lol, grumpy reader

2.1k words

Based off of this imagine I posted a little while back. Enjoy, mwah!

It’s a slow day in Kildare. Winter always brings this cold, almost isolating atmosphere to the island since peak travel time doesn’t start until late Spring. This also means that the tips are less and so is the fun when it comes to your job at the country club and its attached amenities. All you deal with are snot-nosed kooks who think they know everything day in and day out and it’s afternoons like this where you start to actually miss the oblivious tourists. At least they tip well and can hold a conversation without being egotistical. 

You’re killing time by restocking the bar even though it was already practically full when you first clocked in around noon. You hum along to the barely audible song on the overhead radio as you do so. You think it might be an older song, something a dad would listen to like Creed or 3 Doors Down, but you don’t care much since the rare noise of the main door opening captures your interest. You stand from the wine fridge down below and wipe your hands on your black slacks before gazing over. You’re hopeful that it’s an actual customer or maybe one of your more likeable coworkers since you’re holding down the bar by yourself while the wait staff gossip out back but any semblance of faith in that burns out when you glance at the all too familiar island asshat (that’s what you call him, anyway): Rafe Cameron. 

He’s dressed in the typical kook outfit: a polo, khakis, sneakers so white that they’re blinding, and a rolex worth more than a year of your rent. He’s always been just like the rest of those rich douchebags from the clothing to the ego but as much as you hate to admit, he is more tolerable when it comes to conversation. Despite his hot headed reputation, he treats you like a human and he’s much calmer than his jerk friends. He tips a little too much, too. It doesn’t mean you have to like him or put up with his constant flirting, though. 

“Why the sour face? You’re not pumped to see me or what?”

He does that ol’ Cameron smirk. The one that evidently drops the panties of every girl on the island. Every girl besides you, that is. You wear a repulsed expression as he nears the bar and you prepare yourself for whatever bulshit he has in store. None of his minions are with him which you find odd but it’s menial in hindsight. 

“No. Can’t say that I am. The usual?” 

You gesture towards the expensive bottle of Johnnie Walker behind you even though it’s not even 3:00 P.M. yet. Who are you to judge? Winter in the Outer Banks often means darker days for everyone, even the elite. Those sad drinkers are a big reason why the club even runs accordingly during the non-tourist season so you’re never one to harp on things unless they start a fight or black out on the polished floor. 

“No, no. I’m not here for that.” 

“Oh. Why are you here, then? Restaurant doesn’t open for another hour and a half for dinner.” 

You’re confused and that’s putting it lightly. People only come to this part of the club for food and drinks: the rest of the place is for golf (duh), a general store with merch and gear, and a pool that’s reserved for members only. He knows that, too, since he is a lifelong member himself. The only logical explanation is that the boredom of January has really gotten to his head so he came here to mess with you just so he can say another day wasn’t put to waste. Lucky you. 

“Well, actually…I came here to apply. The dude up front said to go here.” 

“Apply? Like…for a job?” 

“Yeah. For a job.” 

It’s rude but you do in fact laugh right in his face. A kook let alone one of his status applying for a job that paid 17 an hour at best? It’s the biggest joke you’ve ever heard in your life. All of those people no matter how old either live off their own family’s wealth for life or they join ‘the family business’ which mostly just means that they’re mooching with a cover. 

“Hey, I’m serious. I’m looking for a job.” 

“What’s wrong with Cameron Development? Dad doesn’t trust you to do reception work or anything like that?” 

He rolls his eyes instead of getting genuinely mad like any other kook would. It’s part of your dynamic - if you can even call it that - friendly banter. Well, he means it to be friendly whereas you mean it to be bitchy enough so he leaves you alone. You’ve never been sure if you actually want that, though. He’s pretty damn confusing. 

“C’mon. You gonna give me an application or not?” 

“...Fine. Can I ask why now, though? Like…aren’t your people kinda set for life?” 

“My people? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know…Kooks. That’s been my understanding, anyway. You know I’ve only lived here for a year or two.”

“I’m aware…You should know why over everyone else, though. You’re the reason I’m doing this.” 

“I’m what?” 

You stop dead in your tracks, shoes squeaking on the floor, as you make your way from the bar and towards the general manager’s office to fetch a paper application. You’re the reason he’s applying for his first job at the ripe age of 22? 23? You aren’t sure how old he is, honestly, but he seems to be around your age so he can’t realistically be a day over 25. None of it makes sense. 

“Yeah. I heard what you said to the cart girl last week, ya know?”

“What I said to the cart girl? What the hell are you…” 

“How us kooks don’t know the meaning of hard work? We’re all copy and paste, each one worse than the last? How you’d never consider going out with one unless they joined the real world? Ring a bell?” 

“Oh.” 

Oh was unfortunately right. You remember the exact conversation clearly since it was only last Thursday. Too bad you had no idea that he was listening at the time. Averting your newly-ashamed gaze from his blank one, you force your feet to keep moving towards the office while you try to recover. It’s a poor attempt but an honest one. 

“Well…why do you even care what I think? It’s not like I’m important or…anything like that.” 

“That’s a dumb question.” 

You scoff and the noise muffles since you’re behind the office door now but he still hears it. Of course he does. You continue to speak feistily after you locate the applications, plucking one from the stack along with a pen that most likely doesn’t have much remaining ink. 

“How is it a dumb question?” 

“Because you know why I care what you think. You should, anyway.” 

You don’t, if that wasn’t already obvious. 

“Enlighten me.” 

You hand him the flimsy application with its dull pen and he sighs but doesn’t deny you as he hops up onto a bar stool. He’s uncomfortable, you think. Either that or just extremely pensive. Again, he’s confusing and hard to read. You suppose that you can be that way, too. 

“Just think. What would I have to gain from you by getting a job based on what you said to your coworker?” 

For a moment, it feels like he’s baiting you but he isn’t. He’s leading you to the answer even though he still wears the same expression of steel as he scribbles his information down. It feels weird to see him so serious, so un-joking. You can’t hide behind a condescending laugh this time. Your words from that conversation circle around your head while he continues to dot his i’s and cross his t’s.

“Kooks wouldn’t know hard work if it punched them in the face…all of them are the same, privileged, assholes…like copy and paste….holier than thou mentality…I would never even think about going out with one of them unless they joined reality and got out of their posh bubble.” 

Right when he finishes with his signature at the bottom of the application’s back side, it hits you like a twelve ton semi truck all at once. There’s no way, you think. There is absolutely no way or chance that Rafe fucking Cameron is doing this just to score a date with you of all people. You’re just the bar girl for crying out loud! You’re rough around the edges, profane (even on the clock), and your RBF is something that will go down in history. You always consider his flirting to be innocent: just flirting to flirt even if it's with the island’s fresh, not so nice, meat. But here it is. The truth staring you in the face like death with a hospice patient. It sounds daunting but that’s because it is and it’s almost too much to handle. 

“Don’t look so gobsmacked, jeez.” 

His laugh is back as is his smirk but he’s still uneasy. You guess that he doesn’t do this sort of thing often if at all. Makes sense. 

“I’m…I’m not.” 

“You are. No point in denyin’ it, Y/N. Do I turn this into you or…?” 

“Y…yeah, I’ll file it. You should get a call for an interview by tomorrow from someone. It depends on if you applied to be a…oh. You’re applying for everything? Even maintenance? That job sucks in the summer.” 

“A job is a job, isn’t it? As long as it gets me to the real world, huh?” 

He’s taunting you like he always does but this time it doesn’t fill you with disgust and you don’t even form the idea to flash him your index, middle, and ring fingers with the signature catchphrase of ‘read between the lines’. Your stomach just does a million little flips and your face warms up like it’s the height of August. He notes it but chooses to acknowledge it later like the teasing shit he is.

“You’re serious about this? Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. And nope. I guess I’ll find out along the way.” 

A prolonged moment of eye contact follows his response. It’s tense and speaks a million words in a way that real conversation could never do. He’s for real and it both terrifies and excites you. You don’t know if you want this or not so you leave the ball in his court. 

“Whatever, dude. You need anything else?” 

“N…well, yeah. Just a question, actually.” 

“Shoot.” 

“It’s a little presumptive but uh…lets say I get a job here.” 

“I’m listening…” 

“Would you be free for dinner? A movie? Something along those lines?” 

“Assuming you make it past training? Sure, why not?” 

He beams like the sun and doesn’t care to shield it from you or anyone. You think that seasonal depression must be really prominent in the Cameron family if something like that gets him so visibly geeked and he utters out something along the lines of “sweet, see ya later” before he’s exiting to go do…well, to go do whatever kooks do when they aren’t golfing or spending sickening amounts of money, you guess. 

The moment the door snaps shut, your smile returns. It was hard to bite it away while he was in here but you accomplished it and now you have free reign. You can’t quite believe that the annoying pest of a guy that always bugs you with wild discussions and extravagant orders is the same person who has you grinning like a lovesick idiot at this moment but you figure you have to dwell on it later instead of now since your manager finally shows up, snaking his way through the kitchen and into the main dining room to prep for service. 

“Who was that? Anyone important?”

“Oh, just an applicant.” 

You nod at the freshly filled page and he saunters over, reading it with squinted eyes and an obvious look of shock at the name. 

“The Cameron boy? Really?”

“Mhm.”

“You think he’d be a good employee? We need another caddie so I might take him up on this if you think so.” 

“You want my opinion? I’m just a bartender.” 

“And? You’re the longest lived worker here besides me. You’re basically assistant manager at this rate, too.”

“Do I smell a promotion?”

“Maybe. Just answer the question. Should I bother putting time and energy towards this kid or should I recycle this?” 

You think for a moment even though you don’t really have to. The answer, or at least your own answer, is pretty damn obvious. 

“You should. Seems eager to learn and even more eager to work. He knows his way around the course, too. He’d be a great addition to the team.”

[hopelessmidwesterner]

"no worries" ah but that is where you are wrong. there are many worries

[hopelessmidwesterner]

Are they ‘trauma dumping’ or are they just discussing their life experience and you are such an asshole that you can’t stand to be confronted with information that makes you uncomfortable for 0.005 seconds???

[hopelessmidwesterner]

fandom space so delusional i forgot that eddie wasn't still alive

[hopelessmidwesterner]

i feel like im in the sims where it takes 5 hours to make pasta and then u have to immediately go to bed

[hopelessmidwesterner]

Eddie Munson Relationship Headcanons!

fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, drugs (weed), swearing, the term headcanon here is a loose one lol, mentions of rock music (Heart and Motörhead) and anxiety

☠ First met you in the main office of Hawkins High one fateful day. You were new to town, there to pick up your books and schedule, whereas he was there because he'd been sent down for the sixth time this year (and it was only September) due to a bong he made in art class that he swore was supposed to be a vase.

☠ Absolute sucker for casual, stay-in dates. Some weed, a collection of horror flicks, and enough snacks to feed an army? Say less.

☠ Writes you notes as much as he can. You'll find them in your pencil case, your books, your car, and even in your own back pockets. They're usually short and sweet things, always decorated with a goofy little doodle.

☠ Super touchy but in the most innocent, instinctual way possible. A hand on the small of your back, weight leaned into your side, a knee bumped into your own, finger hooked through the belt loop of your jeans, etc.

☠ Was super dead set on that whole "i only listen to metal" facade until you came along and saw the secret Nancy Wilson poster in the back of his closet. You taunt him about it constantly.

☠ A tried and true gentle giant, especially when you're upset about something. He's softspoken and more intimate in some odd way whenever you're crying or simply overstimulated, running a hand up and down the length of your back.

☠ Played the waiting game for far too long. In his mind, someone as great as you would never think of him as more than a friend, so he swallowed his feelings for several months until he choked and couldn't take it anymore.

☠ Might be a little scrawny and clumsy but he won't hesitate to go up to bat for you any day of the week. Some creep hitting on you at a show? One of the jock assholes giving you shit for something? Dustin being a little too harsh with his friendly, boyish teasing? It didn't matter, he was gonna step in.

☠ Graduated, got a real job at a local music store, and quit dealing (excluding to you and your friend group) all because of you. You didn't ever ask or suggest it, either. He just knew you deserved more than what his reputation had become.

☠ Anxiety fears him but in great contrast, you're basically the poster child for unease, worry, and nervousness. He doesn't understand it but he does all he can to soothe you during panic attacks and exhausting days where your head gets the best of you.

☠ Told his mom's grave about you once he realized you were more than just a crush.

☠ Took you to see a Motörhead cover band a few towns over for your first date. He'd been a ball of sweat and nerves since he wasn't sure how you'd take all the hard moshing and noise but you were on cloud nine from the moment you entered the dingy club hosting the show. You both left with wide grins and a few bruises as collateral.

☠ Realized he was deep in love with you just a month after you started formally going out. You'd gone to a rowdy party one of Gareth's cousins was throwing and some drunk guy had been shit talking Corroded Coffin, eliciting you to stand up for the guys like a feisty bulldog that even he was a little scared of.

☠ He's your first everything and you're his.

[hopelessmidwesterner]

I have one brain cell and it bounces around in my skull like a windows screen saver

[hopelessmidwesterner]

The Groupie

Eddie Munson x Rockstar Reader

swearing, fluff, angst, themes of anxiety, mentions of groupies with a negative connotation, slight sexism, a few uses of y/n, strangers to lovers (sorta), a few mentions of rock bands/songs (Metallica, Dio, Type O Negative, etc.) takes place AFTER season 4 (1991 ish) so Eddie and reader are around 24/25

3.3k words

Corroded Coffin has been hired to open for a local rock band at Outlaw Theatre, a venue with a Midas Touch for all of its performers. Whilst there, he meets you, the coolest person he's ever met. Unfortunately for him, his tendency to speak before thinking intervenes.

Cover art via rogue_alien on Instagram!

Ever since he could remember, Eddie Munson had been labeled as an idiot. The kind that would never amount to much more than dealing drugs and living in his rundown, close minded town until he saw the grave. Those closest to Eddie knew he wasn’t actually stupid. He had his moments, sure. Like the time at practice when he confidently insisted that he could play bass since Gareth broke his hand since it was “the same as guitar just with less strings” only to be humbled in front of everyone. Or all the times he flunked Biology, Algebra, English, and even P.E. Or the several occasions he tripped over his own clumsy feet in front of super pretty girls. He could be a dunce, sure, but he wasn’t the tried and true moron like everyone in Hawkins framed him to be. 

Right now, however, he sure did feel like maybe there was some truth to that notion. 

To backtrack: after the whole Vecna/near-apocalypse/saving the world/almost dying like twelve times thing, he’d managed to get his shit together and graduate by that May even if everyone in town was still convinced that he was a murderer. In turn, Corroded Coffin sort of blew up by the time Fall came around. At least, locally. They went from playing The Hideout to real venues with actual backstage areas and sound guys that weren’t drinking on the clock. Was it enough to make a living? Absolutely not but it was a fun side gig that was helping him get through life, which had mostly consisted of odd jobs while he saved his money to not only move out of Indiana but to also go to art school. Never in his life did he think he’d be the one who actually wanted to go back to school for a degree but so much had changed and now it was setting in that life after Hawkins, life after grief, did in fact exist. 

Tonight, Corroded Coffin had a milestone show at a venue just a couple towns over called Outlaw Theatre. The place had a Midas Touch so to speak: several bands that graced the stage there had gone on to win awards, to make millions, and to change music itself. He wasn’t sure if Corroded Coffin was destined for that greatness but it was exciting to experience and even more exciting when he met you backstage.

He never learned your name but it was at the top of his to-do list after a brief though life-altering encounter. You weren’t from Hawkins because if you were he’d surely remember someone as breathtakingly awesome as you. You were effortlessly cool from the scuffed motorcycle boots on your feet to the array of wacky, multicolored rings decorating your fingers. You even had one of those cool piercings that people in the magazines and on television labelled as a surefire sign of supposed evil much like metal music and D&D. A septum, if his memory served him right. 

He hadn’t been able to get you out of his head ever since and now as he lingered in the back of house at the bar after a quick changing of clothes, the headlining band kicking off with a darkened cover of Heartbreaker, he swore he felt his jaw hitting the floor. No, at this rate, his jaw was pushing past the floor and down towards the depths of Hell. Auburn colored eyes wide and face slacked into an expression that said “Holy shit. I am the idiot of all idiots. King fucking idiot.”, his mind raced to your interaction from earlier. That one, five minute (if that) interaction that was now the epicenter of his stupidity. 

☆☆☆☆☆

He’d simply been walking around backstage with Jeff, trying to get a feel for the place when your voice came in out of nowhere. 

“Have you heard of that new band from Brooklyn?” 

You were standing in the doorway of the headlining band’s green room, gripping a shiny can of hairspray while Ryder, the band’s keyboardist, sat in the chair in front of you. You were teasing his hair in preparation for tonight, eyes focused while you listened to his snarky reply. 

“What one? Brooklyn is huge, ya know.” 

“Type O Negative. It’s like goth meets metal.” 

“Never heard of ‘em. How did you even–” 

“You know Type O Negative?” 

Eddie hadn’t really meant to interrupt but it sort of just came tumbling out, piercing through the semi tense air of the hallway. You’d perked up, a shy smile flowering onto your face. 

“Hell yeah, I do. You a fan?”

“Y…yeah. It’s usually not my type of metal but they’ve just got something…indescribable, I guess.” 

He tried to maintain his cool even though Eddie Munson was the furthest thing from nonchalant in any case let alone this one. You’d dipped your head in half agreement, half understanding. 

“Yeah. I heard on MTV that there’s rumors of a tour outside New York. Hopefully, they come here.” 

“No way, really? That would be sick.” 

“That’s what the people are saying. But who knows, MTV is just another corporation at the end of the day so they could’ve lied for more attention.” 

God, you were incredible. Pretty, into metal music, and slightly anarchist? He could faint with a big ol’ grin on his face, he thought. 

“Ugh, yep. Remember when Melody Maker lied about the Black Sabbath reunion a few years ago for publicity? I was so pissed.”

“Yes! I literally asked for more hours at work for that in case they’d go on tour! So annoying.” 

“Right! Uh, I’m Eddie, by the way. This is Jeff, we play for–” 

“Corroded Coffin! Right? Or are you guys with uh…who’s the other one?” 

“Bullet Proof Vest.” Ryder cut in, making a face as you continued to tug and tease at his lucious, blonde locks. 

“Yes, them. Bullet Proof Vest. Sorry, bad with names.” 

“Don’t sweat it…We’re with Corroded Coffin, though, yeah.”

“Sick! We’ve got an old demo tape from a few years ago of yours in the van, it gets played all the time.” Ryder replied, amped as ever. He was antsy to get out of this chair despite your constant scoldings about if he sat still, it would be over with sooner. Rockstars rarely listened.

“Really? Thanks, man. We’re flattered…Have you guys ever played here before?” 

“Once before! This is our first time headlining, though. Kinda exciting. You’ve heard the theory, haven’t you?”

“Place has got a Midas Touch, mhm.” 

“Yep. Let’s hope if not both of us then one of us meets that fate, hmm?” 

“Yeah, for real. Oh, and uh–” 

Before he could even try to swivel the conversation to somehow include you again, a walkie talkie from somewhere behind you buzzed and crackled unintelligibly. Well, it’d sounded unintelligible but you evidently understood what they were saying because you picked it up and pressed the button on the side. 

“Go ahead.” 

“...photographer…front entrance…press badge…list…” 

You sighed and set the hairspray down, leaving Ryder with half-teased hair that looked utterly ridiculous. Well, more ridiculous than it was supposed to look. After thinking for a moment, you pressed the button again to reply. 

“Be there in 2. Can I get Celia from the merch booth to the green room please?” 

…no problem…” 

You smiled and nodded to yourself, stepping around Ryder with a quick exhale of stressed excitement. 

“Ry, have Celia finish your hair when she gets here. I gotta deal with that lady from the newspaper who’s comin’ to take pictures tonight.” 

“Aye aye, captain.” 

You rolled your eyes and paused to glance back at Eddie and Jeff. Jeff was his normal, calmed self whereas Eddie looked utterly gutted like a kicked puppy that you were leaving. If you noticed, you didn’t show it.

“Oh, uh…Eddie, Jeff. It was nice meeting you, I’ll see you later, probably at load out?”

“Yeah. Sure thing! Hey, are you like a jack of all trades for these guys? Cuz we’ve been lookin’ for some roadies and stuff.” 

He gestured towards Ryder, who was already talking about something unrelated with Jeff, while you just furrowed your brows out of confusion. You weren’t picking up what he was putting down and a pang of embarrassment sliced through him as he tried to explain himself. 

“Ya know…you do hair, you do assistant stuff, are you a groupie turned friend or somethin’?” 

“Oh, no. I–” 

You still looked puzzled but then the walkie crackled again and you groaned, holding it to your mouth again with one last frustrated huff. You walked away as you spoke until your voice disappeared in the maze of corridors, offices, storage rooms, and utility closets. Just like that, you were gone, but he knew he’d find you again before the night’s end. He had to. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Heat fueled by the flames of his own embarrassment flocked to Eddie’s cheeks as the moment replayed in his mind like a broken record. Great, he’d gone and deduced you to a fucking groupie of all things. There was nothing wrong with following a band around, of course, but he knew that in this business (the business being rock and metal music), women were already so mistreated and underrepresented.

He hadn’t quite caught wind of the fact that being labeled as a groupie was potentially harmful to girls; it’d been a genuine question, nothing born out of sexism or anything like that. His words were coming back to sink its teeth into his jugular now as he stared at you, though. You weren’t fixing anyone’s hair or running around doing assistant duties (whatever that meant) or even watching from the crowd. No, you were standing center-stage and shredding like a Hendrix-Hammett-Page reincarnate, head bent back with your face towards the sky as the crowd went nuts. 

He was royally fucked now. Not only had he grossly assumed a girl backstage was a groupie but he’d done it to the literal frontwoman of the headliner: the only reason Corroded Coffin even nailed this opportunity in the first place. He wanted nothing more than to turn back time or to vanish into thin air but he forced himself to stay there and watch the entire set. He didn’t cower and hide in the van out back, he didn’t try to ignore the loud music, nor did he make himself forget about his insane mistake. He stood in it like a man and boy, was he glad that he did.

Your band was impressive. And not just because you were cool and super hot. The music was eclectic: a cheeky mix of heavy rock, metal, and some softer styles that reminded Eddie of the old folk and country tunes Wayne would play at home. It was the type of sound and performance that made him wonder how he’d never heard of you guys before booking this gig. He even blew a decent chunk of his recent paycheck on a tape and a bandana with the band’s logo at the merch booth before the encore even came around and by the time you actually did finish up the night with a cover of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, he was no longer overwhelmed with guilt and remorse. No, he was now a man on a mission. The mission being redemption. 

☆☆☆☆☆

You’d barely had time to clear your head before the backstage erupted into the routinely hectic process that was load-out. Curfew wasn’t for another hour and a half but this venue liked to be efficient and ahead of schedule, hence the push for clearing all the equipment and merchandise out of the building as soon as possible. You were still coming down from the high of another show well done as you hauled varied equipment out towards the dock, listening to but not really engaging with your bandmates that talked like it was an olympic sport. You’d become a pro at tuning them out while not getting caught and it was working like a charm until you clunked the amp in your arms down into the backseat of your rusted Buick. You turned on your heel to collect the fleet of guitars and whatnot you still had to pack up just to nearly run into an all too familiar metalhead; Eddie. 

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” 

“Not your fault, mine. You guys need any help packing up? We got a head start and loaded most of our stuff earlier.” 

“Um…sure, why not? I’ve just got my guitars and pedalboard left but I’m sure they’ve got the kit and stuff to conquer still.” 

“Sweet. Lead the way, m’lady.” 

He gestured forward in the direction of the building and you granted him a meek nod, doing as he said so he wouldn’t see the clear flattery in your features. It was subtle but there: added pink in your nose and ears, sparkling eyes, and a smile that wouldn’t quit. It was like you were next to Lenny Kravitz, your all-time celebrity crush, with the way your heart pounded from friendly conversation with this guy. He was nice, had killer taste, even cooler hair, and to describe him as drop dead gorgeous would’ve been an understatement. You barely knew him, duh, but this was the first guy you’d met at a show that wasn’t a total piece of garbage so, yeah, maybe you were crushing a little too hard in a delusional way. So sue you!

“Oh, I also wanted to uh apologize…about earlier. For calling you a groupie, I mean.” 

Like a real life record-scratching moment, you jerked your head in his direction and stopped mid-stride just short of the back door. He’d called you a groupie? Fucking when? And more importantly, why?!

“Y…you did that?” 

“Yeah. Well, I assumed you were a groupie turned friend cuz you were doing Ryder’s hair and…doesn’t matter. Shit call by me, I’m kind of a moron sometimes…all the time.” 

“Oh…d…don’t worry about it. I didn’t even catch it so no harm no foul.” 

You took a moment to pause your speech then you kept walking again. You weren’t offended, being called a groupie was actually super kind in comparison to the things guys usually said about you around here. You weren’t the biggest fan of the word but something about Eddie was extremely authentic, refreshingly so, and you felt more respected than anything in some odd way. He meant what he said and had no problem speaking his mind even if it was for something like this; taking accountability. 

“Plus, we all have our moments of uh…unintelligence. I had like six fuck ups just tonight, it makes us human, right?” 

“Yeah. Sounds nicer when you put it that way. I didn’t notice any of your fuck ups, for the record. You guys killed that.” 

He spoke in a much softer manner than he had earlier. You weren’t sure if it was because it was just the two of you or if it was all in your head. Irregardless, it made you giddy. 

“Really? Good, that’s relieving. I psych myself out alot.”

“Don’t we all? I thought my B string was gonna snap clean off during our last song but it’s a trooper.” 

You tried to keep it in. You really, really did. You didn’t want this guy to know how much of an obnoxious nerd you were (yet) but some higher power (that’s who you blamed, anyway) skipped over your insecurity and before you knew it, you were humming The Trooper clear as day because of the simple reference that wasn’t actually a reference at all. By the time you realized, horror flooded all of your senses but then you glanced at him and you heard it. Your humming had some harmonies with it, harmonies coming from him as he hummed with equal contentedness.  

Fuck, you were going to be a puddle by the end of this. 

As load-out carried on and as the venue’s fans, security, ushers, and bartenders filtered out to go their own way, you never stopped talking to Eddie. Your bandmates were shocked to see you so buddy-buddy with a practical stranger and Eddie’s bandmates were shocked to see him not choking around a girl. Nobody commented on it or even dreamed of interrupting, however.

You both formed an invisible box around yourselves to discuss the show, guitars, your favorite DIO record, why you thought KISS was overrated, the new thrift store that had just opened nearby, and anything else that came to mind. You both matched one another’s chaotically mild flow, which made the hours feel like minutes. The two of you were in your own, sort of perfect world, but it came crashing down when Ryder’s annoying voice ripped apart your ongoing debate: Metallica vs Megadeth. 

“Dude, we gotta hit the road! Some of us have a shift in the morning.” 

He was impatiently sitting on the hood of your car, arms crossed and legs dangling like he was a cranky toddler. He sort of was a lot of the time. You groaned and regretted the agreement you’d made earlier to bring him home. Of course he could sleep with any and every girl who squealed over his stupid keyboard solos but the minute you talked to a guy, it became a roadblock. Asshole. 

“Duty calls, I guess. If he doesn’t get his beauty sleep, it’s armageddon for the whole band. Uh…it was nice meeting you and the guys, Eddie. Let us know if you have another gig or something comin’ up. We’d be happy to come show our support.”

Eddie was equally as bitter about the fact that your conversation was being brought to an abrupt end but he concealed it better, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket in search of something. His heart thundered so loud that he wondered if you could hear it while he did so but he knew he’d only kick himself for eternity if he didn’t grow the balls to do this.

“Yeah, for sure! The same to you guys. And uh before you leave…”

You watched him pull a pick from his jacket. It was plain black, probably a Dunlop if you had to guess. With his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth, he scribbled something on it with a silver-hued pen that had also been floating around in his jacket. He eventually capped the pen then blew on the pick to dry the ink, handing it to you carefully. 

“In case you wanna uh…continue our debate or something.” 

A phone number, his phone number, stared back up at you in slanted handwriting once you took it from him and you failed to fight the big ol’ grin that bloomed onto your face. Breathless, you nodded and gripped it between your thumb and index finger like it was worth all the money in the universe. 

“For sure. Thanks, Eddie. I’ll…I’ll call you.” 

“Lookin’ forward to it. Uh…I never caught your name.” 

“Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.” 

“Y/N. Gotcha” 

He repeated it to test how it felt in his mouth. It rolled around his tongue, swam through his gums, and danced across every tooth like a ballerina. He liked how it felt. He liked it a whole lot. 

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you later, thanks for opening up tonight!” 

“Sure thing! And hey!” 

You paused at his sudden call right outside the driver’s side door, boots crunching in the gravel while Ryder pouted from the passenger’s seat since you’d finally unlocked the thing. An expression you couldn’t quite read, one that mixed joy with other things that were too subtle to understand, sat on his face as he cupped his hands around his loud mouth. 

“If that Type O tour turns out to be true, we’re going! Tickets are on me!” 

“Really?! I’ll hold you to it!”

“Oh, trust me! I’m counting on that!” 

[hopelessmidwesterner]

----------♡

Eddie is always touching you, he couldn't help it. The moment he became your boyfriend he made sure his hands never left you.

Finger laced into the belt loop of your jeans pulling your back to his chest so that he can rest his hands against the groove of your waist -maybe even slide them underneath the soft fabric of his your shirt so he can feel the heat of your skin against his palms- while waiting in line at the grocery store; he rest his chin on the top of your head letting the smell of your shampoo make his head spin with thoughts of only you. "You smell nice."

Man-spreading so that his knee would press into yours while the two of you hang out with friends, the fabric of his ripped jeans rubs your knee while he wraps his arm around your shoulders pulling your body closer to him because "You're too far away."

Very rarely do you allow him to shower with you because when he does he's too busy pressing himself against you, arms wrapped tightly around your torso or hands greedily pawing at your hips, instead of washing his messy mane of hair like you told him to. No matter the amount you scolded him in how often he got distracted or how he distracted you it went in one ear and out the other. "You shouldn't look so pretty then- It makes it hard to focus."

Cooking dinner with him home was a chore. He drapes himself along your back letting his body weight drop onto you, forcing you to hold him up while you mix something in a pot. When you grumble in annoyance he just smiles against your neck pursing his lips every once in a while to place loving kisses against your warm skin, enjoying the sound of your voice, in which he deemed it angelic, even as you chastise him again.

He just can't help how much he absolutely adores you, sometimes still in disbelief that someone as beautiful as you, inside and out, wanted to be his girlfriend and he knows that, even though you complain and nag at him, you love that he can't help wanting to touch you. He catches the small grin that etches itself across your face when he holds you in the shower or when you cook and he notices the way you hook your pinkie finger into the belt loop of his jeans as he snakes his arms around you in stores or when your hanging out with friends.

So, he'll always make sure his hands are on you, because he loves the way you grumble all without telling him to stop.

[hopelessmidwesterner]

reblog if women with swords

[hopelessmidwesterner]

[through tears] yeah i remain whimsical

[hopelessmidwesterner]

me in my head at the supermarket: nobody is ever going to fucking love me. omg 25% off

[hopelessmidwesterner]

[hopelessmidwesterner]

[hopelessmidwesterner]

This blog isn’t for fame, it’s for feeling.

[hopelessmidwesterner]