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eddiesghxst · 1 year

Text

PRICE OF FAME (PART 3/12)

ALRIGHTY HERE WE GO !!

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18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: eddie and gareth don't get along and eddie thinks you look cute when you're sleeping

contains: enemies to lovers trope, smoking, alcohol use, maybe gareth's a bitch lol, scary feelings, a sprinkle of fluff, and eddie being down bad in every way, shape, and form <3

word count: 5.3k

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Breakfast has been your favorite part of joining Corroded Coffin on tour. Aside from the fluffy, soft, sweet pancakes, grease-dripping bacon, and toe-curling orgasmic coffee, breakfast has always been lighthearted and fun. Richie makes everybody sit at the table together like a family so there can be some sense of normalcy throughout the busy days; it’s nice.

You alternate with your seating, wanting to get to know all of the crew members as best as you can while you have the time, and you’ve had decent conversations amongst some awkward ones. On the first day, you sat next to Mitch, the light coordinator, and listened to his story about how he met his husband. They’re expecting a baby this fall, and you two bounced a few names off each other for him to consider. On the second day, you sat beside Kaylee, the tour stylist, and talked about your college horror stories. On the third day, you sat next to Brandon, a stage manager, and spoke about… well, you don’t really remember because he talked the entire time, and you kind of blanked out. Slowly, you’ve made your way around the table each day, learning little things about the group.

Today, however, there is not the usual lighthearted and familial atmosphere at the table.

You came down to the breakfast hall a bit late from your shower, and the second you stepped into the room, you could sense the tension still hanging from yesterday. You haven’t spoken to or seen Eddie since he confronted Gareth at the studio, and you’re not sure if he’d even want to see you, but you have no choice but to take the only open seat next to him.

You quietly say good morning to everyone, and Richie is the only one who gives you a warm response. “How’d you sleep, birdie?” He questions around a mouthful of eggs. You nod and settle in, “Good, I almost slept through my alarm.” You jokingly admit. Richie chuckles, “1500 thread count sheets will do that to you.” He says, causing the table to erupt in a soft symphony of laughter.

It falls awkwardly silent, and you try your best to avoid glancing at Gareth, but there’s no doubt everybody notices the shiner he’s sporting on his eye. The room is filled with sounds of forks clanking against plates and the quiet mumble of short, faint snippets of conversation until Richie clears his throat, “We’ve got an interview with the press at twelve and rehearsals at three, like always, so do what you need to do before then. We can’t be late for this interview, got it?” He reminds the crew, and everybody’s head nods in understanding, all but one.

“I’m not going.”

All eyes turn to Gareth, a full plate sitting untouched before him as he slumps back in his seat. Beside you, Eddie lights a cigarette, and you opt to busy yourself with taking a bite of your French toast, practically feeling the anger radiating from Eddie as he takes a drag. Richie clears his throat once again, scooting closer to the table and tilting his head with a look of confusion, “Um… why not?” He questions.

Gareth glances at him as best as he can with his black eye, “Because I’ve got an eye the size of a tennis ball on my face, Richie.” Everyone at the table seems to uncomfortably shift now that the elephant in the room has been addressed. Eddie doesn’t waste a second to speak up from beside you, “Nothing you didn’t deserve.” For the first time since yesterday, Eddie looks at Gareth and sees the swollen eye he left from yesterday. Eddie doesn’t show a single hint of regret.

The table returns to quietly eating as Gareth ignores Eddie’s comment, “I’m not going.” He reiterates. Richie sighs and rubs the coarse mustache on his face, “You have to go, Gareth. Just put some shades on.” He suggests, returning to his food as if the conversation finished, but Gareth holds up. “I’m not gonna sit there in shades like a fucking idiot, man.”

“Well, you don’t have a choice, son,” Richie snaps, dropping the fork in his plate to look at Gareth. You wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole, and you’re sure you’re not the only person with that wish when you look at the other crew members at the table. “This band has an album coming soon,” he reminds the group, “We don’t have time for rumors and gossip to start circulating; you need to show up as a unit. This isn’t up for debate.”

The conversation could’ve ended there because, quite frankly, it seemed like Gareth was willing to go with it, but Eddie couldn’t let the moment to say something slip, “Just let him go, Rich.” He shrugs. You glance at Eddie, watching as he taps his cigarette ash into his plate, “It’s not like he brings much to the table anyway.”

Across the table, from the corner of your eye, you see Gareth lean forward to glare at Eddie, “The fuck does that mean?” He snaps.

Eddie looks at Gareth for the second time and shrugs, “Means you’re a shit band member, man. Fuckin’ Mitch has done more for this band than you ever have or could’ve done.” He gestures towards Mitch, ignoring when the man slightly cowers in his seat. Gareth looks at Eddie with a stone-cold glare, saying nothing momentarily and letting the thick blanket of silence curl around everyone's neck. He leans forward and points a finger at Eddie, who’s not even looking at him anymore, “Fuck you. You wonder why Chrissy left you for Jason Carver, it’s because you’re a fucking asshole.”

“Jesus Christ, guys–” Jeff tries to interject, but Gareth continues speaking, “At least Jason acknowledges her. That’s more than you ever did.” He jabs. Eddie chuckles, shaking his head before speaking around a cloud of smoke, “You don’t know shit about me and Chrissy.”

Gareth tauntingly laughs, “Nah, she filled me in quite a fuckin’ bit.”

The invisible ticking time bomb seems to have gone off in Eddie’s mind. He stands up from his chair, a loud screeching noise grating everyone's ears as he flicks his cigarette into his plate, “The fuck did you just say?”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Richie interjects, standing up and raising his hands as a gesture to stop. “Enough. Fucking enough,” he glances between the two heated men in annoyance, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you boys, but you need to figure your shit out on your own time.” He snaps. Your hands rest in your lap, anxiously picking at the seam of your jeans, wanting to shrink into your seat because you can’t help but feel as if this is your fault. It was your journal he read anyway; you play some part in the issue, right?

Richie sits back down with an exhaustive huff, picking up his fork to resume eating, but before he picks up a piece of his food, he gestures at the table, “Either sit down and finish your goddamn meal, or fuck off somewhere. Both of you.”

Eddie stands for a moment before deciding to leave without another word.

By the time the press interview rolls around, you’re more anxious than you thought you’d be. Between the time frame of breakfast and now, you had more than enough time to ponder over the messy situation you’ve accidentally created between Gareth and Eddie.

Truthfully, you had no idea that the Chrissy Gareth had mentioned during your conversation was Eddie’s ex-girlfriend Chrissy; hell, you didn’t even know Eddie had an ex-girlfriend named Chrissy until yesterday!

On one of your few sit-downs with Gareth, you ended up discussing his love life, and you took the leap of faith to ask him if he’d ever been in love.

“…There was one girl. Her name was Chrissy; we went to high school together.”

“You dated?” “No,” Gareth shakes his head, “No, we never dated. But I always had this weird connection with her… like we understood each other in a deeper way.”

You smile in awe of the sweetness behind his words, jotting down little notes in your journal as he speaks. “I always admired her to an extent, but she, uh,” he clears his throat and scratches at his jaw, “she was in another relationship for most of the time I knew her.”

Gareth silently watches as you continue to write. You look up at him when you realize he’s been silent for a while, and you open your mouth to ask what is wrong, but he speaks before you, “Is this um,” he gestures towards your journal, “this bit isn’t going in the final publish, right?” He asks. You tilt your head, a few questions running through your mind, but you brush them off, “Um… well, I suppose I can leave some of it out, yes.”

Gareth nods, shifting in his chair and clearing his throat. “Okay, good. Um… well, anyways,” he begins, “Me and Chrissy didn’t hook up until I went back to Hawkins during our break off from last year's tour.”

Ultimately, Gareth had explained that Chrissy had recently left a three-year relationship when they’d hooked up. He explained that they crossed paths at a bar, and things took off from there, but he cut it off with her the following morning. He never told you why he cut it off, but you now understand the guilt of betraying his best friend had forced him to do so.

You had no idea that the entire conversation was pertaining to Eddie’s ex; if you had known, you would’ve never written it down. You wouldn’t have even finished the conversation if Gareth had told the whole truth because, quite honestly, you would rather not be in the mix of this disaster.

You’re disappointed. Upset that Gareth practically used you to get the guilt off his chest. And the truth is, that conversation did little to nothing for Gareth in the long run; he still felt guilty for never telling Eddie, and it’s only gotten worse with the added tension between them now that the secret is out.

Eddie was cold toward you before, but now he’s thicker than the ice in Antarctica. He’s avoiding you at all costs— and maybe he’s just avoiding everybody. Still, you can’t help but take his avoidance personally, especially when you’d thought you were finally reaching some sort of middle ground with him.

You sit off to the side of the stage with the rest of the band’s crew as you watch them take their seats for the press interview. Eddie sits on one end of the table while Gareth sits at the other end, the other two members filling the two seats in between. Gareth had no choice but to cover his black eye with a dark shade of glasses, and it seemed like nobody paid mind to it— typical rockstar wardrobe and all.

The interview was off to a good start, with reporters asking questions about the upcoming album, life on the road, and relatively anything about the music. Near the end, however, is when things seemed to get rocky. The questions became more of a filler than anything important, and boys were evidently tired of answering. It wasn’t until a journalist asked a specific question that things seemed to reach a tipping point.

“There’s been rumors that this album has more love songs than usual. Could you confirm or deny that?”

The boys look at each other, and Gareth leans forward to respond, but Eddie beats him to it. “There were a few, yeah, but um… They didn’t make the final cut, so maybe next time.”

The energy vividly shifts amongst the boys; Gareth looks at Eddie and scoffs before leaning back into his chair, clearly throwing in the towel for the rest of the interview. You don’t understand the apparent dispute just now, but you find out when the boys finish the interview and walk into the green room.

“What the fuck, man?” Gareth spits, walking a few paces behind Eddie. “We’re not cutting the song.” His loud voice booms through the room, not caring if anybody will overhear their dispute.

“I’m not putting a song out that you wrote about my fucking ex-girlfriend, Gareth. Are you out of your fucking mind?” Eddie snaps.

Richie turns to the band and crew members and motions for them to leave the room, which nobody even bothers to protest, eager to escape any more awkward conversations for the day. Everybody else makes a beeline for the tour bus, planning to fill in the few hours before rehearsal.

You glance back at the room where Eddie and Gareth are bickering, and you bravely choose to sit in the chair outside the doorway. You try not to stick your nose in their business, but they’re arguing loud enough for you to hear snippets either way. The conversation doesn’t last long before Gareth storms out of the room and down the hall, bursting through the doors and out of sight.

You glance back into the room where Eddie stands, fishing out his pack of cigarettes and sparking up. You figure now is better than ever, so you clench your bag strap and stand up, hesitantly stepping into the room. Clearing your throat once you’re a few steps away from Eddie, you watch as he exhales a cloud of smoke. He glances at you and turns away, “What do you want?”

You take one step closer, “I um… I wanted to apologize.” You begin. He looks at you again, brown eyes tired and riddled with pain— and you can’t imagine how much of a whirlwind the past twenty-four hours have been for him. “For what?” He asks, confusion and annoyance laced within his tone.

He’s turned to face you, shiny chains glistening on his hips beneath the building lights. You shake your head, struggling to find the words, because, was this really even your fault?

You obviously can’t apologize for Gareth fucking his ex-girlfriend— you had no part in that— and it’d seem silly to apologize for accidentally dropping your journal. So, what exactly do you apologize for? How do you let him know that you’re sorry this was how he found out, even if it isn’t entirely your fault?

You decide to try and redirect your wording, “I want you to know that I was never going to put that in the final article.” You say.

Eddie scoffs, taking a drag of his cigarette before responding, “And why would I believe that?” He questions.

He’s gazing at you like the first night you’d met when he was watching you from across the green room and commanding you to leave. You think he has the same intentions now, but Eddie has yet to learn that you’re stubborn.

��Well, for starters, Gareth asked me not to put it in,” you admit. Eddie’s jaw tenses and part of you feels as if you’ve tossed Gareth under the bus, but you had no choice. This was Gareth’s doing, and if you have to tell the ugly truth to save your image, then so be it. “He didn’t tell me why, but I know now. And now that I know the full truth behind that story, I definitely won’t write it in.”

Eddie watches you momentarily, intense eyes burning holes through you before he turns away. He scratches his jaw for a moment, taking a breath before returning to you. Eddie points to you, the burning cigarette hanging between his fingers as he speaks, “You know,” he begins, “somehow, you’ve managed to persuade everyone that you’re some sweet, innocent small-town journalist that just wants to ‘appreciate the artists,’ but that,” he gestures to your bag where he knows your journal is resting, ashes fluttering to the ground with each wave of his hand.

“That proved everything I believed about you.” He says. “People like you are fucking vampires. You suck the life out of people to keep you alive, and it’s fucked up.” He snaps.

Your face twists in anger, subtly shaking your head as you subconsciously step closer, “Eddie, I didn’t… I didn’t even know she was your ex, and if I did, I would’ve never written about it.” You exclaim, tossing your hands in exasperation. “And I’m sorry you found out the way you did, but you can’t hate me for something someone else did!”

Eddie frustratedly rubs his face, “That’s not the point!” He exclaims. “I read your journal. I saw everything I needed to see to confirm that I was right about everything with you and this fucking article.” He stresses, his loud voice echoing throughout the empty room.

“I'm not here to destroy your life, Eddie!” You snap, voice raising to match the level of his own. Eddie steps closer, towering over you and glaring so intensely into your eyes that you almost cower, “I don’t fucking believe that for a second.” He snaps back.

His chest rises and sinks like a rocky boat beneath his angry breaths, and he’s so close you can smell the cigarettes and mint on his breath. The scent of his cologne wrapping around you and choking you like a snake.

You don’t know how much more patient you can be with Eddie. You don’t know how much more of this back-and-forth you can take before it drives you insane. You want it to end. You want him to understand that you’re not his enemy; you never were.

You can only think of doing one thing: unzipping your bag and reaching in to grab your journal. Eddie watches with a hint of confusion in his eyes as you crack open the journal and start flipping through the pages. “What are you doing?” He asks in annoyance, patience running thin at your silence.

You flip through nearly half of the book before finding the pages you sought. You don’t think twice before ripping them out, not even caring if it destroys the binds of your precious journal. “The fuck are you doing?” Eddie asks again.

You tear each page out and drop the book to the floor, ignoring Eddie’s questions as you shred each torn-out page to pieces. Eddie watches in silent and hidden shock as each pen-soaked strip flutters to the ground, creating a heap of trash between where you both stand.

You tear the last piece and let it fall before looking at Eddie, watching as he gazes at the torn pages. Nearly five pages worth of writing, gone.

“There. It’s gone. Do you believe me now?”

Eddie says nothing when he drags his gaze up to look at you, shock-ridden across his face. “I’m not who you say I am, Eddie. I’m not here to ruin your life; that was never my intention.”

Eddie stays silent, seemingly lost for words, and even if you want him to say something, your braveness has begun to falter, and you itch to leave the room. You’re strong-willed, but you’re no fucking superwoman, and Eddie has pulled every exhausting breath out of you, and you can’t seem to get a grip because every time you breathe in, all you smell and feel is Eddie.

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

You grab your destroyed journal from the floor, not bothering to try and fix the binding before you shove it back into your bag, and you don’t say another word as you leave the room.

You’ve been writing for hours when you check the clock— twelve thirty-two. The band played a show tonight, but you decided to stay in your hotel to let your ankle rest— you haven’t been taking all the precautions the medic advised you to, so by the time lunch rolled around, you were in an uncomfortable fit of pain. You used your free time by tweaking the draft of your article— adding in new pieces of information and taking out unnecessary notes. You’re about twenty pages in, but by the end of the month, you’ll have compiled it all into ten; but for now, it seems your brain has become a muddled mess of words and ideas.

You suppose drinking three glasses of wine didn’t help fix that, either. You’re tipsy, teetering on the edge of drunk, and that’s a dangerous place to be when you’re practically working. You don’t even want to think of the past drunken works you’ve made; they’re worse than you’d like to admit.

You sigh, dropping your pen onto the hotel desk, leaning back in your chair, and rubbing your hand down your face in exhaustion. You glance over to the chair you’ve propped up to rest your injured leg, deciding that you should probably ice it since you’ve neglected to do so all day.

You figure you’re done writing for the day anyway, so you put your things in order before grabbing the ice bucket and making your way out of the room to find the ice machine.

What you don’t expect to find on your journey is a sleepy Eddie sitting in the hallway just a few doors down from yours. Maybe you drank four glasses of wine.

Out of common, drunk courtesy, you redirect your path and limp over to where he sits, arms folded across his chest and head leaned back against the wall with shut eyes.

You gently say his name to grab his attention, but he doesn’t budge. You shuffle closer, calling his name out again, and when that doesn’t work, you gently nudge him with your non-injured foot. His eyes flutter open, blinking away the light sleep from his eyes as he looks at you.

You tilt your head in question and ask, “What are you doing sleeping in the hallway?”

Eddie shifts in his spot, grunting and glancing at the bucket in your hands. From the looks of it, Eddie is as sober as can be, so you guess he decided to skip out on the after-show festivities they usually partake in. “I um… I lost the key card to my room.” He explains, gesturing to the door across from where he’s seated.

“The band is out for the night, and the lobby’s closed, so…”

You nod in understanding, glancing around the empty hallway, catching sight of a cleaning lady entering a room down the corridor. And technically, you don’t owe Eddie anything.

You could leave him here in the hallway to spend the night sleeping on the hard ground, and it probably wouldn’t bother him either way because Eddie clearly doesn’t like you, but fuck you feel bad.

You’re not a terrible person. You wouldn’t kick somebody when they’re already down, and Eddie… Eddie is clearly down.

Before you can thoroughly think it over, your liquor-weighted mouth speaks before you can stop yourself, “You could crash in my room for the night.”

Eddie looks at you with the blankest expression he could ever muster and blinks, “Why would I do that?”

God, he’s such a fucking asshole.

You shrug, gently swinging the bucket in your hand and glancing around again, “I don’t know, unless you'd like to sit here all night like a moron, then be my guest.”

Your ankle hurts as you stand and wait for Eddie to make up his mind, and just when you almost decide to throw in the towel and let him fend for himself, Eddie grumbles a short “Fine,” and gets up.

You watch as he reaches down to grab his leather jacket and turns to you, “You can go ahead; I have to get ice for my foot.” You tell him, pointing to your door so he knows where to go.

Eddie glances down at your injured leg and says nothing before he reaches forward and gently takes the bucket from your hands— cold, jewelry-covered fingers brushing up against your warm knuckles and sending shivers up your spine.

He hands you his jacket, and you stand silently, confused by the exchange. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he answers your question, “I’ll get the ice.” And he doesn’t even bother looking at you before turning around and leaving to find the ice machine.

You’re too drunk to figure out what that was about, and your ankle is starting to throb under the pressure of standing, so you walk back to your room clutching his jacket and trying your hardest not to let the familiar scent of Eddie knock you dead.

You leave the door slightly propped open for Eddie and place his jacket on the chair near the desk. In the meantime, you busy yourself with removing your suitcase and clothes you’d haphazardly tossed around from the extra bed where Eddie will be sleeping. You figure you’ll just head to bed once Eddie gets here, so you exchange your jeans and fitted top for shorts and a ratty old He-Man shirt from high school.

You’re setting your previous clothes aside when Eddie steps into the room, a bucket full of ice in one hand with a Coke and chips in the other. You raise an eyebrow, questioning the extra items, and he shrugs as he shuts the door with his foot, “What? The vending machine was right next to the ice, and I was hungry.” He explains as he places the bucket on the desk, making sure to avoid placing it on your work pages. He tries his best not to look at what you’ve written, and you don’t point it out when he clears his throat and diverts his attention to something else. He grabs the wine bottle and shakes it, raising an eyebrow when he realizes it’s less than halfway full, “I take it someone had a good time?”

You roll your eyes, walking over to take the bottle and put it back on the desk. “Not that it’s any of your business.” You respond, turning to grab a ziplock to fill with ice. Eddie takes the bag from you and shoos you away, “Go sit down, I’ll do it.”

Your face twists in confusion, “You’re starting to scare me. Are you gonna kill me?”

Eddie laughs and busies himself with scooping large chunks of ice and dropping them into the open ziplock. “I will if you don’t sit down.” He responds.

You relent and walk over to your bed, sitting at the head of the mattress to lean against the pillows near the headboard, doing your best to shove a pillow beneath your foot lazily. You sit silently, hands folded against your stomach, watching Eddie work.

He’s wearing his usual black jeans, decorated with hanging chains from his waist, and a plain white shirt, hidden muscles flexing beneath the soft cotton. His shoulders are broad yet hidden beneath the thick, curly mane of hair he has. Tattoos litter his arms, a few trickling down to his fingers, and you catch glimpses of his knuckles dripping with drops of water from the ice and— fuck.

There’s no way you’re checking out Eddie Munson, the asshole who’s made your life a living hell these past few weeks. You really can’t handle your liquor.

You panic and grab the TV remote, quickly turning it on to fill the silence. You distract yourself by watching the random sitcom playing until Eddie steps into your view. You must’ve been focused on the show because Eddie seems to have traveled to the restroom to get a towel to wrap around your makeshift ice pack. Your sheets are pulled back, leaving your bare legs on display, and you can’t help but squirm when Eddie stands at the foot of the bed and takes in the sight of you.

He says nothing as he gently lowers the ice onto your ankle. His inked fingers sink into the plush cotton of the towel, and if Eddie weren’t an artist, you bet he could land a job as a hand model. Or maybe you’ve really lost it.

His gaze flickers to catch your wide eyes, and you hold your breath when he speaks, “Is it too cold? Do you need another towel?” He asks. You stutter to answer him, so you shake your head no, eventually sputtering out a response of, “N-no, it’s fine. Thank you.”

Eddie turns to grab his snacks and falls into the other bed with a sigh, cracking open the bag of chips and popping a few into his mouth. You grimace and pull the sheets over your body as you comment, “If you bring ants to my room, I swear to god, Munson, I’ll hunt you down.”

Eddie chuckles, glancing at you as you shift around and get comfortable in bed, “Not with that broken foot, you won’t.”

You glare at him over the heap of expensive duvets and pillows, “I wonder whose fault that is?” You respond, falling back into bed when you see him roll his eyes.

Eddie clears his throat after a moment, “Speaking of that,” he begins; you peek over at him once again to watch as he puts the chips aside and grabs the remote to start flicking through channels. “Since we’re off these next four days, you should keep it light on your feet.”

You sarcastically laugh, “Don’t tell me you’re actually concerned for my well-being. This night keeps getting weirder and weirder.” You joke. Eddie pauses his task to glance at you, “No, I just…” You raise an eyebrow, urging him to continue. He rolls his eyes, “I’m not a complete asshole, you know?” He grumbles, turning back to the TV.

You’re snuggled into your sheets now as you watch Eddie flip through the channels, admiring how different features of his face light up under the different colors from the screen. He’s… pretty.

“What do you have planned for your days off?” You question behind a drawn-out yawn. You think you catch a glimpse of a smile on Eddie’s lips, but you can’t see very well in the dim lighting. “My Uncle Wayne is flying in, so… I’m spending time with him,” Eddie explains. You smile, “Your uncle?”

Eddie nods, and you hum, “That’s nice… Can I meet him?”

You’re never drinking wine again.

Eddie looks at you as if you’ve asked him the dumbest question on earth, “Why would… why?”

You shrug, “Maybe he’ll help me figure out why you’re such a grump.” You half-heartedly tease. Eddie scoffs, returning to watch the movie he’s landed on, “If you think I’m grumpy, you’re not equipped to meet Wayne.” He comments. And then something remarkable happens.

Eddie smiles to himself.

It’s small and obviously not meant for your eyes, but you see it either way, and it… fuck, it makes you feel things you would’ve never imagined you could for such an asshole of a man. What is going on?

“He can’t be any worse than you.” You joke. Eddie scoffs, “Nah, Wayne takes the cake for grumpiest man alive,” he bids.

Eddie tells you about Wayne, little memories he remembers that bleed into more memories until, eventually, he’s practically taking a walk down memory road. You go back and forth with him, commenting when you had a similar situation or when Eddie mentioned the same show you loved in high school.

At some point, Eddie’s stories and the low hum of the TV lull you to sleep, and you find yourself lying in cotton candy clouds, sinking into the softness and letting it surround you.

Eddie’s not sure when you checked out on him, but he figures he’d been talking to himself for a while because you're fast asleep when he looks over at you.

He watches you for a moment and appreciates the way the blue and white hues of the TV dance across your face. Your skin looks soft under the fluorescent lights, and he thinks the steady rise and fall of your breaths is more entertaining than any movie he could’ve landed on. And you’re so pretty— soft and molded to perfection, and Eddie thinks he might like you more like this; when you’re not talking and being the most obnoxious person he’s ever met. Eddie hates the feeling he gets in his chest from just looking at you.

You’re cute, he thinks.

He shakes his head to free himself from whatever weird feelings are spiraling through his mind, and he turns off the TV, letting the darkness swallow the room.

He’ll just have to worry about his feelings another time, he thinks.

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part four

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a/n: HII U MADE IT TO THE END, U CAN ALL THANK MY STINK @mmunson86 FOR THE TINY PIECE OF FLUFF, THIS WAS FOR U BAE <3 ANYWAYS, PLS LET ME KNOW HOW U LIKED THIS PART I ALWAYS LOVE TO HEAR UR FEEDBACK, ILY BYE

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cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975 @demxnicprxncess @emma77645 @sidthedollface2 @mvnsonslvt @s-u-t

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readychilledwine · 1 year

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helloooo! had a super random idea that I thought I’d throw your way but if you don’t want to write it, no worries! i know there’s not really dragons in acotar but what if one of the bat boys (whoever you want to write this for) encounters a group of dragons and find an illyrian with them who was raised by dragons. (The dragons think she’s one of them bc she has wings lol) a female who was abandoned by their parents because they wanted a son or something like that. (but now I’m thinking what if she was cassian’s long lost sister or something but in that case obviously she wouldn’t be paired with cassian lol) and she’s basically like half feral and whoever you pair her with is her mate and cannot convince her to go with them to velaris but they figure it out somehow 🥹 and when they finally do she’s just like baffled by simple things like dresses and kitchen utensils and how soft their beds are 😂 and now the night court has a small army of dragons because they listen to her 🤷🏽‍♀️ you can make her an OC if you want!

I can respond to this now that Bound by Fate Part 3 is up and has some traction 🤣 I was going to ask if you got into my Google drive somehow. Kaylee is going to have a similar journey to this only Kaylee's is going to be based on the concept that magic has a price, and the more magic she uses, the bigger the price, where as this journey will be about finding her humanity.

I'm pretty excited about this. Not gonna lie. 💜

Flight Patterns Part 1

Summary - After years of hushed whispers and leads, Azriel has finally found Cassian's lost sister, Aerilyn. What he found with her was unexpected, though.

Warnings - violence

A/n - Aerilyn is going to be fairly feral for these first few parts. Also, she speaks sindarian (like Lord of the Rings elves sindarian, so translations will be at the end of the chapters)

Part Two Part Three

Aerilyn stared at the male wrapped in shadows as if she'd never seen another illyrian before. As if she'd never seen another fae before, Azriel thought to himself.

She was beautiful, exactly as he had expected her to be, with her long dark hair cascading into waves behind her, her tanned unmarked skin, the bright burning hazel eyes. She was a softer, smaller, and delicate version of Cassian.

Azriel approached her slowly, his hands raised in front of him. " I do not want to hurt you. I have been looking for you for a very, very long time." Over 319 years to be exact. With you right under our noses this whole time, he thought bitterly to himself.

She had been left to die after her wings were taken. Thrown into the Illyrian woods beaten and bloodied before Cassian eventually burnt that Camp to the ground. She was three at the time. How she survived was a mystery, one Azriel knew they'd need to figure out.

She eyed him cautiously, her head tilted to the side before taking a step back and away from him. "I won't hurt you, Aerilyn." Her eyes narrowed, but then she suddenly relaxed. A small smile forming on her face as Azriel felt the ground shaking behind him.

He felt the warm breath of whatever it was before the deep growl came. His eyes shut slowly at the scent of ember and rot that lingered in the air. He turned slowly, feeling shock set into his system as he sat face to face with a fire Drake. He felt the ground rumble again, then again, and once more. Rhys. I'm going to need help. Now. Drop whatever the fuck you're doing.

Cassian and Rhys appeared beside him instantly. A grumbled, "Cauldron fucking drown me," leaving the generals mouth as they all stood back to back. "Azriel, what the fuck?"

Azriel looked to where Aerilyn stood, her eyes locked on Cassian and her head tilted to the side. "She knows you, Cass. And they're protecting her." He could tell his brother was avoiding looking at her. Avoiding the pain that'd come from how much she truly looked like their mother.

Rhysand grabbed their hands. "You have 30 seconds, Cassian or I'm getting us the fuck out of here."

Cassian glanced at his little sister, his heart tightening in his chest at how small she was. They held eye contact for a moment and he lowered his weapons and held his hands up to her. He took one step and an immediate growl and shift came from the winged beast closest to him. A deep warning not to approach her. "Would she have memories of anything specific? Something special between the two of you?" Rhys asked softly. "I can't get into her head. It's.. it's a mess, Cassian."

Cassian didn't notice the feather light touch in Rhysand's jaw, the way his eyes kept flickering to the female in concern. Azriel had, though. He noted the immediate change in Rhysand's body language. The calm and composed High Lord was struggling to maintain himself.

Azriel would have laughed if there wasn't a black scaled beast staring him down as if he was nothing more than a delicious snack.

Cassian spoke to her softly. "When you were little, you had a little stuffed bunny. His name was Sir Hop." A flicker of recognition went across her face. Cassian took a small step forward. The beast growled softer this time. "I still have him," the soft confession hung in the air. "Rhysand's mom enchanted it. She made sure he'd never stop smelling like you. You could not sleep without him or me. Mom said you just tossed and turned crying constantly if he went missing or I was gone. I always worried about if you were sleeping when our father ripped me from the house." Another tentative step, but no growl chilling the three of them to the core.

She studied Cassian hard. Stepping close to him until they were but an arms length away. Her brain knew him. It screamed for her to remember him. She didn't understand all of his words, but she knew his voice. His scent. "Come with me," Cassian offered. "Come home with me."

"Cassian, 5 seconds. If she does not take your hand in 5 seconds, we are done here." Rhys warned as one of the beasts, a lighter Grey monster that seemed to blend into its surroundings leaned closer to the High Lord and growled.

For whatever reason, this beast wanted him dead.

"Duar," a feminine voice that reminded Rhysand of finely aged wine, spoke softly. The beast coiled away from him with one last growl. She was so close to Cassian, breathing in the scent of a warm fire and winter winds.

"You have a freckle on your ribs," Cassian whispered, his hand reaching out to touch right above her heart. "Right here." She allowed him to bring her into him. He held her close as her arms stayed at her side.

Rhys took the chance, his hands shooting for Cassian and Azriel and winnowing them back to the townhouse with heavy breaths.

The hug was no longer gentle, not as her fight began. Aerilyn kicked, screamed, and fought as Cassian pulled her into the warded house. Madja was there and ready, knowing the girl would need medical attention and an evaluation.

After watching her land a harsh closed fist onto Rhysand's cheek as he spoke to her, Madja immediately switched what she had planned, grabbing a needle filled with a sedative and shoving it into the illyrian female's arm.

"I'm sorry," Cassian cried as he lowered her to the floor. "I'm so fucking sorry. Shhhh it's okay. It's okay, you're safe."

His sister fell asleep in his arms, wrapped tight against his body as he rocked her back and forth against his chest.

Rhysand held his jaw, "She knows s few words and the alphabet. We will need to work on that to communicate with her," he ground out. "She can speak an ancient language I do not even know, but Amren might. Also, she's my fucking mate."

Cassian watched in silence as Rhysand left the room, went upstairs, and slammed another door shut with a soft click to indicate he had locked it.

Madja inclined her head to the bed they had ready for her, "Lay her down. I don't need her awake to know how healthy she is or what she needs."

Duar - "stop/hault"

#acotar #rhys acotar #rhysand x oc #batboys #rhysand acotar #multi part fic

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yauchfilms · 3 months

Text

fever pitch ✢ connor dewar

pairing: connor dewar x fem!reader

warnings: fluff!, mentions of vomiting, this is a sick fic!!!, swearing, connor being down bad

summary: connor comes to pick up y/n for their first date. he wasn’t expecting to spend the evening playing nurse…..

word count: 2.3k

author's note: based tightly on one of my favorite scenes in cinema, from the greatest film of all time.

connor grasps tightly onto the bouquet of flowers he had thrown together earlier in the evening from his weekly trader joe’s run: baby’s breath and daisies haphazardly wrapped in yesterday’s edition of the star tribune that he so graciously “borrowed” from the pr office this morning. nervously bringing his closed fist to the door, he sends it; three curt knocks hitting the front door to your apartment.

he waits a beat, hearing nothing but what he swears is a loud, ominous groan. perplexed, he knocks again.

“hey, it’s, uh, it’s connor? kaylee and du- uh, brandon’s friend,” he calls out, not entirely sure that he’s even speaking to anyone.

suddenly, the handle turns, and he’s met with you – pale, chapped, hair a sweaty, matted mess and totally unlike what you looked like in the photos that his teammate’s girlfriend had showed him last week when she decided you two needed to grab a drink together.

“oh my god,” you utter, “come back; i’ll call you tomorrow. i’m so sorry, i’m so fucking sick.”

you attempt to close the door, trying to retreat back into the comfort of your apartment to stake your claim back on the toilet bowl, when suddenly an arm is blocking your path.

“wait, wait! what kind of sick? are you- are you in pain?” connor probes, a look of genuine concern washing over him. his blue-gray eyes meet with yours, pleading with you, and suddenly, the amount of guilt in your mind increases tenfold.

“i- i ate at this new place for lunch, and i think –” you muster, and suddenly a wave of nausea overtakes you once again, and you sprint your way back to the safety of your bathroom, leaving your date at the door once again.

“are you faking it? because, you know, we don’t have to really do this. we can lie and tell kaylee we went out, if you want,” you hear connor call out to you, him still not daring to cross the threshold.

you don’t respond, your head too busy shoved into the toilet, trying to empty out the contents of your stomach. you plead to anyone you can to save yourself from this torment – your mom, god, any higher power at this point.

you hear footsteps suddenly approaching, and you let out another groan. he really won’t take the hint, will he?

suddenly, there’s a knock on the open bathroom door.

“so, uh, do you wanna call a raincheck on this? i can come back tomorrow if you’re not busy,” he calls to you, his head finally peeking into the bathroom. you can’t believe he’s seeing you like this, as you let out another heave into the bowl. all you can do is groan again.

a few moments pass, and you finally feel a wave of reprieve, sitting back on your heels.

somehow, he’s still standing there, leaning against the doorframe.

he stuck it out for this long; surely he could be of help in your time of need?

“please stay,” you whisper, voice barely audible in the echoing bathroom.

suddenly, he’s by your side, helping you up off the ground. steadying your grip on his arm, his opposite hand skirting your waist, not daring to roam anywhere unwanted. he looks around for a trashcan, unable to locate one in your bathroom. he grabs the closest thing he can find – an empty, cloth laundry bag tucked into a metal basket. normally you would complain, but all you want in this moment is your bed.

he leads you out of the en suite and back into your bedroom, being careful as to not move too quickly or suddenly.

“that’s it, almost there,” he soothes, not quite in your ear, but close enough to where the words feel comforting.

he leads you to your bed, attempting to prop your weakened body up against the side of it.

“that’s it; right there,” he mutters, almost to himself. turning quickly, he lets go, and you immediately flop back onto the bed.

“oh fuck!” he exclaims, quickly moving to catch onto you. all you can do is wince at the impact.

he runs a soothing hand over your aching head.

“shhh,” he coos, grabbing one of your pillows. he tells you to lift up, and soon he’s placing the pillow under your head. you look back up at him, babbling incoherently about the embarrassment of the situation. but if he heard it, he chose to ignore it.

he stands back up, smoothing out the jeans he’s wearing.

“do you have any pajamas?” he asks, and you realise that you’re still in the outfit you had planned on wearing out tonight.

“top drawer,” you manage to get out, pointing lazily towards your dresser across the room.

he gets a move on, sauntering over to the dresser, clapping his hands together as if creating a game plan in his head. his concern, coupled with his ability to keep the situation light, made you feel at ease.

opening the drawer, he spots an old, ratty minnesota wild t-shirt, a shirt that has obviously been a sleep staple for years.

he lets out a small giggle, holding it up to show it off to you.

“you know, i think i could get you some cleaner ones; i’m kind of a big deal around here,” he says, a smile appearing across his face.

you chuckle to yourself. it’s the first time you have felt any semblance of normalcy since the feeling in your stomach first appeared.

your eyes meet again, and he closes the drawer with the shirt and a pair of pajama shorts.

putting the clothes down next to you, he grabs your arms and places them around his neck. you rest your chin on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne, a soft, yet manly scent that makes you feel at ease.

“i’m so sorry about this again,” you whine into his ear. rubbing your back, he assures you that you have nothing to be sorry about.

suddenly, you’re standing up, chests pressed tightly against each other. you pause to really take in his features – reddish hair tousled loosely against his forehead, freckles lining the bridge of his nose. looking down to meet your eyes, he brings a hand up to push back the hair caked to your forehead from sweat.

“i’m gonna help you change, if that’s okay. i promise i won’t look.”

all you can do is nod your head.

his hands fall to your waist, lightly gripping the bottom hem of the top you’re wearing. it’s in that moment that you forgot that you had forgone a bra today, suddenly feeling exposed, but honestly not even caring at this point.

he lifts the material over your head and lets out a deep sigh.

“okay, i looked. sorry. they’re nice,” he confesses, and all you can do is laugh at the absurdity of the moment. picking the t-shirt from the bed, he tucks it over your head, guiding your arms through the holes. at this point, you are more than aware that you could dress yourself, but there’s something about the intimacy of it all that you find exhilarating.

next to go is your jeans, the long t-shirt fortunately covering your lower half. you unbutton them yourself, so as not to take things too far too soon. you hold his shoulders to help you stand up, the soft muscle under his shirt making your mind race. he brings the shorts up your legs, his fingers trailing up ever-so-gently your thighs. if you weren’t so ill right now, you might just jump his bones.

“feel better?” he asks, waiting for your approval. you give him a quick nod, signaling to him that you’re ready for bed. you look back behind you, ready to crawl up on the bed yourself, when suddenly, his arm is scooping under your thigh, and he has you in his arms. you could have walked there yourself, but you must admit, this is kind of nice.

lowering you to the bed, you hear him mutter, “hey, it’s gonna be okay; there’s nothing left to throw up; i promise!” there’s a sweetness and sincerity to his voice that makes you melt.

“and if you do, you got your hamper right here,” he continues, and you know he’s being serious, but you can’t help but laugh.

he gives your hand a squeeze, and you reciprocate, his touch feeling oddly calming to you. he looks around the room for a second, unsure of his next move, until he walks out of your bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. within minutes, you fall asleep.

you had assumed connor had left. there was no more reason for him to stay, right? so when you wake up to the sound of shuffling in your room, you’re caught by surprise. connor walks toward you, placing a bottle of gatorade on your bedside table. he leans down, pushing a loose piece of hair from your face. you know you must look like a mess.

“hey, drink this when you feel like it, baby,” he whispers. baby. hm. you liked how he said that. it must’ve been a force of habit for him, but you wouldn’t complain.

his calming touch sends you back to sleep almost immediately, you whispering your thanks to him as you drift off.

suddenly, you’re awake again, but you swear you’re still dreaming because you look into your bathroom, and there he is, on his hands and knees, scrubbing your toilet. there’s no way any of this is real, and you think to yourself that you just might have to propose when you’re coherent enough.

the next morning, you wake up, feeling significantly better than the night before. you quickly retreat to the shower, washing away the sweat and filth that coated your body, and thinking about the absolute fever dream that was last night. slipping into your bathrobe, you brush your teeth to rid the last bits of funk from your palette.

walking into your living room, you fully expect to find yourself alone, but instead, there connor is, asleep on your couch, cuddled up with your dog, ernie. you smile to yourself, clearing your throat. ernie scrambles off the couch, and connor bolts awake.

“oh my god, i’m so fucking sorry,” he exclaims, embarrassment settling across his face.

“no, no, it’s okay, i just wasn’t expecting you to actually stay,” you respond, the smile on your face never wavering.

he gets up off the couch fully, sauntering over to you. you’re now finally standing face to face, both of you fully coherent. you can see him taking you in, his breath hitching. you look him over, fully realizing just how attractive he is. you take his hand, giving it a squeeze.

“you didn’t have to stay, but you did. that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. thanks for cleaning the bathroom by the way.”

“yeah, it’s no- it’s no problem. i couldn’t let myself leave you like this. i would’ve been kicking myself if i knew you had gotten worse if you were all alone,” he replies.

“there’s more gatorade in the fridge, by the way. it was 3 for $6 at the bodega and i figured you should probably continue stocking up on those electrolytes, you know,” he continues, a shy blush stretching across his cheeks.

“wow, you would think you’re some kind of professional athlete or something,” you jest, and his face breaks into a mischievous grin.

“yeah, i’ve picked up a thing or two, i guess,” he retorts.

“well, connor, i definitely think i owe you a better date. do you want to go get breakfast?” you ask, silently praying that you hadn't turned him off with the awkwardness of the night before.

he pulls his phone out of his pocket, looking at the time, a wince escaping his lips.

“unfortunately, i’ve got practice in an hour, so i don’t think i can do breakfast. if you give me a few hours, though, i can swing back by and we can grab lunch around 2? if that works for you?”

you nod your head in agreement, and boldly, you wrap your hands around his neck. his hands find comfort on your hips, fingers toying with the belt of your robe.

“you know, as far as first dates go, this was definitely the most interesting one i’ve had,” you smirk, and he looks down at you, eyes lingering towards your lips.

“oh is that right?” he teases, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. “can i kiss you?” he mumbles, the nervousness in his voice evident.

“i did just brush my teeth…” you trail off, your face settling into his hand.

he leans down, placing a chaste, yet sweet kiss to your lips. you chase him, deepening it, melting into his touch. it was silly, making out with a boy you just met in your living room, after he spent the night cleaning up your vomit. but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

suddenly, you’re interrupted by the sound of his phone pinging.

“oh shit, i forgot i’m supposed to be picking dewey up for practice this morning,” he sighs, not wanting to sour the moment.

“it’s okay, you go. you know where to find me when you’re done,” you reply, a hint of seduction in your voice.

he gathers up his things, heading towards the door, giving ernie a pat on the head on his way out. you stop him before he leaves, planting one last kiss to his lips, before he’s fully out the door and walking down the hall with a quick “see you later”. you close the door behind you, finally noticing the bouquet of flowers he had left on the catch-all by the door. you let out another deep sigh.

yeah. you were screwed.

#nhl x reader #toronto maple leafs #connor dewar #connor dewar x reader #nhl fluff #hockey imagine #hockey oneshot #connor dewar x you

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