#Angela Dust

[benveydraws]

i can close my eyes, and let the things i can't change stay that way.

[trainingdummyrabbit]

about 5 seconds from spinning an entire barely-genre-adjacent au just because ikeep thinking abt Characters too hard

anyway angela and roland on the worlds longest, shittiest road trip to Nowhere

[lurking-lilibeth]

And that's day 28 for the Pleasants.

[xxdustnight88]

Stranded for the Night

Rated: Teen & Up Pairing: Gregory Goyle & Angela Weber Universes: Harry Potter, Twilight Word Count: 815 Summary: Angela takes pity on a stranger. It could be a mistake or one of the best decisions of her life. Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34236676 FFN Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14021191/1/Stranded-for-the-Night

[neurodiversebones]

so now that i finished that wip i can start a new one right . i definitely don't have FIVE fics in progress i can start a new one .

[blueywrites]

I Will Wait

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness

18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader

one (9.9k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes

in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. if you didn't check out the prequel publications (hot off the press on our series masterlist), make sure you do, since they provide important backstory for the IWW universe! read them carefully; there are secrets. 😉

Your mind is a buzzing whirl, just like that of the streets of New York City below, visible through the thick glass of your apartment window. Below, where you can hear the blare of honking horns, can see people loitering on the side of the road, hands waving high in an attempt to hail one of the taxis rushing past. You watch as people dart across busy intersections, dodging oncoming cars, scattering like ants across criss-crossed streets that teem with activity even in the dead of night.

It’s a constant, a comfort, something you can cling to as anticipation bubbles and wells in your gut. 

Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent; glowing bright skies begin to deepen into a powdery orange, hinting at a day starting to close. Your fingers press against the window, a mental note already forming to clean it once you step away, eyes peering out into the bustling city streets. You work your way down the mental list once more: dishes washed, already set aside in the drying rack; laundry ironed and folded, pressed neatly into your drawers in categorical order; counters wiped down, shades dusted, furniture polished; dishwasher emptied, cups, plates, bowls and utensils placed in proper cabinets; AOL inbox checked, your confirmation for the time you would be meeting your new boss responded to, while the rest of the emails were placed into proper folders or deleted completely.

You’ve already changed your outfit three times. Laid multiple options out on your bed and ironed them all. You had held them to your body in the reflection of your bedroom mirror and tossed them into a heap at the foot of your bed. This wasn’t just any day, after all. The importance isn’t lost on you. This isn’t like any of your temp jobs that came before it. This is the first you’ll be working alongside someone with undeniable notoriety in the music space. 

A celebrity, really. 

“I can see your mind working, you know?” Angela, your roommate, glances up from where she sits at your kitchen island. There’s a magazine in front of her with some likely-falsified article about the newest Hollywood “IT” couple on display, dressed to the nines with glowing, airbrushed features. Her nails tap along the countertop, stark red against pale cream, as she arches a brow in your direction.

You’re already walking into the kitchen to join her, skirt sliding against your tight-clad thighs as you reach down beneath the sink to grab a bottle of windex, sights set on the fingerprints on your floor-to-ceiling windows. She twists in the chair while you rustle about, ignoring her as you grasp paper towels from the rack.

“This is a good thing,” she says, sighing with an exasperated shake of the head. Your reflection obscures for a brief moment, replaced by blue spray, before you wipe your lingering prints away. “You’ve wanted to travel for so long. You know, see the world and all of that. This is your opportunity to do it. And shit, it beats working for that asshat you used to deal with. What was his name again?” 

You slip back into the kitchen to throw the towel away, heels clacking against tile. “Carver,” you reply, just as the lid to the garbage falls closed. You lean back against the countertop, smoothing your sweaty palms along the sides of your skirt. “Pretty sure anyone would be better than him. I still can’t believe that Mr. Harrington came to the office looking to mitigate all that tension between Mr. Munson and Jason by trying to partner up Carver Distilleries and Corroded Coffin for a commercial, and Jason went and ruined it by running his mouth. I wish you could have seen it, Ange. Mr. Harrington was so disgusted with how he behaved, he extinguished the deal completely right there in his office.”

“Exactly, because even he knows that man is vile,” she sighs with a pout, her form slipping down from off of one of your shoddy barstools, curly blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she walks. You snort when her hands curl around your forearms, shaking you lightly. “What did your new boss say? Something about you being more than equipped to handle this position? Didn’t he, oh I don’t know, request you specifically for his client? You’re going to be fine; in fact, you’re going to be wonderful. If there’s anyone in this world who can handle the notorious Eddie Munson, I think it’s you.”

With a newly restored confidence, you set to the bustling streets of Manhattan, sights poised on the recording studio address you were given. You thought your first day might start with something akin to an office introduction. Something, at the very least, a little less imposing than this. But you double checked your email from Mr. Harrington before you left and printed the directions that now sat clutched tight within your hands. 

The building that stands before you at the end of your trek looms arresting and proud in the midst of the bodies swarming around you. Your eyes lift hesitantly to the glass door, your mirrored reflection leaping back at you. Angela’s words ring true in your ears; you are more than adequately equipped. You wouldn’t be invited here if it were not fate itself beckoning at your door. With a resigned exhale, your fingers twine around the cool, metal handle and step inside. 

Schmackin’ Records is a world unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. From the moment your feet hit the mat at the front door, company logo etched into it, you know you’re no longer sitting at the front desk of Carver Distilleries. Your head tilts upward to the records dangling from the ceiling, then lower to the endless sprawling walls littered with posters boasting of accolades achieved by the success of the artists that have roamed these halls. You’re struck with the realization that you’re standing in the shadows of legends that have also trailed this path before you. 

This— this place and this moment, are your current reality. 

“You wouldn’t happen to be the new assistant, would you?” The woman at the front desk catches your attention. Your head whirls, fingers slipping from where they rest along a glass case affixed to the wall, proclaiming a recently obtained platinum record. Her face softens at your visible nervousness. “Sorry to scare you, dear.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine! I’m… ah, I’m actually here to meet with Mr. Steve Harrington. He gave me this address….” You hold aloft the directions in your hand, heart dancing in your chest as your heeled shoes propel you over to where she sits behind a glass panel. The woman before you glimpses down at your directions printed from MapQuest with a pitying grin, her head bobbing before her fingers clack away on her keyboard. 

“That’s right! Hold on one moment, sweetie.” You open your mouth to speak as she lifts a phone from its receiver and dials a number quickly. You can faintly hear a voice on the other end. “Mr. Harrington? Yes, this is Joyce speaking. Mr. Munson’s new assistant is here looking for you… okay— yes, that’s fine. Thank you, yes— I’ll let her know. Goodbye.” 

Your legs plant beneath you firmly, shoulders ramrod straight, head tilted up in anticipation of your new role. Joyce only resumes in her typing, head tilted down toward her computer screen, leaving you to simmer alone in the tense silence. 

“Mr. Harrington will meet you on floor five. Just take that elevator down this hall on your left,” she says, head lifting abruptly from her work. 

“Thank you!” 

Somehow, the directions only bring you more nervousness. The knowledge that all that stands before you and your new role is five floors. A short elevator ride. Merely a few moments in time remain stretched between you and the catapult into a lifestyle you’ve only seen on television prior to this opportunity. 

Your shoes clack against the laminate flooring, a foreboding tap tap tap as you shuffle your way down the short hallway and press the call button for your elevator. The doors open with a soft ping, heart ricocheting against your ribcage as you step inside and the silver metal closes behind you. Hesitant fingers raise to press the number five, the circle bursting to life and illuminating your selection. You step into the center of the room, hands clasped at your side, eyes ahead of you on your distorted reflection upon the surface. 

You settled on a simple outfit for the day. Something pristine and professional. A thin black long-sleeved shirt, pale gray tweed skirt, black tights, and dark heels. Simple and understated, though still maintaining your own preferences for stylistic choices. Those same clothes cling to you now. Your tights suddenly seem too tight, heels increasingly pinchy around the back of your heel, skirt prickly and coarse against your thighs, the neck of your sweater digging into your throat. You’re parched, though you doubt any amount of water would assist you now. 

The door opens to reveal sprawling wooden walls, as well as the figure of Steve Harrington standing before you in a pair of slacks and a simple button up. He looks exceedingly kind just as he did the first time you met him. Dark, depthless eyes with a wide grin spread across finely hewn features. His fingers card through his hair as you step out to greet him, hand coming to extend before you at the ready. 

“You’re here! Oh, thank god.” He shakes your hand briefly and nudges you toward the opening of a hallway, those endless panels of wooden walls surrounding you on either side. The voice that spills from him in a rush is a frantic murmur of, “I’m sorry to have contacted you on such notice. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble—”

“Oh, not at all, Mr. Harrington,” you interrupt, swallowing thickly as he pauses in stride. “Sorry.”

“No, no. Please, call me Steve. Mr. Harrington is what people call my father,” he says, smiling softly. There’s a comfort in his gaze, a warmth that oozes from him. The tightness in your chest loosens, a deep breath pouring out. “We’ve… well, his last assistant quit abruptly, you see, and therefore we were obviously left with no notice. So when you said you could start as soon as possible, it was almost a godsend.”

Your hands grip tighter to the band of your pocketbook draped over your shoulder, leather still cool from the afternoon air. “I’m here for whatever you need, Mr. Ha— Steve.”

The hallway leads to a door, dark and imposing, with a wide silver handle. His fingers curl around it and hesitate, head turning over his shoulder to gauge your expression. The worrying of your lip pauses, teeth releasing from their tense position against your skin. Your mouth quirks upward into a hopeful smile, willing those nerves bubbling to subside. 

“What exactly have you heard about Eddie Munson?” he asks you. 

You know he’s not expecting a true answer. Not really. You’ve done minimal research. A quick Yahoo search brings up more articles than you know what to do with in reference to the infamous Eddie Munson. Most of which had brought you to pages detailing his altercation at the Grammy Awards in 1994 and the numerous escapades he’s gotten himself into in the course of his still newly established stardom, as well as his whirlwind romance with his wife. 

“Not much,” you admit, and while it is the truth, Steve seems to deflate a bit. 

His shoulders drop, hand coming to run through that full head of dark hair on him once more. That easy demeanor shifts, mouth turning southward. “Eddie is… he means well. He’s just— well, he’s gone through a few assistants in the past few months, as you know. In the few years I’ve known him, I can tell you with certainty he is dedicated to his craft, but he tends to veer into the wilder aspects of life. What he needs right now is someone who can handle him, and I truly believe that person is you.”

You feel your stomach drop. Initially, when Steve had offered you the position, he boasted of a fast-paced role that required adaptability. Your previous job had been nothing but back to back phone calls, fielding all the incoming clients and their questions, managing the schedules of your manager, and ensuring all issues were handled accordingly. 

Babysitting a rockstar hadn’t exactly been on your agenda; yet even despite all of that, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity and had accepted the job offer. 

“And the others?” you question, hand coming to rub along your bicep.

“I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “You handled Carver. Eddie should be a breeze.”

Carver Distilleries was not your ideal job, but it was the job you acquired shortly after a brief stint as an administrative assistant for a local community college. The company touted a prolific background of over thirty years in business and you jumped at the prospect. It had been straightforward enough most days. The phones rang around the clock and you handled the calls as expected, passed them off to their proper channels, and made sure the son of the CEO was happy at all times. 

Jason Carver was, to put it lightly, the devil’s incarnate. Most days you wondered if he’d been placed in this life for the sole purpose of bringing suffering to all those around him, with a pitchfork in one hand and tail swishing behind him as he stomped through the halls of the building. 

You couldn’t recall off the top of your head a day wherein he had ever been happy. Shockingly so for someone born from wealth and thrusted into the limelight, silver spoon in mouth at birth. Jason was proof that money hardly ever solved all problems.

He reigned as the crowned Prince of the company, his father’s shining star, who never raised his finger to do anything. For years, he rode on the back of his father’s coattails and treated those around them like they were beneath him, nose always upturned, sneer firmly planted on his face. 

That evening you were already overwhelmed. There was an issue down in the marketing department regarding a mixup in schedules, leaving the Carver’s seated next to a family they didn’t particularly have positive dealings with at an upcoming gala. To add to the rising tension, Jason sent you on an errand to retrieve his requested cappuccino. Light foam, two sugars, extra hot. When you’d returned, he was still in a meeting with some of his fathers business executives, hidden behind a glass door. You left the cup for him there, as requested of you, and rushed back to the front desk just as Mr. Steve Harrington walked into the building. 

He’d come in looking like any other businessman you’d seen grace the building in the past. Perfectly tailored suit and tie, briefcase in hand, hair coiffed neatly atop his head. Steve Harrington, though young, harnessed a professionalism about him that Jason Carver lacked. There were no sneers aimed your way as he approached the desk and greeted you pleasantly, nor did he scoff at the hand you’d extended in greeting, welcoming him with a soft thanks. 

“Mr. Carver is just finishing up another meeting and will be out to retrieve you,” you advise him, walking out from behind your desk. “Would you like coffee, water… tea?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” he says, holding his briefcase tighter within his palm as he made his way over to the small couch positioned across from you, nestled beside a potted plant. You retreated back to your desk as he pulled a phone from his pocket, voice rising just enough to ask, “Do you happen to have—”

“What is this?!” Jason’s voice boomed from down the hall. 

A loud thump echoed from his office, likely from something he’d tossed off his desk in frustration, and you knew well enough to duck behind the covering of your work space. You frantically thumbed the spacebar on your computer to bring it back to life, assuring everyone in your vicinity that you appeared occupied as a shock of blonde hair filled your peripheral. He’d bursted into the room with the dejected coffee in hand, hair strewn about messily atop, eyes narrowed in heedless anger. 

Your eyes flickered to the cup, then settled back on the opened email on your desktop computer. The subject line held a request for a flower arrangement you were set to purchase for Jason’s wife, Chrissy, because he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself. 

You let out a soft sigh and explained, “It’s the coffee you asked for.”

His nostrils flared like a bull, the embers burning behind his eyes glowing brighter. “I know it’s the coffee I asked for. I don't pay you to answer me with that sarcastic bullshit—”

“Mr. Carver—” The rise of your voice caught you both off guard, only further angering him. 

His eyes narrowed, brows knitted tight across the middle of his forehead, vein pulsing against taut skin growing redder by the second. “I asked for a cappuccino with light foam, two sugars, and asked that you make sure it’s extra hot. This isn’t extra hot. This isn’t even warm. It’s cold.”

“Yes, Mr. Carver. It was hot when I left it on your desk two hours ago. Would you like me to go and get you another one?” You try your best to retain a neutral tone. You’re aware of Steve’s eyes trailing along both your forms, interrupted from his own work by your increasingly heated argument. 

He barked out an incredulous laugh, head shaking. “No, I don't want you to get me another coffee. You should have known my meeting would run long and planned accordingly. I don’t know where you get the nerve to talk to me like you are when you seem to have forgotten you are no more than a rece—”

“Mr. Carver.” You both paused at the finality of your tone, throat filled with the bitter taste of the degradation he attempted to throw your way. “Your two thirty meeting for the Tennessee Maple Whiskey commercial is here.”

He clicked his tongue, shooting a glower your way. You already anticipated a meeting in his office later wherein he reminded you of all the reasons why your behavior was unacceptable and why you were lucky to still have a position at Carver Distilleries. 

“Fine. Mr. Harrington, give me one moment and I will call you back into my office. I just need to finish running something by my father. As for you—” His eyes darted back to your form. “—I will deal with you later.”

You exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as the blonde haired man sauntered back down the hall, leaving you to the comfort of your generally quiet front desk. Steve still lingered there, one hand curled around his phone, the other lifting the briefcase he held off his lap to set it in the seat beside him. You watched as he rose to his feet and dropped his phone within his pocket, gliding over to your desk with a small white card in hand. 

You didn’t need to read the words there to know what he’d slid across your desk. It was an instantaneous understanding, the knowledge of a new opportunity, of a way out from beneath the weight of the man who wanted nothing more than to rule with an iron fist and remind others that they were all beneath him. 

He glanced briefly down the hall to ensure no one was listening and leveled his gaze with yours, voice a quieted whisper as he said, “You work well under pressure. Carver is… well, Carver’s an ass. I can offer you more money, if you happen to be looking for another job. You could travel the world working for me instead of sitting behind this desk. Let me know.” 

Standing before Steve, you feel the questions swirling of the validity of the hope he’d placed inside of you. Had it been premature? He’d only seen one encounter between your prior manager and yourself. That was hardly enough to base a whole career off of, and yet his fingers tighten around the door handle all the same, ready to pull it forward and open you up to a world of newness beckoning you. 

Your sweaty palms slide down the sides of your tweed skirt, fabric rustling about your thighs as you step nearer to the door, hardening your resolve. 

It’s now or never, you suppose. 

“Remember,” Steve warns, just as you move to step inside the recording studio. “He means well. I should also warn that he can tend to be a little… flirtatious. But I would try and pay it no mind. You’re going to be great.”

The room inside is grandiose. Roof to floor wooden paneling shrouds everything in a honey warmth. There are a couple of couches near the far wall, one of which seemingly occupied, and a coffee table that sits in front of it. You catch the slow glug of a water dispenser in the distance, nearest to a coffee station in preparation of the long night that lies ahead of you all. To your right is an open closet, then further still a bathroom. The room itself is dim, lights adjusted for a cozier feel. Intimate and fitting for the tracks that are to be laid today. 

The same room, previously full of echoing laughter and vibrant conversation, fizzles into deafening silence as Steve leads you into the room, calling out, “Guys, there’s someone I'd like you to meet!” The announcement has every eye in the room darting your way, faces drawn tight to get a sight of the newest visitor. Only you’re not a visitor, because one of these men is about to be your new client. Steve turns to you then, hand lightly brushing your shoulder to nudge you forward as he says, “This right here is the new assistant, Y/N.”

A round of introductory greetings reach your ears, your voice full of certainty as you return them. “It’s great to finally meet you all.” However, you’ve yet to capture the elusive image of your client, as two of the band members stand closely together, obscuring him from your direct field of view.

Steve continues, “This is Gareth Parsons, drummer of Corroded Coffin.”

The first of the group steps forward. His shaggy head of brown hair flops as he moves, reaching forward with an extended hand in greeting. The warmth of his palm fills the space within your own, squeezing lightly. You feel a little bit of that boiling tension dissipate, the weight on your chest at the notion of a room full of new people unintentionally judging you lightening. 

His voice is kind, edged with humor as he says teasingly, “Nice to finally meet Eddie’s new babysitter.”

The next band member makes himself known. He has dark skin, dark hair and lovely brown eyes, full of a kindness that has your mind easing further. Those same comforting eyes flash quickly to his bandmate, a stern flicker of his warm gaze resting on Gareth’s, the latter of the two huffing from his nose.  

“Behave,” Jeff warns, voice a low murmur that has Gareth resigning to his defeat. That warm hand releases from your own and he steps back enough into the fold of the remaining members to allow Jeff to step forward. “The name’s Jeff. I’m on rhythm guitar and synth. It’s so nice to meet you.” He flashes you a white smile, and you can’t help the grin that blooms across your features at his easy acceptance of your presence. 

“Thank you,” you say, truly grateful that the first two introductions have thus far proceeded smoothly. “Both of you.”

Seemingly pleased with how things are processing, Steve clears his throat. “So that’s Jeff, who you’ve now met. And then you’ve got Harry, who would be the bassist of Corroded Coffin.”

Harry steps forward, his hulking frame shadowing your own, to shake your hand. You lock your hand within his and he opens his mouth to work over the words he’s going to say when a voice cuts through the silence. 

“The name is Harry Cox. And if you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll show it to you.”

“Eddie, fuckin’ really?” Jeff asks brusquely, whirling around in the Eddie Munson’s direction.

You’re not sure what to expect as the men shift and separate, bodies moving one by one to reveal the figure that’s so far remained hidden from your view. In theory, you’ve seen pictures of him. One would have to be living under a rock to not have come across a photograph of Eddie Munson somewhere. The infamous photo of the men standing around you, dated back to when they were teenagers, boyish frames huddled together in the halls of their high school before they had skyrocketed to fame at a trajectory no one ever anticipated; the clippings from not so flattering headlines showing his swift rise and downfall, leaving him on thin ice; the photos documenting his hasty nuptials to his actress wife. However, none of those compare to the intimidating figure that commands the presence of everyone around him as your hesitant eyes clash with his beneath the dark shroud of his sunglasses. 

Your eyes settle on the dark swath of ripped jeans over coltish limbs. Black material stretches tight over sinewy muscle, thighs splayed out in front of him, scuffed Doc Martens thrown carelessly against the cherry wood of the coffee table. Your eyes start the slow crawl upward, tracking along black shirt stretched over his broad chest, with an equally dark leather jacket hugging his biceps. His arms rest over the top of the couch, a confident sprawl of elongated limbs against plush cushions. His face is almost feline, predatory and intimidating, most of the upper portion of his face obscured by those aviator sunglasses. The parts you can see are striking: lengthy, wavy hair that falls to his shoulders, soft and feathery against the leather jacket; those long fingers adorned with silver rings pushed flush against knuckles, broad hands covered in intricate tattoos; the pale skin over high cheekbones, an indent on his cheek that hints at a dimple if he weren't looking your way in disdain; full lips, soft nose, and the slightest hint of shadow along his jaw. 

The Eddie Munson portrayed in the tabloids Angela had showed you over the years pales in comparison to the man that sits before you. This man oozes presence— owns this sort of magnetism that pulls the attention onto him in the center of the room with the mere sound of his voice. 

“And that would be Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist for Corroded Coffin,” Steve explains, the arresting presence of the man sitting on the couch in front of you rooting you in place. 

Gareth coughs out a quiet, “Resident douche.” 

Jeff shoots him another scathing look. It’s enough of a distraction to draw your attention away from your new client, uneasy laughter welling up from you. Your stare drifts momentarily to Steve, his warm smile easing your tension, hand unfurling in front of him. The gesture has you faltering, understanding his intent is for you to make a proper introduction. 

You shuffle your way toward the man, disregarding the way he barely even acknowledges your presence within the room. He’s not once moved, back pressing further into the curve of couch cushions, eyes peering up over at you through the top of his sunglasses. Dark and depthless, an endless swirl of ink, devoid of any emotion that might give you insight into how he thinks this initial meeting is going. You hear it then in the vestiges of your mind. A soft howl, nearly imperceptible—the whisper of wind in the distance, echoing in your ears. A warning, an insinuation of something to come. Still, your hand stretches into the spaces between you, left to linger in the open air.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Munson.” Your voice remains firm— unwavering, despite the fact that he dismisses your hand.

Jeff scoffs from beside you, head shaking slightly as his foot comes to shove Eddie’s off of where they rest against the wooden surface. They hit the ground with a dull thud, though Eddie’s posture remains lax, facade unwavering. “She’s talking to you.”  

Eddie remains silent for a time, those dark eyes sliding up over the top of his sunglasses, voice hollow as he mutters, “You can call me ‘Sir.’” It’s innocent enough until the corners of his lips tug into a salacious smirk, fingers moving to push his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose, head tipping upward a bit so he’s now level with your unrelenting stare. You worked with Jason long enough to understand this game, the ploy to see if you’ll break at the first sight of tension, and you’re not falling into that trap now. 

You take a step closer, hand hovering in air untouched, voice unyielding. “I’ll call you Mr. Munson, or Eddie. Take your pick.” 

Gareth chuckles at your left, but your eyes remain focused on Eddie in your battle of stares. Him, veiled through darkened lenses, and you in your refusal to grant him the satisfaction of looking away for even one moment and admitting defeat. You hear that soft howling again, a quiet whir in your ears, just as Steve claps his hands and a new man enters from the recording room, voice slicing the strained silence. “This right here is Argyle. He’s the producer and sound engineer working on this project. Today, the guys will be laying down the tracks for their latest album, so you’ll be here to take care of anything Eddie might need in the interim.” 

Your head turns, breath catching at the unexpected arms that loop around your shoulder, fingers reaching up to press against the hawaiian print on his shirt, those long strands of his dark hair smooth beneath your fingertips. He steps back to take you in, head bobbing animatedly as he says, “Nice to meet you, my dude—dudette. I’m the king of this music castle here. Can’t say I’ll be of much assistance, but if you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.” His greeting concluded, Argyle meanders back over to his seat again, contentedly rocking the swivel chair back and forth with his feet.

There’s a sudden creak of leather that draws your attention; Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the waves as his gaze darts from you to Eddie, who’s now rising from the couch. Eddie cracks his neck to the side, finally pulling off the aviators and dropping them haphazardly to the coffee table, where they skitter before meeting the magazine stack beside you. You push the top one back into place with the tip of your finger.

“Call me if you need me,” your boss says, one broad hand landing on Argyle’s shoulder, crinkling the Hawaiian print. “Good luck,” he mutters, patting him twice before moving toward the studio door.

You aren’t sure who Steve had been wishing luck to, but since his parting words don’t seem to phase the producer, you figure they must have been meant for you. 

The heavy door thumps closed after him, echoing through the silent room. You can feel almost everyone's eyes on you— the outlier, the new variable in this equation, the only one here who doesn't have a pre-existing role in the narrative. As your gaze darts from one man to another in the span of that brief silence, you see a variety of expressions: curiosity, pleasantness, neutrality. But only one expression truly matters, and of course, unfortunately, it’s the expression of the only man whose gaze is averted as if reluctant to acknowledge you.

You take a moment to study your client now that you can clearly see his face, and what you see does not fill you with confidence. Eddie Munson's eyes are large and brown and framed by long, soft lashes, but there is only hardness in his dark stare. The crinkled lines at their corners would be charming, but they're wrinkled in a critical squint, not with a smile. Instead, though his lips are plush and pink, they're twisted in a faint sneer as he gazes at the plexiglass of the recording room, decidedly away from you.

He means well, Steve had said. But you can't help but think that this man doesn't look like he means anything but ill will towards you, his new assistant. Despite the welcome from others around you, it's making those new-job jitters deepen.

In the middle of your examination, those dark eyes—very suddenly and unexpectedly— flick to yours.

It's an impact you couldn't have braced for. Instantly, a rush of prickling heat crawls up your spine as if Eddie is looking through you, past skin and bone and muscle, straight to your very center. It’s a look that pins you down, flays you open, leaving you entirely exposed in its disapproval.

Blessedly, because of the time you'd worked with Jason Carver, you have perfected your customer service poker face. There is no outward appearance of your inward reaction, aside from the dampening of your palms; smoothly, you run them down textured tweed in the guise of fixing wrinkles before clearing your throat lightly.

It does the trick. The room, which had been suspended in silence following Steve's departure, suddenly stirs as Argyle spins in the chair to face you all fully, folding his hands over his belly. “Well, all right, brochachos,” he says, nodding slowly, his long curtain of black hair swaying as he does. “You ready to record some shit?”

"Fuck yeah, dude," Gareth answers immediately, pushing up from his knees, an enthusiastic smirk splitting his face as he leads the way to the recording room. Harry follows next, his hulking form shuffling from behind the coffee table. He pauses before reaching you as if he's afraid to enter your space; you shift quickly, moving closer to the coffee table to make more room as he fits himself around you. 

"'Scuse me," he mumbles, and the gentle baritone of his voice coupled with the tiny tinge of pink on his cheeks makes you smile. 

"No, I'm sorry," you're quick to assure him, "I was in the way." 

He smiles shyly back as he passes by you, pausing by the recording room door to let Jeff enter first.

Distracted as you were by the exchange, you’re hit with a tiny spike of panic when you realize Eddie has begun to follow them, seemingly with no intention to address you again. It would leave you adrift with no direction— no inkling at all of what you can do to assist him, especially as Argyle already said he won't be much help— and that makes you act hastily. Impulsively.

Your body tilts forward, jerking after him, and your hand flutters out of its own accord, stopping just shy from making contact with his jacketed elbow. Eddie stops abruptly as his eyes dart to you; he squints as his gaze flicks down to your outstretched fingers. Your cheeks heat as you feel almost chastised, but you don’t let your embarrassment show. Instead, you let your hand drop, looking evenly into his dark brown eyes as you ask, “How can I best assist you right now, Mr. Munson? Is there anything in particular you'd like me to do?”

His stare sharpens, plush lips curving in the whisper of a smirk. “You a fan, sweetheart?” He asks, voice gritty with smoke and a quiet smugness as if he already knows the answer. 

You keep Steve’s words in your mind, his warning about Eddie’s potential flirtatiousness. The shift— from thinly-veiled disdain to this— is jarring, but you figure it's probably meant to throw you off. “Of you or of Corroded Coffin?” you ask, expression carefully schooled to neutrality. Eddie's smirk tightens at the corners, grows a little more defined, but you continue before he can respond. “If I’m honest,” you tell him, “I’m not really well-acquainted with your music.”

His brows jerk, and when his eyes scan down your body before returning to yours, they’re narrowed again. “Let me guess. You’re a TLC girl? A little Backstreet Boys groupie?” 

There’s a heavy shade of judgment in his voice that tells you he isn’t really interested in learning the answer, only in confirming for himself that your musical taste leaves much to be desired. You can't deny that the implication rankles you. You bristle at the thought that he presumes to know you when you've only just met, that he considers you lacking before you've given any reason for him to. The injustice of it makes you rush hot again, but not with nerves— with irritation. 

Still, you maintain that mask of professionalism. You don’t let it show. “No,” you reply evenly, meeting his gaze dead-on, unhesitant and unashamed to share your preferences. “More like Smashing Pumpkins. Hole, too.” You ignore how his expression suddenly glints with salaciousness. “Though I do also appreciate harder stuff. Like Alice in Chains, for example,” you add, following it up with a small, polite smile. And it's true— you do appreciate some metal, despite it not being your go-to. It's not as though you don't like Corroded Coffin's music on principle.

But this answer doesn’t seem to excite him. Instead, Eddie’s sharp gaze dulls slightly as you refuse to play into his game. “Right,” he says, expression easing for the first time. “Well then, I do have something you can do for me, sweetheart.”

Pet name aside, it's the most pleasant he's sounded so far, and you brighten, having expected him to put up more resistance. Maybe all you needed to do was show that you were truly here to help him. 

"Okay," you say, face expectant as you await his instruction.

Eddie’s lips twitch up into a tiny, crooked smile. “You see that door over there?” He flicks his finger lazily toward one of two narrow doors on the far wall, set into the wood paneling. You nod obediently, and he leans in, eyes wide and brows tugged up, pitching his voice low and soft like he’s coaching you through something secretive. “Well, inside, there’s a box. A box of all our recordings. Yeah?” 

He waits until you nod again, a little more hesitantly this time. “What you can do for me is go in that box and listen to everything inside. Every album, every EP, every demo. Even the shitty garage recordings. Even the b-sides.” He pauses, tipping his chin down. And though he doesn't raise his voice, its softness sharpens to granite. “Because I’ll be goddamned if my personal assistant doesn’t even know my music.” 

Your face was too eager for him not to notice the way it falls, and Eddie straightens, putting distance between you as he stuffs his hands in his back pockets, elbows jutting in satisfaction. That ghost of a smirk returns as he pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, raising his chin and leveling you with one last look through his long, feathered lashes before he turns away.

His clear dismissal sinks into your chest, and you huff lightly through your nose, rushing with disappointment. Almost as if he can sense the crack in you, he whips back around abruptly; it startles you, and your spine straightens as you jerk to attention. “When we’re done recording, there’ll be a quiz,” he says, and the sharp smile on his face becomes a threat.

You can't help it— a bit of nervousness leaks through your expression then. That seems to finally please him, and Eddie releases you from his dark gaze as he, at last, joins his bandmates in the recording room. The sound of instruments tuning surges before the glass door thumps closed behind him, muffling to silence again.

Now left alone with your task assigned, you turn toward Argyle a little helplessly. He’s gazing at you with an absent smile on his face, still in the same position with his hands folded on his belly, seeming entirely unphased by the contentiousness of your new client. You exhale a quick breath, using it as a reset before asking him, “Can I get a pair of headphones and a Walkman or something?"

"Certainly, my little dudette." He points toward the same door Eddie had indicated. “There’s bound to be some somewhere in that closet.”

Lovely. You nod slowly, flashing a quick smile through pursed lips. “Thank you,” you say before turning and making your way over to help yourself.

The interior of the closet is lit by a single dangling lightbulb, and despite the polished fixings and thorough decor of the recording studio itself, this room is bare-bones in its furnishings. Metal shelving crowds the narrow walls, and the floor is plain poured concrete, barren compared to the plush rug in the lounge area. Your heels clack hollowly as you edge tentatively into the space, avoiding loose cords until you’re standing in the center of the tiny room, directly under the lightbulb. Your hands plant on your hips as you survey your surroundings: shelves and shelves of identical cardboard boxes, all unlabeled aside from an occasional errant number or acronym that means nothing to you, some stacked three high.

Of course.

It takes a good half an hour to finally uncover the correct box. Thankfully, though the labels on the outside are useless, the contents within are masking-taped with far more descriptive labels, written in a messy but still legible scrawl. When you open the box, seeing ‘CC’ on the top CD case feels promising, and a little shuffling reveals some hand-drawn album artwork complete with a coffin and bats that can't be for anyone other than Corroded Coffin. With the correct box secured, you pick your way back to the closet door, setting it down to begin your search for a Walkman, some headphones, and a tape player, since you’d seen a couple of loose cassettes in there, too.

You’re nothing if not thorough. No one can ever accuse you of not doing your job.

When you re-emerge from the closet, the recording room behind the plexiglass is not peaceful like you’d left it. It looks like a television set put on mute as you see Gareth’s hair whipping, Jeff’s shoulders swaying, Harry’s nose scrunched in a concentrated grimace, and Eddie’s lips hugging the mic, pink crawling up the base of his neck, its cords stretched tight with effort. You avert your eyes to Argyle, whose long straight curtain of ink-black hair sways with each bob of his head, his ears enveloped by an oversized pair of fancy headphones. Everyone seems to be moving in time with one another, rocking to a rhythm you can’t hear, and the utter silence in the room combined with those frenetic movements strikes you as comical as you carry your box and its contents over to the smaller couch, placing it on the cushion beside you.

As instructed, you dig out each CD and cassette, organizing them methodically in chronological order and choosing to begin with the oldest one. The faded marker on the front tells you it’s from 1986, and the marker’s haphazard scrawl matches the scrawl of sound that blares from the tape deck when you slip the headphones over your ears and depress the play button. The sound is tinny, echo-y as if it’d been recorded in someone’s garage. And you suppose it probably was. Judging by the year, you figure they were probably still in high school or not far from it when they recorded this.

The Corroded Coffin of 1986 is not particularly remarkable. The kick drum holding the beat isn’t quite precise enough, and the bass is somewhat sloppy. Not every transition is tight; sometimes a beat that should be synchronized is just a split second too soon or late, whether guitar-strum or cymbal-strike. But there’s an unmistakable energy to the sound— a fervor, an insistence that demands you pay attention. You can feel that pouring-out of teenage aggression through the growls and licks and chugging of the guitars, through the lyrics sung in that voice that, though it sounds higher and less smoky than the voice you’d heard from your client today, is still unmistakable Eddie. Corroded Coffin has something to say, and you can’t help but listen.

Your gaze drifts up to the plexiglass of the recording room. Your eyes see them as men, but your ears hear them as boys. And you can almost picture them in that garage, surrounded by brightly-striped lawn chairs and deflated pool floaties, youthful bodies jerking and swaying with no less enthusiasm than what you see before you now. When you think about it, it’s kind of touching to imagine them as young boys with nothing but a dream. Clearly, it took years of effort to become what they are now. You watch Eddie’s long-lashed eyes scrunch closed and his dark curls cling to the sides of his jaw with sweat, and a sense of wistfulness wells up inside you as you think of your client as that boy in the garage, a boy who didn’t know what he’d eventually make of himself.

You’ve only heard three songs before the play button pops up, signaling the end of the tape. Quickly, you move to the next two— more garage recordings, all short and sounding similar— before you’ve exhausted the cassettes and are ready to begin on the CDs. The first is marked as a demo from 1988, so you know it’ll likely be longer than what you’ve listened to thus far. You slip it into the player, settling back against the cushions as you begin, eyes wandering over the wood-paneled walls as you imagine Corroded Coffin recording it right here seven years ago.

It begins with the ticking of cymbals, the clatter of the snare, and the whine of a guitar. Much more polished than the garage recordings but so unmistakably eighties in its sound that you can’t help but feel your lips curl up in a little deprecating grin. Still, your foot bobs along, and you end up listening to half of it before your curiosity for more overwhelms you. You switch to their debut studio album, which is what that demo eventually became, and that same song— now track  begins the same way— the ticking of cymbals mixed with a snare’s clatter, but you recognize the difference immediately.

This— this— is Corroded Coffin.

Eddie’s voice is grittier and deeper, and the band is tighter, and the addition of those grinding metallic sounds and the electronic synth parts, which have clearly evolved past that stereotypical pop-eighties style, create something truly special. You’d been truthful before when you told Eddie that you hadn’t listened to much of his music, but now that you are, you find it genuinely enjoyable. 

Time passes. Argyle’s head bobs, the guys grow sweatier, and your foot steadily bobs until Pretty Hate Machine concludes. And you should move on to the next EP, but you instead find yourself skipping back, back, back until the disc whirls in a blur of muted blue and pink and the first track starts again. You close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in it until a muffled commotion of voices and thumps rouses you. It’s the guys exiting the recording room, chests heaving, shirts tacky against their chests, looking tired but pleased as they converge on Argyle in a tight circle. You watch their faces light up with smiles and eager chatter, smiling yourself as they seem all of a sudden more boyish for it. Even Eddie, whose visage was once marred with disdain for you, is grinning toothily; as the joy turns his dark eyes amber, you feel a tiny pang low in your stomach at the sight. 

Nuh-uh. None of that. 

It fades quickly under your quick dismissal, smothered by a reminder of the pride you take in your professionalism. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But he’s still your client, and nothing would change that.

Before long, the group around Argyle disperses. Gareth and Jeff wander towards the couches while Harry stops at the water cooler, gulping down two fills of the plastic cup dwarfed by his meaty hands. You quickly move the cardboard box beside you to the floor and pull the headphones from your ears as you watch Eddie divert from the path, heading back into the recording room without his bandmates.

“What’s he doing?” you ask Gareth as he flops down, sagging against the arm of the large couch across from you. He shakes his damp bangs out of his eyes, flicking sweat that narrowly misses you before he replies.

“He’s laying down the rest of the synth parts for the most recent track. We have to record it separately.” His lips tilt in a grin as he adds playfully, “Ed might be talented, but even he can’t sing and strum and play keys at the same time.”

You find your interest piqued as Eddie folds himself onto the bench behind the keyboard. “He doesn’t need a break?” You watch as he stretches his back with a grimace before shaking out his hands, ruddy fingers turning to a blur. 

Jeff just huffs out of his nose, drawing your gaze. His dark skin is shiny with the evidence of his exertion. “Oh, he needs a break,” he says, exasperated though his eyes are fond. “He just won’t take one.” 

“Yep,” Gareth adds, “He’s a stubborn bastard. Won’t stop ‘til it’s done.” Gareth and Jeff each accept a tiny plastic cup from Harry gratefully, and you shuffle closer to the couche’s arm to make room for him next to you. You tilt toward him as he sinks down carefully beside you, but it doesn’t draw your eyes. They’re stuck on Eddie, on the look on his face as he nods at Argyle: focused, as if his fatigue is nothing to him but an insect to be flicked away. Argyle nods back, tapping a button on the complex board of switches and sliders in front of him. As Eddie’s head begins to bob, you realize what they just recorded must be playing in that plexiglass box, silenced from your ears.

Before you can overthink it, you rise from the couch, the muffled thumps of your heels shifting from thick, plush rug to clack against wood. As you come up next to Argyle, he remains gazing evenly ahead, eyes never wavering as his head bobs in time with Eddie’s. You’re considering whether or not to interrupt him when, without looking at you, he asks mildly, “What can I do for you, brochacha?”

“Are you able to play it out loud?” 

Argyle glances at you then. “Alright,” he drawls, stretching out the word as if impressed. “You wanna hear the bitchin’ beats? Certainly.” 

And with the push of a button, the once-silent studio fills with sound. 

It’s a perfect marriage of grit and polish, evoking both the garage recordings and their first album in the best way. The distortion on the vocals makes Eddie’s voice sound even more imposing than it was in person when you first met him, and you watch his shoulders rock, brow scrunched tight. “This world rejects me. This world threw me away. This world never gave me a chance; this world’s gonna have to pay.” Eddie’s voice projects over the speakers, though his plush lips are motionless now. With such ease you almost don’t notice them, his fingers begin to dance over the keys, adding a subtle electronic melody beneath the drums and grating synth. 

You can feel the tension of the song— the building of something carnal, something furious brewing beneath the surface, threatening to whip your hair back from your cheeks. Its energy builds and builds as Eddie’s voice goes almost breathy underneath the effects, singing, “Something inside of me. It screams the loudest sound. Sometimes I think I could…”

You sense it’s coming, and yet you’re not prepared for it when Eddie’s voice becomes practically a howl: “I’m gonna burn this whole world down!”

The guitars, the drums, the bass and synth— they all explode out in a whirlwind of thrashing sound and driving noise as Eddie’s body rocks, fingertips turning white as he forces sound from the keys. His teeth are grit, his face is pouring sweat, and the sight of it speaks to one thing: determination. 

You can’t help but admire that.

You don’t even notice that your head’s been bobbing along to the beat until it ceases, and as you grow still, it whips to the guys at the couch. This song is better than almost all their others. If the rest of the album is like this… Your eyes sparkle with the force of your excitement as you beam at them, and in their pleased smiles and behind their eyes, you can see it: pride and confidence, knowledge that this album they’re creating is going to become something big.

That feeling is effusive, bubbling in your blood as the door to the recording room opens and Eddie emerges. His curly bangs are plastered to his forehead, his eyes are ringed by dark circles and his lips sag in fatigue. Yet despite it, from within, he’s positively glowing.  

Caught up in the moment, all you can do is blurt, “Holy shit.” You blink dazedly at Eddie for a moment as his face goes slack, and then he tosses his head back and laughs. 

Eddie’s laugh is husky and wild, unrestrained in his amusement. Utterly unfiltered. He laughs as if you’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and it’s then you realize this is your first day on the job, and you’ve just cursed in front of your client. 

Your face fills with heat, cheeks burning as you stutter, “Mr. Munson, I’m so sorry, that was entirely inappropriate—”

Eddie snorts, waving you off, looking not only unbothered but positively tickled that you’d cursed in front of him. To give yourself a moment to recover, you spin, clacking toward the water cooler to fill up one of those little plastic cups like you’d seen Harry doing earlier. You stammer past your indiscretion, and as you focus on expressing yourself, you feel the burn in your cheeks begin to recede. “I shouldn’t have forgotten myself like that. But that song was just… I mean, seriously. It was like… like a return to your roots or something, but not just that.” You pass him the cup carefully, falling back onto your hip as you cross your arms and your eyes dart to the ceiling. You’re trying to put it into words, and you feel frustrated that you’re struggling to. “Okay. It sounded like those early garage recordings where everything was just raw. It’s gritty and angry and cathartic. But it also feels so… new. Like compared to your last album, but also compared to what other bands are doing right now. You know?”

It doesn’t seem entirely adequate, but that’s all you’ve got— all you can do to express that almost intangible quality that you felt but can’t describe. You finally let your chin drop to meet Eddie’s eyes and are surprised to see them no longer dark and shuttered or squinty with mirth. Eddie’s eyes are wide and bright, amber like sun shining through whiskey as they stare unwaveringly into yours.

"Yeah, you picked up on that?” For once, there isn’t a sharp edge to his voice; in fact, he sounds almost pleased. “With this album we're experimenting with something a little different, really trying to focus on the textures and moods. Trying to find ways to create sound that’s not music. Not in a traditional sense, at least.” 

You nod eagerly, caught up by the enthusiasm in his voice. “Yeah! That’s it. I don’t listen to metal much, but it just doesn’t sound like what you typically hear nowadays.”

Eddie crosses his arms, holding his elbows as his tongue plays against the inside of his cheek. “You’re right,” he concedes, so easily that it comes as a surprise. “In a way, we are going back to our roots; all the way back to being the freaks who don’t want to be packaged up in some neat box. Especially seeing where this industry is going. Like, I’m watching bands that got me through the hellscape of high school crumbling and folding to the pressure. I mean, fuck.” A whip of sweat-damp curls as he shakes his head, his gaze heating with molten passion, pinning you so intently that you couldn’t look away if you tried. “Do you realize the irony of a genre that prides itself on being anti-establishment becoming part of the establishment?”

“Fuckin’ bullshit, man,” Gareth pipes up from the couch, and Eddie’s arm flies out, an eager finger shaking in his direction as his eyes go wide and almost wild.

“Fuck-ing bullshit,” Eddie enunciates, and as his voice roughens, he almost seems to puff up with the strength of his ranting. “Look, I do get it. They’re not the first to end up caught in the wheel; happens before you even realize it. But you know what you’re left with at the end of the day? Jack fucking squat. And we’re just as angry and powerless as we were as kids.” He jams two ruddy fingertips against his open palm, brows raised in emphasis as if willing you to understand. “This— this music was our escape back then. And it’s going to be our escape now. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about it.” 

He’s nearly craning over you now, breath hot as it puffs against your face, face drawn tight with his fervor. But you aren’t afraid. Because though he’s nearly yelling, Eddie’s ire isn’t directed at you. Your expression doesn’t harden up or crumble under the weight of his passion; instead, you accept it, letting it whip against you without faltering. 

Your steadfastness seems to temper him as the tension in his face eases slightly, though he doesn’t back away. More quietly, he says, “All they want is the next sound-bite, the next commercial success. Sorry, Arg,” he throws a glance toward his producer, “but I honestly don’t give a shit whether there’s even one song on this album that would be a successful single. It’s not meant to be consumed that way— picked apart like fuckin’ buzzards on a corpse.” 

Eddie’s amber eyes hold you as he breathes, “This album is raw. It’s ugly, and it’s personal—”

His words choke in his throat, and for a moment, there’s something tentative connecting you, drawn thin between your gazes. Something fragile but nearly tangible, like the foam of the sea that bubbles against sand but melts to nothing if you reach for it.

But then Eddie blinks, and the connection is severed as he seems to realize he’s talking to you: his personal assistant. 

His glorified babysitter. 

All at once, the passion is gone. He flattens, taking a step back. And there is no preamble to the sudden switch in his demeanor as he demands, “Where’s our dinner?”

the next chapter will be released on @abibliophobiaa's blog!

🌿bluey's masterlist | 🌙luna's masterlist | 💌myo's masterlist

[michifstar2]

Ok now let's focus and analyze this scene:

This hall is a good few meters long...

And Alastor will stand centrally in front of Angel, a few millimeters from him..

Well, for a terrified virgin and "disgusted" by Angel, that's a lot of progress.

In general, it really annoys me when haters say that Alastor is disgusted with Angela...

Biťch it's like they don't talk to each other at all, Alastor didn't say anything about it either

So It's just what you homophobes who hate Angel Dust made up...

[chiefdirector]

Bargaining | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight

Sargent Grey watched Regina intently through the two-way mirror. She sat as poised and composed as she ever had, knowing that she was in a position of power over the LAPD. For a moment, the possibilities of her grasp and influence over the tragic chapter in Tim and (Y/N)’s life sent a chill down his spine. He had dealt with criminals like her before, who believed they were in control of the situation at every angle, but he also knew from Rosalind Dyer that their own perceived infallibleness could lead to their own downfall. 

In many ways, Regina reminded Grey of Rosalind. The way the conducted themselves was an obvious similarity, but there was a glint that Regina held in her eye when speaking of her wrongdoings, especially the ones inflicted on his officers, that Rosalind held when they escorted her to the burial sites of her victims. She found this amusing; she enjoyed the toying and the torture of her actions but Grey was determind to break it out of her, he would break her down to dust if that’s what it took.

He had to take a step out of the interrogation room after Regina asked for her lawyer, she was trying to play him and he knew he was letting his rage guide him into her traps. So he watched from the viewing room, Nyla and Jackson beside him as Angela took over the questioning. 

“Ms. Diaz,” Angela said as she walked into the room, she immediately sat down and kept her gaze on the drug lord, choosing to not acknowledge her legal counsel. “You said to Sargent Grey that you had information pertaining to our-”

Regina raised her hand slightly from where it was still cuffed to the table. “I implied.” 

“Okay you implied that you had information pertaining to an ongoing case.” Angela opened a file before turning it to face the woman. “But you did say, and I quote ‘...their case worker didn’t know where they were all day?’ which was classified information. So would you like to elaborate how you know that before I charge you with stealing and weaponizing confidential police records?”

“Hey, hey now.” The lawyer, who now grabbed Angela’s attention, said. He did not look like the type of legal help someone of Regina’s notoriety or funds would hire. He sat in a too big blazer, held together by quick-fix hand stitches and mis-matching buttons. His greying hair matched the weary look he carried. “You don't need to answer it.”

“I know, but I want to,” She smirked, leaning forward in her chair slightly. “I want to make a deal. I know I'm going away for life, and then some, but I want privileges. You know, extra yard time, early access to the commissary. Quality of life, I’m sure you’re aware of what I mean, Detective Lopez?”

“Something can be arranged, if your information holds up that is. So if you will…”

“One more thing.”

Angela had to stop herself from getting irate, she didn't want to lose the semblance of control she currently had. “What?”

“I want to tell Officer Tim Bradford. I’d like to meet him properly. I’ve only seen him through images you see, and the time I shot his wife, of course. How is she by the way?”

Lopez didn’t respond, instead she gathered the files and turned to storm out of the room. She couldn’t handle anymore of her games, and she would be damned if she let Regina Diaz know that she got under her skin. She already had taken her best friend away from her for two years, Angela refused to give her any more satisfaction than that.

-----

“Absolutely not.” Grey slammed it fist down on the table in front of him. He had heard Regina’s request, but he never thought that any of his officers would want to humour the woman. “We are not giving her what she wants. If she wants her deal, she will do it on our terms.”

Nyla stepped forwards, hands raised slightly in surrendering to show she meant no animosity. “I don’t think we have a choice, we have all gone over her files and her records numerous times, does any part of it seem like she ever gives in. Or that she has anything to lose, like she said, she’s almost guaranteed life in prison, if not the death penalty. If we don’t play her game, we may never know what happened.”

Grey looked like he was going to reject Nyla’s statement, but Jackson stepped to speak before he could start. “Harper’s right. I spoke with Detective Bradford this morning, to get her statement. She knows as much as Williamson did. Their version of events line up, the only two people who know the rest is Diaz, and the case worker.”

“That's the thing though,” Angela flipped through the files she had brought to the interrogation, looking for something. “The case worker for this assignment has been redacted. I took the name that Jackson got from (Y/N) earlier and ran him through the system. He doesn’t exist.”

Grey pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “So we’re hunting a ghost, and the only way we even get a lead is to make a deal with the Devil.” 

-----

Lopez moved through the familiar walls of the hospital as she made her way towards (Y/N)’s room. She had been here many times during her career within the police department so the lurch of uncertainness growing in the pit of her stomach unnerved her. She was normally so comfortable here, it was like being anywhere else, but this time was different, she was going to see her best friend properly for the first time in two years.

Despite (Y/N) being here for a few days now, Angela still hadn’t visited. At first she said it was because she was so busy getting all of the paperwork and the crime scene logged and cleared of all evidence, and then she was helping the others piece together Regina’s confessions. Grey could see through her excuses, he could tell that she was scared to find someone who looked like her best friend but had changed completely. The two of them had been rookies together, and even though (Y/N) got promoted to detective rather quickly and Angela to Training Officer their friendship never swayed or lessened. The reality that all of this years together could be gone scared Angela, but she had to face it head on; she knew that, and Grey knew that, so he bit the bullet and ordered her to go see (Y/N).

She stopped outside the door and took a breath. Angela didn’t bother knocking, she never had before and she didn't see the reason to start now. Instead, she creaked open the door and leaned against the frame. “Hey.”

“Ange. What are you doing here?” (Y/N) said, smiling up to her friend from where she sat with her legs crossed on the bed. She looked a lot better than Anegla had expected, the last time she had seen her was when she was holding pressure on her gunshot wound as (Y/N) started to bleed out in front of her. In all honesty, Angela didn’t know what to expect, but seeing (Y/N) as her usually chipper self isn't something she would have bet on. “Here, come sit. Tim will be back in a moment with coffee, if you text him I'm sure he will bring you one.”

“I came to see you… and I’m good… thank you though.”

“What’s up? Is everything okay?”

And that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. At (Y/N)’s question, Angela pushed herself forward to envelope (Y/N) in her grasp, pulling back only slightly when she heard (Y/N)’s little gasp of pain. As she hugged her best friend, tears started to fall down Angela’s face and into (Y/N)’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I know.” (Y/N) pulled back to allow Angela to collect herself. Once the sobs died down into trickling tears, she continued. “I also didn’t think I’d be seeing anyone again.”

“What?” Angela sniffled, wiping away the tears with her sleeve. 

“She, Regina, had photos. She threatened to hurt and kill you all if I didn’t disappear.”

“We thought the images were just of Tim.”

“No.” (Y/N) shook her head. “They had pictures of Tim, you, Grey as well as others in the station. There were hundreds. It wasn’t only my life at stake, all of you were. So I made the obvious call, me for all of you.”

“Don’t say that.” Said a voice from the doorway, Tim. He stood there, mouth almost open in shock at what he heard (Y/N) say. “There is not a situation where your life is worth trading, (Y/N). You’re too valuable to us, to me.”

(Y/N) looked down at her lap as Tim made his way fully into the room. He wasn’t surprised at Angela’s presence, he knew that she would have shown up sooner or later. He sat in the chair opposite the bed and looked up at the girls. “Has Regina said anything?”

“Not exactly…”

“What does that mean?”

“She said that she would talk, but only to you Tim.”

Part Eight | Part Ten

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Tags: @xceafh @kmc1989 @buba424 @salty0cracker

Tags are open :)

[theoddest1]

with how the fans and even viv being VERY excited with the “visuals” of poison it’s was very clear that the intended purpose of having those scenes was for porn. Why else would viv be excited for SA scenes and make a cum joke? Not dismissing any SA survivors that felt seen or represented through Angel. I think the bar scene where Angel has a breakdown is good I just hate how they kinda swept everything he said under the rug for a musical, with the episode ending on a happy note and were told not shown that he gets better.

That’s why people kept bringing up moral Orel, silent hill 2 and tuca and Bertie as good SA rep because the abuse is NEVER shown were told or it’s heavily implied it was the aftermath that was shown, nurse bendy is hyper sexual in public but she secretly hates, is lonely and regresses into a little girl playing family with stuffed animals when she’s in her safe space. Angela is depressed/suicidal her only hope is to find her mother so things can get better but she never finds her mom and it’s implied Angela dies, Tuca and struggled with her sexuality and sexual trauma even feels ashamed about having intrusive fantasies of her abuser and thinks that after being SA’d but she is complete control of those situations and it’s her way o healing and even if she wasn’t SA’d she’d still be into those fantasies. It’s too early to say anything about Angel character it might change in season 2 and actually talk more about his trauma especially since the vees are gonna be more prominent (which I call bs because they said the exact same thing about Adam and he didn’t do shit, he only showed up in 3 episodes and he was so underwhelming plus he was the 2nd most powerful being in the show, idk what vox and Val are gonna bring to the table expect be stupid wannabe “mean girls”, plus lute is still around and she is by more powerful and interesing villain) but we have to wait and see, right now I’m indifferent to Angel he’s not a bad character but he’s not the best, sir pentious and nifty outshined him and everybody else, they were the best characters, and they were just joke characters

Viv is very, very obvious with what she seeks involving Angel Dust's character arc. She sees it as an opportunity to recreate a similar situation to Raph's animatic, a 3rd person view surrounding Angel's dilemma rather than Vox's. It's paraded around as though it's a tragic "Love Song" but there is no proper or meaningful way to convey the tragedy surrounding it all. It's an elaborate kink video for those who indulge those sorts of subjects. As you've mentioned, some other known media have handled the topic with much care and didn'tshow it, but this time around, this could have been a great time to make useful imagery to show just how awful the entire situation is. But we don't get that. All of it is glamorized in a pop song with neon lights and no subversion of one's expectations. The only time we are shown any blunt and saddening imagery is when Angel is passed around in bindage gear. The colors change and turn red, and we are faced with a strikingly blunt reality of the situation, but we then see Angel dancing in front of his situation, whiplash of the seriousness pertaining to it all. And while the pacing is better in this episode than most, it's still FAST.

So on top of everything we have a rushed pop song that's supposed to engage the audience in a mindset regarding SA to further think and discuss but it only aided in fueling kink culture and no one has had any strong meaningful discussions when it is about that entire sequence but the kinks sure are THRIVING! Imo, the fact that this side of the community got more outta this than those who love to discuss stories reflects on how unserious and sexual Viv saw it to be, and THAT is what makes Viv's shit representation bad. The remix only solidifies what I had assumed this entire song to sound like. It fails to be commentary, only fuel for a kink someone has, and NEARLY EVERYONE in the community is letting it slide cause of that.

[fanfiction-blep]

Hi! Any chance you’d do a Navi miles x reader where they’re both crushing on each other so the rest of the recoms come up with a plan to make him jealous so he’ll make the first move? Maybe like Lyle full on hitting on her or something? Thank you 😊

This is so cute and wholesome. And the first thing that popped into my head was this scene from new girl...

Fuck It~

Warnings: Implied smut, Pining, alcohol, party, plotting. light makeout session.

I was leaning against the far wall of the room. Watching the party ensure from a distance. Recoms and humans alike, mingling, swaying to the music vibrating off the walls. I lifted the red cup to my lips taking a generous swig smirking at Z-dog arm wrestling with Lyle. The booming chorus of jeers and yells almost overwhelming.

"how you doing?" the voice of my colleague taking me by surprise. I looked over to her, shaking my head.

"We're not talking about it"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to talk about my feelings for him" Almost on cue, Miles laughed, his head thrown back as he finally let loose for once. I was glad he needed to let loose once in a while, I don't think I'd seen him relax like this, ever. It just confirmed what I feared most. He hated me.

I've known it for some time not this is why I keep my distance, he was cold around me. Distant, he wouldn't look me in the eyes. He would flinch at my touch and excuse himself at any given opportunity. It hurt, each and every time. Every side eye, every snort at my views or input. It made me smile, just an inch. Before his eyes fell on me, and the smile dropped. And his laugh faded. I instinctively walked away, heading to the kitchen adjacent to the common area where this 'party' was being held. I needed a drink. I poured twice as much alcohol into my cup, I was done. I had to get over this crush. These feelings the longing to have him hold me, to feel him. I had to push through it, because clearly he felt nothing other than disgust for me. Angela joined me in the kitchen, her eyes softening at my irritated state.

"You don't know how he feels" She whispered placing a hand on my shoulder. I snorted at her statement beginning to feel stupid for even having feelings.

"You do?" She smirked at me turning away walking back into the main room only looking at me again to throw a wink over her shoulder.

"Lets play a game" She called, half the room stopping in their tracks to stare at her.

"Oh what are we? teenagers?" Miles shook his head, I couldn't take this any more. I stepped next to Angela and forced a smile.

"I'm in" Miles' head snapped in my direction, I couldn't see his face but Lyle who was in my direct line of sight was smirking making eye contact with Angela. And in that moment I knew I fucked up, this fucker knew and Angela had something to do with it. I kept my cool and tried to play along, I was sure of one thing. No matter what Miles wouldn't be participating. "What we playing"

"Lets mix things up a little, each put a personal item in a bowl whoever's stuff you pick" He paused for dramatic effect "You have to spent some alone time together, whoever's item was picked has to dish out of the bowl next" He leaned behind him pouring a bowl of crisps on the floor and thrusted the bowl in Angela and I's direction. I slipped off my necklace, a delicate gold chain with my initial hanging from the metal. I dropped it in the bowl, Angela dropped a ring. Lyle his dog tag. Another human scientist placed his phone throwing a wink my way, I lowered my gaze and angry blush dusting my cheeks. I saw Miles stand up from the corner of my eye he slipped his own dog tag in the bowl. A few others added their items but I was frozen. A few rounds went by the bowl getting passed around Angela got her turn, Z-dog leading her into the room. I was forced out of my own mind when Lyle called my name. I looked up to see him dangling my necklace between his fingers, he nodded in the direction of the kitchen. Making a quick glance over at Miles before walking over to me draping an arm over my shoulder.

"play along" He whispered low, like he would afraid someone would hear. He ushered me into the room quickly locking the door behind us.

"Lyle, I'm not interested I am so sorry if you have gotten to wrong impression." He let out a low chuckle at my words.

"I ain't tryna put the moves on you. Don't worry, its all a show" He leaned against the counter next to the sink.

"For who?"

"Oh you know" And based on how all this has gone down, I defiantly did.

"He hates me, I don't know why you are trying to torture him."

"Oh this is torturing him alright." I didn't get the opportunity to question him further before loud banging sounded on the door.

"Common you guys"

"It's only been five second, it was just getting good." He said the last five words quieter however who ever was on the other side heard and laughed. Nothing was making sense and I irritated and bored now.

"Let's get my turn over with." I snapped at him, pushing past him and barging out of the room. Everyone's eyes were instantly on me, I felt like a deer in headlights. Miles had his back turned his shoulders tense, Angela look apprehensive she was trying to talk to me with her eyes but the elephant in the room was obvious. Miles didn't want him around me or his friends. His flattened ears and his thrashing tail told me more than I needed to know. I stormed over to the bowl pulling out the first thing that grazed my fingers. I pulled out a dog tag. My heart fell, my throat got tight. I pulled the metal into my palm and read the name. Miles Quaritch. "Shit" I breathed looking and seeing Miles staring at me, his eyes wide. "Lets get this over with" He stands up hands running over his face. I was beyond annoyed at this point. I had never been anything other than nice to this man I had been polite and kind and he treated me like I was a piece of gum on his shoe. So when he leaned against the counter facing the wall opposite him. Not saying a word not a single word.

"Have fun in there love birds."

"Shut it Lyle"

"Idiot" I huffed, Miles huffed and shook his head. "I get that you hate me but you don't have to act like being in here with me is some kind of punishment."

"Punishment? you think this is the punishment?" He turned to me eyes narrow and angry i backed away instinctively, he slowly inched closer to me with every word. "No the punishment was being sat out there knowing Lyle had his hands all over ya" He sneered eventually backing me against the far surface the corners biting into my mid back. They were higher to accommodate the recoms.

"He didn't do anything to me, I told him I wasn't interested in him" Miles was shocked by my words so much so he backed away from me.

"But he said-"

"I don't care what he said" I snapped anger rising in my stomach I had had enough of this man. "You know what?"

"What?" He sighed not looking at me anymore.

"I like you" His eyes met mine widening. "But you hate me, this is the first time you've looked me in the eyes in months, you clearly find me repulsive cus you wont let me touch you and god forbid i talk about you. You run out the room faster than a cat on fire."

"I won't look you in the eyes because seeing them look up at me? reminds me how beautiful you are every time. I won't let you touch me because all it does is make me want to hold you, have your bare skin against mine. I leave when I hear your voice I wanna hear ya scream my name" He had started leaning down his face inching closer and closer to my own. "I wanna hear all the noises that I can get ya to make"

"Miles" I breathed heavily I heard him mutter a low 'Fuck it' before he dove in. His lips capturing my own in a passionate grip. His fingers pushed their way into my hair. His tongue pushing past my lips as he worked against them. He was really good at this, I felt like I couldn't breath His other brushing against my thigh.

"Jump" He mumbled into my lips, I did as I was told. Gasping as he placed me on the counter behind us and standing between my legs his crotch grinding against my own.

"Miles" I whined pushing my hips forward.

"Not here, not like this." He gasped pulling away from me cupping my face in his hands and resting his forehead against my own. "Imma take ya out, then Imma bring you back to my bed. Sound good sweetheart?" I nodded biting my lip. He groaned at the sight and pressed a kiss to my nose. "Good girl"

[limbus-datamines]

Angela Announcer Lines

long post, under cut

"id": "announcer_cheer_12_1", "dlg": "I am the best in a majority of work fields, but 'cheering' requires a longer boot sequence than the others. The region of 'Empathy' needs some dusting to load up due to low usage frequency."

"id": "announcer_cheer_12_2", "dlg": "The Sephirot used to take care of such babysitting work, but… an advanced AI such as I am quite efficient in multitasking."

"id": "announcer_cheer_12_3", "dlg": "I see. I must pre-record these encouraging lines for a manager of an unknown spacetime. Oh my. I was not aware that the recording had already started."

"id": "announcer_specialcheer_12_1", "dlg": "Your employees' health is at a critical level. A manager must listen to and abide by my advice; you should consider me your most trusted and capable companion, after all."

"id": "announcer_specialcheer_12_2", "dlg": "Your employees are on the verge of death. That reminds me… manager, I recall that you had access to a special function, no? Sometimes, a full reset is the most efficient solution to a disaster."

"id": "announcer_enemy_break_12_1", "dlg": "An entity before you is obviously and completely unguarded. Though I would hate to do so, I may have to recalculate my estimations of your capabilities should you fail to exploit this opportunity."

"id": "announcer_enemy_break_12_2", "dlg": "I have identified a flat-footed enemy. Many of your predecessors have used such openings to order a killing blow."

"id": "announcer_ally_break_12_1", "dlg": "An employee is wounded. There is a high probability that an enemy may deal a fatal blow against them. This requires a decisive judgment from the manager."

"id": "announcer_ally_break_12_2", "dlg": "I have identified an injured employee. People colloquially describe this state as 'having a screw loose', am I correct? … Do note that this was not a pointless witticism but a strategic interjection for the purpose of relaxing your nerves."

"id": "announcer_killenemy_12_1", "dlg": "An entity's life signal has ceased. If I was a human with a more enthusiastic personality, I might have submitted a request for a high-five with you."

"id": "announcer_ally_dead_12_1", "dlg": "I have identified a deceased employee. It is but one of many minor inconveniences in your way, manager. They were all aware that such an outcome may await them when they joined our company."

"id": "announcer_enemy_adv_12_1", "dlg": "The enemies have the upper hand. And I expect that you will be the finest manager there ever was."

"id": "announcer_ally_adv_12_1", "dlg": "Your employees have the upper hand. This is clear evidence that you have been taking my advice seriously. This process is often called 'trust', or so they say. I consider this a positive development."

"id": "announcer_danger_12_1", "dlg": "An employee does not have much time left. We have little choice but to wait. The employee must either break free from the yoke, or wait until it breaks itself."

"id": "announcer_enemy_specialskill_12_1", "dlg": "I expect that the enemy will commence a powerful attack soon. It is time to face the fear."

"id": "announcer_enemy_specialgimmick_12_1", "dlg": "An odd behavior has been detected among the entities. I don't expect that its actions will diverge from the usual predictions, but you would do well to prepare yourself nonetheless."

"id": "announcer_advatk_physical_12_1", "dlg": "You have broken your enemy with an effective attack. I must also inform you that a machine does not make light use of flattery."

"id": "announcer_disadvatk_physical_12_1", "dlg": "That physical attack was profoundly ineffective. I was unaware that remembering and reminding you of the strengths and weaknesses of each and every enemy was a part of my responsibilities."

"id": "announcer_advatk_attr_12_1", "dlg": "That was a precise reading of your enemies' weaknesses. I am glad that your capabilities meet my expectations."

"id": "announcer_disadvatk_attr_12_1", "dlg": "Your decision to attack the enemy with an ineffective attack has extended the estimated time of suppression. I see now that it is difficult for the manager to remember every little bit of information. I will update my data accordingly."

"id": "announcer_enemy_specialbuff_12_1", "dlg": "The enemies are preparing to press their advantage. They won't be much of a threat as long as our allies can stick to your strategies and follow my directions."

"id": "announcer_enemy_specialdebuff_12_1", "dlg": "The entity is at a disadvantage. Let us exploit this opportunity."

"id": "announcer_ally_specialbuff_12_1", "dlg": "The employees are at an advantage. I await your effective exploitation of this opportunity. A machine is always destined to wait, after all."

"id": "announcer_ally_specialdebuff_12_1", "dlg": "The employees are at a disadvantage. This does not change the fact that I am an AI of unparalleled competence."

"id": "announcer_enemy_destroy_12_1", "dlg": "One of the critical enemy parts has been destroyed. Perhaps this is an opportunity for a focused attack."

"id": "announcer_enemy_destroy_12_2", "dlg": "One of the entities' parts has been destroyed. I suggest focusing on attacking that enemy in order to finish this battle with maximum efficiency."

"id": "announcer_enemy_destroy_12_3", "dlg": "The entity has suffered heavy, localized damage… But I will save the compliments until the entity is defeated."

"id": "announcer_round_takebigdmg_12_1", "dlg": "They have dealt a critical blow to one of your employees. However, as you well know, we will move forward and only forward. There is no need to cast your gaze upon those that cannot be recovered."

"id": "announcer_round_takebigdmg_12_2", "dlg": "One or more of your employees are critically wounded, but do not lose your heart over it. With every death, our company grows. After all, you once told me that… sometimes, those that are forgotten can be the more beautiful."

"id": "announcer_round_givebigdmg_12_1", "dlg": "You have dealt a fatal blow to your enemies. I have always told you that you are much more capable than you originally perceived yourself to be. And I am never wrong."

"id": "announcer_round_givebigdmg_12_2", "dlg": "A successful strike. It is too early to pop the champagne, but it may be a good idea to cheer for the deceased in memoriam of their noble sacrifices."

"id": "announcer_multikillenemy_12_1", "dlg": "An employee has made a rather notable contribution to this suppression. Perhaps you could compliment them for the sake of improving efficiency. It does not need to be heartfelt, of course."

"id": "announcer_equip_12_1", "dlg": "I am Angela, your advisor and secretary. My role as an AI is to assist you in adjusting to your new workplace. It’s a pretty name for an AI, wouldn’t you say so?"

"id": "announcer_neglect_12_1", "dlg": "This awkward silence must be alleviated. Here is the weakest witticism from my humor repository. Because it is the weakest witticism, I will keep it shrimple.\n… That was the joke."

[derangedrhythms]

– bloodstains and ravens’ feathers on snow, moonlight on a dust-grimed mirror, graveyards on Walpurgisnacht.

Helen Simpson, from the introduction to ‘The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories’ by Angela Carter

[lurking-lilibeth]

[I forgot to take separate pictures of the kitchen / dining room, but you can see it here. I think it turned out very nice.]

Some quite important stuff happens on the first day of the rotation. Dust becomes an adult cat, looking like any other gray cat. This uberhood has a lot of them! And both Mary Sue and Daniel drink the elixir of life to better their health.

[I happened to glimpse their remaining days in SimPE; both of them were gonna die this round because I messed up their birthdays way back when. I didn't want that to happen yet, so the elixir it was. Many of the uberhood's current elders will likely be drinking it from now on. I don't feel like getting any lifespan mods, but I also don't want certain sims to go before they see their grandchildren and such.]

[ya-zz]

Hi, I am back. Work be killing me, but I’m here to kill everyone else.

Ramattra and reader.

Similar to one of your personal pieces where reader has to repair him, but they mess up somewhere and his memory is corrupted of them so he hates reader, despite them fixing him.

I will personally send you a curveball to put in there too.

You’re welcome. Enjoy.

Yikes, you're back-

Fr tho, this was fun, but not because I didn't have to write some of it- Alternate ending vibes.

Ramattra x Reader (gen)

Word count: 1707 (1243 newly written)

A/N: I was told to use part of a personal fic for this. It's like an alternate ending so to speak.

Read the original here

You had no idea how much time had passed before Angela had let you go. Hanzo walked with you to the workshop to make sure you were truly okay before leaving you for a training session with Genji.

Upon entering, you are met with what you had left. Ramattra was still standing there with no power. Some dust had begun to settle on his chassis so you made quick and gentle work of brushing it off.

Checking the monitor, all tests had come back green. All was good. You direct the current through again.

Orange.

Red.

Switched off.

You scream. Like actually scream, throwing a piece of scrap metal at the wall.

"Three weeks of work for nothing!" Tears stream down your face as you keep running the current but was getting nowhere. "Fuck, what the actual hell am I supposed to do..."

Omnics didn't come with an on button.

…

Wait…

You rummage through the spare parts, a small piece rattled at the bottom of the box. Despite feeling somewhat relieved you missed something, you were utterly pissed off with yourself for actually missing something.

Pondering for a moment, you realise where this piece belongs. A small hole underneath his back plate, hidden among cables and wires.

Sonofabitch…

After about another hour of fucking about with everything in his back, you had the piece inserted and flipped up.

Reassembling his back, you head over to direct a current.

Orange.

Red.

Blue.

You could hear hissing which meant his fans were working. A small digital noise escapes from the omnic as his arms twitch, head tilting to the side.

You stand there, body frozen.

"Ramattra?"

His head tilts back up, now directly facing you.

Nothing was said for a moment. The two of you just staring at each other.

“I demand you release me.” He says and his tone was serious. 

“I have some final checks to do before I can let you go-” You attempt to explain. 

“My systems have come back intact.” He states. “Release me this instant.” 

You stare at him blankly. He was never this rude to you before, what has gotten- 

“Oh no…” You mutter, rushing over to the computer to run a quick file check.

“Human!” He rattles against the wires and restraints he was bound by. 

The panic and fear rise within your body as you look at the screen. 

[ MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED ]

“Why…?” Tears prick your eyes as you stare at the computer screen. You ignore the shouting coming from behind you as you run diagnostics, trying to find out why and how it got corrupted, why is it only the memory file that is corrupted? 

Everything else was intact. His HUD settings, system files and drives were all working perfectly. 

Something shattered on the floor which startled you, causing you to turn and face Ramattra. He was approaching, and fast. The stark white faceplate you had grown to love looked menacing, intimidating as he took quick and calculated steps towards you. 

Then your stomach drops. You were cornered. The only escape was behind him and you didn’t take a liking to jumping out of the window… and the delivery shaft was on the ground floor. Perfect.

“There is no escape, human.” His hand grabs you by the throat, squeezing tightly. “What did you do to me?” 

Your hands grab and scratch at his arm. “Let- Let go of me.” Through struggled breaths, you speak to him, tone calm and hopeful, hopeful that he will let go. 

“What-” his grip got tighter, “did you do to me?” 

“Nothing, I swear-” 

“Where am I?” He glares at you, optics looking down at you, watching the panic rise, the heat in your face getting higher as the blood burns inside. 

“My workshop.” Tension was building quickly in your head and your chest was getting tighter as you continue to struggle for air. “Please-”

His grip loosens slightly, enough for you to gasp and choke but he doesn’t let you go. “Pitiful.” He spits. 

“Ramattra, please-” Attempt one. He has to remember. 

He cocks his head to the side as he processes your words before he hums. “How do you know my name?”

System settings were intact.

You stare at him, hands dropping from his arm. “What… What do you remember?” With that question, you hear his fans pick up speed, a little noisier than you remember. 

“Shambali. My brothers. Brother Mondatta and Zenyatta.” He halts, servos twitching on your neck. “Where are they?” 

“Zenyatta is here.”

“Brother Mondatta?”

“Mondatta…” You trail off. It had been several years since Mondatta’s assassination. You feel his hand squeeze. “Mondatta was killed a few years ago.” 

Ramattra freezes. “That cannot be right.” 

“I’m sorry, Ramattra.” You look up at him with sympathy. 

Something clicks within his system, his hand tensing without him commanding it to. His vocaliser stutters with static and his optics going in an aperture frenzy. The grip on your throat tightens to the point you feel something snap, and pain shoots up. 

Blood pools in your mouth, dripping down onto his hand. 

Your gargled noises and attempts to free yourself break Ramattra free of his system glitch and he drops you immediately. Your body falls to the floor with a harsh thud as you cough up the blood that had seeped into your lungs. 

Despite the pain you were in, you manage to sit up, sitting with your back resting on the filing cabinet. 

Ramattra kneels down, head tilting to the side as he examines you. He sees the panic within your eyes and almost feels bad. 

“Are you certain brother Mondatta is dead?” 

You nod, not being able to speak. 

“Do you know who killed him?” 

You shake your head. 

Ramattra watches you, looking for any signs that you might be lying. When met with truthful answers, he looks down as his systems work overtime. 

“I-” He starts before looking back up. “I am sorry for what I have done to you. May I?” He reaches his hand forward, noticing how you flinch back. Ramattra stops for a moment before reaching further, fingertips touching your bruising neck. 

“I feel like I know you from somewhere, but I cannot place you.” He tilts his head up, looking at the computer screen and seeing his system. He notices the corrupted file is slowly repairing, which means that the task he set off within his own system is slowly working on it. 

He watches as your eyes dart around, from him to behind him, to the left and right of him. The panic was still high, body still shaking. Systems show that you’re bleeding, a crushed throat but it wasn’t as severe as you thought it was. 

Ramattra stays silent as he watches you, yet without his cowl and… ‘clothing’, he looks like the standard R-7000 unit. He is intimidating, even more so as he watches you without any movement or sound. 

When the computer pings, you don’t move and keep your focus on the omnic who was still kneeling in front of you. 

“Unfortunately, it seems part of my memory file is corrupted.” He finally speaks. “I remember everything, but I still cannot place you.” 

You smile weakly, tilting your head to the side a little and wincing. “Its… Okay.” you manage to say through the pain. 

Before Ramattra had a chance to respond, the door to the workshop slams open, Angela and Zenyatta rushing in. 

“Athena made a distress call.” Angela rushes over to you and gasps at your condition. 

“They are fine.” Ramattra states. 

“Brother?” Zenyatta appears behind him which causes the larger omnic to stand and face him. “What happened?” 

Ramattra stutters, looking back down at you with  heavy feeling in his chest. “I hurt them.” 

The room fell silent. 

“What?” Angela looks up at the taller omnic. 

“My system went on the fritz and I crushed their throat.” 

“Your system doesn’t just go on the ‘fritz.’” The medic turns her attention back to you, gently turning your head to face her. “Look at me, [y/n].” 

“Accident…” You mumble, only to be hushed. 

Ramattra looks down at the floor before turning his attention to the monk. 

“I am sure it was.” Zenyatta speaks up. “Brother Ramattra would not hurt you, [y/n].” 

“[y/n]...” Ramattra repeats your name, looking off to the side. “[y/n]...” 

“Brother?” The monk looks up. 

“I do not know a [y/n].” Ramattra says but then he looks back to you. “I still cannot place you.” 

You smile at him. 

“[y/n]... Such a unique name.” He kneels back down and offers a hand to you. 

You could feel the medics eyes on you as you reach up and take his hand. 

“Allow me to make up for the damages I have caused.”

He doesn’t say, but there was a transmission that played within his system.

[ Memory: Repair log, day 10 ]

"Despite you being a pain in the ass sometimes, you're alright. Fuck, you should've seen how heartbroken Zen was. It hurt me too, you know. If this doesn't work, I will never forgive myself. I don't think Zen will ever get over it either... If you're listening, Ramattra, please wake up... I don't think you understand that you have people here who actually want you back, and not for your strength. I'll miss you if this don't work. I'll miss seeing that damn face of yours and your snarky comments." You laugh. "You always made me smile. Even that day you came in with Zen. You didn't see but when you left I was super happy you trusted me. It was the very first time you let a human touch you. I heard from your brother you hadn't even let any other human touch you before I did…

Hey, Ramattra... you're welcome here anytime. Even if it's just to talk."

Between the glitches and static, the voice matched yours and the hatred he had felt for you when he turned on in that workshop had subsided. 

Ramattra may not remember you, but he was ready to fix his mistake and make new memories with you, ones where he would remember you, ones where he would protect the files from never being corrupted again. 

[wildissylupus]

What about mirrorverse Cashe just switching places. Ashe ends up with Overwatch and Cassidy is left to rot in jail until he gets out and takes over the Deadlock Gang?

You do not know how much I've thought about these two in this universe. Cause holy shit would the betrayal hit harder.

Mostly because Ashe's home life wouldn't change, her parents would still be neglectful assholes, the difference would be that unlike with cannon, Ashe would still care what they think. Basically if we switch Ashe's morals we would get an Ashe who betrayed Cassidy and the other Deadlocks for her parents approval.

This would also be an Ashe who would join Overwatch out of guilt, because she realises that she traded what could have been her real family for a dream. So she would use her weapon knowledge and connections to help Overwatch.

To help the types of people she damned when she was a kid, maybe this way she can make up for it. This Ashe would be riddled with regret, she will always be confident but a part of her holds her back, never wanting that leader position to fall on her shoulders again because she's now seen what her decisions can lead to.

Meanwhile Cassidy would be left to rot with his worst traits. He knew he would end up in jail, knew the world delt him a shitty hand, but the hand he did get dealt could at least be useful. So he uses his age to his advantage, a sob story here, a quick and easy smile there and he's out.

And of course he gets the other Deadlock members out, they have their uses and at least this way they feel indebted to him. So he becomes the charming leader of the Deadlock gang, a gang that looks small but has an immeasurable amount of unseen influence in the gangs of the south-west.

And shortly after he gets an offer he can't refuse, training by one of the best snipers in the world and by one of the biggest leaders of Talon. So he leaves Deadlock and moves onto bigger and greater things.

And eventually, despite his better judgement, he starts to trust the people he works with. But just like with Ashe they all leave him in the dust, Reyes has a "change of heart", Genji runs the first chance he gets, Moira was never on their side to begin with, and Ana tries to kill Fareeha.

The only person who ends up staying is Angela, the person who joined just around the same time he did, and unlike the others she has a plan. A plan that Cassidy can easily get behind. A plan that Cassidy can easily play his role in.

Because Angela has never been that charismatic, and every good organisation needs a face.

[treblrebl]

Cam - The Unsung

Booth should add Cam's name to his list of saints. That woman has one HELL of a thankless job as the administrator of the Medico-Legal lab. The irony of her position is that the better she does her job, the less it looks like her position is needed. And being the calm, steady one in a team full of highly individualistic, radical personalities means that her own specialized intelligence often gets ignored. When you have 'works-on-a different-plane-of-thought' Brennan, affable-yet-utterly-mad scientist Hodgins, and queen-of-lateral-thinking Angela on your team, your astute leadership skills and pathological expertise are not given their due importance.

Which is a bloody travesty. The Medico-Legal lab's job is not only to determine the truth, but also to make certain that the analysis can be utilized and presented successfully in court. Before Cam, the team was essentially a group of genius scientists working on individual remains on an as-is basis. Booth was correct in Season 2 when he told Brennan that Cam's objective is to ensure a successful prosecution. And in order to safeguard the findings of the team from being thrown out on a legal technicality, she is bound by the rules of the Justice Dept, the FBI and the Jeffersonian board. It sucks that time and again her team chastise her for doing so.

I mean the poor woman was treated like a traitor by her team for not lying to the authorities when Brennan was framed by Pelant. I mean, sure Angela, Cam should just lie about the evidence implicating Brennan. It's not like evidence in murder cases has a long chain of custody, and any fudging would be soon discovered. It's not as though Cam wouldn't immediately nuke her career and possibly her freedom by actively sabotaging a Federal murder inquiry.

And look - I love Hodgins but I'm surprised how fans of the show either ignore or simply brush over the times he blatantly uses his financial privilege without considering the ramifications to other people. I mean seriously, do we really think he would be so free to full off half his shenanigans if he wasn't the last scion of the Cantilever group, and thus enjoyed donor privilege? He regularly swipes items from other departments and exhibits, often without approval. He brews alcohol in Jeffersonian owned instruments and sets off minor explosions. His intentions are never ever malicious, and he is genuinely an adult version of the boy who loved to take everything apart to see how things worked. But let's face it - ANY other person would have faced severe consequences for these actions. Remember the Founder's Day party? It would have been Cam's job to take the heat for the decimated Mexican succulents and unauthorized drinking in the workplace. I wonder just how much she's shielded her team from - and whether she's ever been acknowledged.

Gods even in the episode where Wendell comes back after his chemo and lets Cam know that he takes medical marijuana to deal with the pain - did she have ANY recourse but to let him go? She stuck her neck out for Finn but Caroline bulldozed her, and with justifiable reason. She was stuck between the same rock and hard place with Wendell. And wow, the way Angela and Hodgins immediately painted her as a moustache twirling villain laughing at Wendell's pain infuriated me. They should realize how hypocritical their stance is - after all when Brennan left for Maluku and Booth for Afghanistan they had a proper cause and mission. Hodgins and Angela left simply because they could, and because they didn't want to put in the effort of breaking in a new team, however temporarily. Cam was left in the dust.

So here's to Camille Saroyan - woman of infinite patience, empathy and the ability to handle rambunctious adults. May she one day get the recognition she deserves.