Corroded Coffin Fest Pop-Up: A Million Words and Counting...
A million words. Six zeros behind that one.
The theme for this surprise pop-up event is Million, which is the number of words we have now surpassed as a group for our Corroded Coffin Fest Events! Look at that! Amazing work, everyone.
(I've had this event in my drafts for months just waiting for us to hit this milestone, and now we have! 🎉)
This event takes place for 11.5 days (roughly 1 million seconds!) from right now until June 12th.
You can interpret the prompt in any way you'd like, as long as you've focused on one or more members of Corroded Coffin.
GUIDELINES:
Please tag us here at @corrodedcoffinfest when you post your entries so we can reblog them!
There is no word limit for this challenge.
You'll get a comment from this blog with a "🎉" when it's been checked and added to the queue.
Submissions can be connected to other prompts or works, but they should still be able to stand alone.
Feel free to use the ao3 collection after you've been reblogged here!
All submissions should include any pairings featured, a rating and any content warnings (CW) or tags that you think are appropriate. Also include the the song you chose! (Whoops, no required song for this one, lol.) All explicit material needs be under a cut. Headers make my life easier, and a sample of one could look something like this:
Prompt: Million | Word Count: 3421 | Rating: T | POV: Gareth | Relationships: Gareth & Eddie | CW: None | Tags: Famous Corroded Coffin, Record Deal
For the artists! Art is definitely welcome! Any entries for the prompt must be focused on at least one Corroded Coffin member, and fit the prompt and guidelines.
Please submit your entries between now and 11:59 PM EST on June 12, 2026.
Summary: Daniel helps Teresa relieve a little bit of her stress.
Includes: soft fem-dom, Daniel with his head where it doesn’t belong (yes, that means what you think it means—between Teresa’s legs), teasing, and feeding the boy dinner. (18+ ONLY mdni | CONTAINS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENT)
Chapter 9 • 3,942 words • When the Dust Settles masterlist
Rather read on AO3? Click here!
Her boy stands there, pouring liquor from a decanter into a short glass. Right, Fisk had something personal to take care of tonight. But what the hell is Daniel doing here? His eyes shoot up to meet hers and he smiles when he sees who it is barging in. Her heart races. So many conflicting feelings fester inside her until she feels absolutely strung out and sick.
Without asking he pours her a drink, and thank God, because she needs one. Desperately. She shuts and locks the doors before sauntering over and downing the whole thing in one go. Her lips come away wet and Daniel’s eyes linger there. Her body feels hot so she shrugs off her coat and sets the glass back on the desk.
“Top it off,” she demands.
He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
The air feels thick with a tension she wasn’t part of and it turns her stomach. He’s too damn jolly and she’s in too much of a mood to play nice. All that anger bubbles to the surface, blazing across her chest and face like a wildfire.
“What was BB doing here?” she asks, watching the way he reacts, looking for a waver or a tell that he’s lying.
He knows from her flat tone that this is serious and promptly wipes the grin off his face. He leans against the desk in front of her and looks like he’s trying to read her. This will be new territory for both of them if she blows up and she’d rather he didn’t see that.
“I was doing what you said to do,” he confesses carefully. “I’m not letting her take advantage anymore.”
She narrows her eyes, but keeps her thoughts to herself because she knows they’re crazy and not like her. At least the her that he’s met.
He shrugs. “I was giving her the opportunity to be a team player.”
Her jaw clenches involuntarily so she opens her mouth to take a deep breath and another sip of her drink before she speaks. “You’re not in a position to give opportunities.”
“Okay, not an opportunity, but . . . I guess we had a conversation.” He squirms under her attention. “Maybe I wanted to call her out for the whole Mayor Garbage thing. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Fuck. He’s trying so hard. Too hard. And right now nothing is going to please her.
She paces across the room and takes the large pin from her hair, letting the waves tumble down her mid back. That was starting to give her a headache on top of everything else.
“Did I do something wrong?”
His voice cuts her deep. He’s so obedient and careful, and as bad as she craves that, it makes her feel worse. Sad. Because he’s struggling to find his place now, struggling to please her, because it’s about regulating her emotions and not about teasing this time. She can tell he’s done that before. Hell, he’s probably done it his whole life, made everyone else around him happy to protect himself. That’s why he’s the loyal dog who doesn’t complain, because even abused animals still love their owners.
She turns around and goes back to him, sucking up her own feelings and shoving them back into Pandora’s box. “No, you’ve done everything right,” she says the thing she’s always wanted to hear and never has.
He slowly lets loose a crooked smile. At least he recovers quickly. “I missed you today. Fisk sorta made it sound like we had plans.”
“We did. They fell through.”
Oh, boy.
He missed her? Damn it, no. Now she’s going to think about it, about how no one has ever said that to her before, about how no one has probably ever felt that for her before. Why did he have to go and say something stupid like that? And he doesn’t even mean it. He can’t.
She moves closer so that they’re touching and digs her thumb nail into the soft flesh of his stomach until he doubles over then knocks his leg out. He lands on his hands and knees, breathless.
“What are you doing?” he asks on the end of a cough, looking up at her with betrayed watery eyes so perfect she almost folds.
She just wants to know how far she can push. That’s how she was taught. “You’ll need some self defense training,” she says, voice foreign to her own ears.
He starts to get up but she sticks her high heel between his legs, pushing down ever so slightly. Whether he believes it or not, she isn’t trying to cause him pain. She only wants him to learn what she needs from him. Which he does quickly, settling back onto his knees and waiting for instruction. Oh, he’s her favorite thing in the world in this position, gazing up at her with those big brown eyes.
It’s time to do the reckless thing.
She leans back against the desk, kicking her heels off, and letting her legs part. Daniel’s mouth falls open slightly as his gaze is drawn downward and he makes no effort to correct himself. He looks shamelessly but is well behaved enough to know not to touch.
With both hands, she fingers the hem of her dress, slowly sliding it up her thighs. It’s intoxicating the way he watches with the look of a man who hasn’t eaten in days. God, she hopes he’s never done this before, hopes she’s the first to feed him.
“Has the anticipation worn off, Danny-boy?” she asks, knowing when he had said it earlier it was bullshit.
He lets out a disbelieving laugh, and his chest rises and falls quickly as he looks up at her, eyes heavy with lust. “Fuck no.”
He’s so pretty down there—all broad shoulders, thick thighs, and soft hair she wants to grab ahold of. It drives her crazy to know she’s going to have to take this slow, to give a little to get. She made a promise after all. It’s his reward, not hers. And shit, he deserves it after the way she’s let her mood get the better of her and the way he’s been able to appease her. But perhaps that means she deserves it too.
Her dress rides further and further up her thighs as she spreads her legs until the lace of her panties finally has its debut.
The noise Daniel makes is both adorable and completely arousing. If he were a different man he’d rise off his knees and take her right here on the boss’s desk. But he’s not, and she feels blessed beyond belief for that. He waits for her word because he’s so well behaved already.
She beckons him with her finger and he shuffles forward until she can feel his hot breath panting against her exposed skin. But still he waits, hands on his knees, digging in like he has to so he won’t reach out and touch her.
“What do you want to do, Daniel?”
He groans almost painfully. “I wanna take those off,” he says, entirely enthralled by the strip of fabric between her legs.
“Go ahead.”
He hesitates like he’s waiting for her to pull the rug. Then finally raises his hands, placing his palms to her knees first, sliding tantalizingly slow toward his destination, thumbs pressing into the meat of her thighs as he makes his way. Up, up, up they go, and her hips pitch forward to meet him involuntarily. His fingers curl into the thin waist band and gently pull her panties down. He stops breathing, waiting and watching as they slide the length of her legs. She kicks them to the side when he finally gets them all the way off.
For a moment, he closes his eyes. She has to smile at him for how sweet that is because she knows he must be as eager as she feels. His hands tighten in the notch below her hips and she shivers at the slight coolness of his pinky ring against her skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out.
“Aw.” She bites her lip to keep from laughing, and runs her fingers through his soft hair. “You’re too kind.”
He looks up at her as if she’s an altar, like he’s finally been given the chance to do the one thing he’s wanted to do his entire life and is petrified to lose it. He pleads with those sweet puppy eyes and it drives her nuts.
“What do you want now, Daniel?”
He holds her eyes and squeezes her hips deliberately. “I wanna kiss you here.”
“Yeah? What do you say?”
“Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please, may I kiss your pussy?”
She does a whole body shudder at those words, rolling her hips into the pressure of his fingers. He listens like he’s afraid to miss a single breath. It unravels something deep within her and she’s sure she won’t recover from this but there is no going back now. “Yes,” she agrees, voice fraught with need. “Show me what you want to do.”
His hands slide down from her hips, to the tops of her thighs where he gently pulls them even further apart. There’s an unsureness in the way he moves, testing the waters, waiting for her to stop him, maybe to tell him it was all a sick joke. When she doesn’t, he goes forth slowly, like a fledgeling feeling his way. He glances up one last time then buries his head between her legs.
The first touch of his lips to her bare skin is strangely innocent. A real kiss. He’d meant what he said, not a fabrication to make the act sound nicer. He places another, moving down, just soft little pecks that have her impatient with want.
Then his mouth opens, tongue dipping, searching. She closes her eyes to the sensation as it sparks. He licks one long stripe up then back down and she imagines he looks up at her as he does this but she can’t open her eyes to confirm. It would be too much.
He squeezes her thighs again and nuzzles his face further against her, lazily lapping in a rhythm now. She can’t help herself. She looks.
His lashes fan out over his cheeks as he flicks his tongue, completely occupied by devotion to her pleasure. What a beautiful boy. She grips his hair and throws her head back with a moan. He echoes it against her, thrusting forward to lave and suckle and nip the sensitive flesh between her legs.
“Is this what you hoped for when—” The question breaks from her lips with another moan.
“Mhm,” he mumbles against her, knowing what she means to say.
She’s so wet and desperate she aches inside, her tightness throbbing with each heartbeat. It's a beautiful kind of torment to have him between her thighs, sending her over the edge, because he wants to and not because she’s asking or demanding. He does it for himself too, moaning and rocking against her.
And it’s his sounds that push her even further—the eager little uh, uh, uh as he jerks his chin, stiffly licking her until the sound is as lewd as a dirty film. The burst of pleasure is so quick it surprises her and she loses balance, fisting his hair. He moans for her, his messy mouth still giving and giving and giving.
“You’re doing so good, Daniel,” she whispers. “You’re gonna make me . . .”
His hands dig into her thighs and he groans, nudging eagerly forward to chase her orgasm. She rides his face, fingers so tight in his hair they hurt. It’s so close. She arches and jerks, and he presses on, whimpering as if it feels just as good to him. Then all at once it snaps.
She cries out, coming so hard that stars zing across her darkened vision. And he licks her through it until she’s overwrought with sensation. She buckles and grabs his shoulder. “Slow.”
His brown eyes glisten as he looks up, tongue idly moving through her wetness.
“Come here,” she murmurs.
Instantly he’s off the ground, albeit a little wobbly, so she grabs him by this collar to hold him steady and kisses him. It’s heated, intense, almost bruising, but it feels so good.
He groans into her mouth, fidgeting. “T-Teresa . . .”
“Yeah, baby,” she says, pulling away to look at him and brush the sweaty hair from his forehead.
“I . . .” He looks haunted. And he’s holding her away from his body with shaking hands.
For a moment she’s confused until she looks down and sees the wet spot in the front of his slacks. She meets his eyes again and he looks so damn embarrassed, cheeks flaming red. It can’t be helped, she bursts out laughing and cuts herself off by pressing her mouth to his.
“Oh, you are such a good boy,” she purrs, kissing him until he moans and she breaks away with one of her own. “Have you ever come untouched like that?”
“No,” he says with a shaky breath. “You’re not mad?”
She holds his face in her hands and looks him in the eyes, wondering where the hell he’d get that idea. “No, I’m not mad.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “You must think I’m, like, a pathetic pervert or something. I didn’t mean for that to . . .”
“Look at me,” she says and he does. “I like it. And I’ll maybe even give you a chance to redeem yourself if you want it but I like it, Daniel. I like that you feel my pleasure.”
He looks down but a smile tugs the edge of his lips. “Next time I want to at least get out of my pants.”
She laughs. Next time. Oh, she looks forward to that but she must pace herself. They say that flames this hot burn out quick.
“It’s late,” she tells him and herself.
“Right. You should go.” He bends down on one knee and, like a gentleman, helps her back into her panties. He shimmies her dress back down too and lets out a little noise as if remembering moments ago. He shakes his head. “You really gotta go. ‘Cause I would do that again right now if you asked. I’m already . . .”
Wow. He recovers quickly. But no such luck of getting rid of her. “We carpooled, remember? You gotta come with me unless you wanna ride in the back of a stinky cab with a visible stain on the front of your pants.”
He gapes for a second. “Yup. I’m going with you.”
The front seat of Teresa’s car is so comfortable Daniel nearly falls asleep on the way home. He’s starting to think there’s some sort of melatonin shooting out of her air vents. He would quickly descend into slumber if it weren’t for the sticky situation in his boxers. He’ll be hopping in the shower first thing. But Christ, he’s exhausted. From adrenaline probably. He nearly passed out from the rush the second he had his head between her thighs.
He can still smell her on his skin, taste her if he licks his lips. If he had the courage, he’d jump her as soon as they got to his apartment and eat her out all night long. The sounds she makes, the way she pulls his hair until it almost hurts, it all makes him burn with want. Hell, he came in his pants untouched which he hasn’t done since he was a teenager watching late night adult channels in his parents basement. That goes to show what kind of effect she has.
They pull up to his apartment and he’s surprised when she unbuckles her seatbelt too. Is she coming in with him? He doesn’t dare ask and lets the universe handle his fate. Sure enough, she follows him to his door. And all the way inside. Is he pushing his luck if he hopes she’ll join him in the shower too?
She stops in the tiny entryway. “Is it alright if I look around while you shower?”
Damn it. Shouldn’t have wished. “Uh, yeah. And there’s some drinks in the fridge if you want something.”
“Thanks,” she says, ignoring him for the many boring sights of his crappy apartment.
He nods. “Cool, I’m gonna go, uh, do that.” And he takes off before he can let self consciousness kick in.
If he thinks his showers every morning are quick, this one beats them by a landslide. He’s out and pulling on gray sweats and a t-shirt in practically half the time it would take him to get sluggishly undressed.
He looks in the mirror and pats his hair dry with a hand towel but it’s already dripped all over his shirt. It’s the most laid back he’s looked in front of her besides the night at the club, but this feels different—a bit like being naked in front of her. He grimaces at himself and leaves before he can even ponder what that would be like.
Half way down the hall, he smells something. What the hell? Is she cooking? He rounds the corner on a little faster stride and finds her leaning over the counter with some sort of sandwich on a plate. She pushes it toward him.
He’s not even sure where she found ingredients to build one, let alone how she did it so quickly. “Alright, chef Hawke, what did you make?”
She smiles, shrugging happily. He has to focus because all he sees is the way her breasts push together when she moves hanging over the counter like that.
“You didn’t have much to work with. Eggs, some spices, toast. Oh, and an avocado that was about to go bad.” She walks around the side of the island and props her hip against it, gesturing over the sandwich in an exaggerated motion. “Come. Eat!”
He swaggers over and slips onto the stool next to where she’s standing. It smells pretty good for an egg sandwich and he’s worked up quite the appetite. Mayonnaise and hot sauce squeezes out when he picks it up to examine it.
“My college go-to.” She points at it. “Beats a ramen packet.”
“You’re not having any?”
“No.” She laughs like that’s an absurd question and he gets a little nervous about being poisoned or that it’ll be terrible.
“So, you’re just gonna watch me?”
“Yes. Yes, I am, Daniel.” Her voice dips. “I like watching you eat.”
He thinks of himself, sloppy and uncoordinated, shoving the sandwich into his mouth like he did in her car. Then realizes maybe she means the other thing. And in that case, he loves to eat. He’d do it all night if she asked and she could watch him, grab his hair, scratch his scalp, and moan and moan and . . .
“Try it,” she instructs.
The first bite is a little dry and she notices immediately, grabbing a mug from his cup rack and filling it with tap water. He nods a thanks and gulps it. “Five star,” he jokes.
She steps closer. “Keep eating.”
He does and she observes.
It’s an excruciating kind of observing, humiliating for whatever reason, as she analyzes him down to the core. It’s as if she’s downloading his brain into her own just by watching him take bite after bite. And fuck it, it’s kinda good. The sandwich, at least, maybe not the staring. Strange combination of flavors for sure but it works and he’s had a lot worse.
She keeps moving toward him as he devours her sandwich until she’s close enough to reach out and brush the hair from his face. He looks up, feeling mayonnaise drip onto his lips and chin.
“Napkin,” he says around a mouthful.
“Manners.”
“Please.”
She reaches across the island counter and grabs one from the holder. Instead of handing it to him, she wipes his face herself. It’s erotic for no reason. Every second with her since the night at the club has been sexually charged but there’s still a level of separation and curiosity like they’ve never even touched. She’s mysterious and it drives him nuts never knowing what she’s thinking.
Her other hand comes up and brushes the hair off his forehead once more. He’s noticed she must like that—he’ll have to remember to keep it messy for her. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it too. He can’t hide when leans into it like a giddy dog.
“Didn’t want you going to bed with an empty stomach,” she says softly, hand falling to his shoulder. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re fed.”
He sighs. Her hands on him have an effect like no other. If only they’d touch him there again. “Thank you,” he says, sighing some more.
“Now I want you to get some rest. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.” She caresses his cheek, and lets her eyes wander all over him. He’s hard instantly. And she’s well aware of it because of the thin gray sweats, her suggestive smile says as much. “You can take care of that first if you’d like.”
How about you take care of it, he thinks but isn’t brave enough to say. If he were more assertive or fearless he would tell her to jerk him off right here in the kitchen, to get on her knees and to serve him because it’s only fair, right? But that’s not who he is. Begging comes easiest. He doesn’t do that either though. Heavy breaths of silence is his only response.
“Do you need some inspiration?”
His heart seems to stop and start again. “What . . . What do you mean?”
Her hand slides down his arm slowly, seductively, raising goosebumps in its wake, until she reaches his hand and picks it up. He watches in awe, swallowing harshly, as she draws his hand to her lips and sucks two of his sauce-coated fingers into her mouth. If it weren’t for his earlier accident, he’d go off in his pants again right now. Shit, he still could.
It’s a perverse kind of agony plaguing him, making his dick so hard he feels the weight of it jump against his thigh. He could actually cry begging for her to touch him but he doesn’t. He waits. He wants to be her good boy.
The inside of her mouth is wet and warm as she fellates his fingers, one hand holding his wrist, the other rubbing over the hair on his arm. He doesn’t know where to look—her mouth, her eyes, the swell of her breast—but he almost decides when she lets go of him with a pop.
“Now you know what the inside of my mouth feels like,” she says, lips shiny with spit.
He almost comes.
Then with a weird regret, he thinks, why the hell didn’t he put his fingers inside her earlier? Another voice that sounds a lot like hers reminds him that she didn’t ask him to do that.
She leans down and kisses his cheek. “Goodnight, Daniel.”
Then she leaves him there, swaying those gorgeous, grabable hips on her way out, and he’s stuck there on the stool, shocked and hard and confused.
He is absolutely going to ruin his sheets tonight—thankfully he’s already taking everything to the laundromat tomorrow. She’s right, it’s gonna be a long fucking day.
After a moment of silence to recalibrate, he gets up and puts his plate in the sink. That’s when he notices something odd next to the stove. Huh, he laughs. She rearranged all his spices in alphabetical order.
yk what i hate though. is when i find a meme and im like THIS IS SO [cool intimidating mutual i never talk to] I SHOULD SEND IT TO THEM but then i remember ive never talked to them ever and so i cant just like give them a meme out of the blue and so the meme just withers and rots in my camera roll 😔
summary: Not the Mrs. is a bit sad from a very final diagnosis and Sam’s gonna do his best to remedy that.
warnings: infertility
notes: I’ve known these two weren’t having kids since I started writing them, now you do too. Feel free to let me know if there are any mistakes!
Whiskey's stretched across the dining room rug with the dishwasher humming in the background. You're standing at the sink, drying the same plate again and again as you listen to the wind chimes clink faintly through the open window in front of you.
Sam notices because you haven't said a word in five minutes. He's at the table with his laptop open in front of him. "You planning on polishing that into a mirror?" He asks, leaning his head on his hand, elbow on the table.
You glance down at the plate in your hands, sighing as you place it in the cabinet. "Shut up."
He watches you quietly before turning to his laptop again, looking at the screen. You've been like this all week. He closes the laptop without another comment and then stretches out his legs slightly. "You wanna talk about it? Or you wanna keep standing there staring out the window like you’re haunting the kitchen?"
You glance over at him, raising your brows so high it’s comical. "I am not haunting the kitchen."
"Yeah, you are." He chuckles. "All you need is a white dress and a little tuberculosis and I think you'd have it handled."
“Fuck off.” You almost smile. You turn your head back down towards the sink full of dishes. "I was just thinking."
"Uh oh." He teases softly.
You roll your eyes and sigh, not one for it tonight. "Sam."
He pushes back from the table and stands, moving closer to you. He leans his hip against the counter and crosses his arms across his chest as he looks at you. "About what?" He asks softly.
You hesitate, but he knows. You know he knows. "I don't know." You sigh again, shrugging. "I just thought things would look different by now."
He nods, inhaling slowly himself as he tries to find a response. All he comes up with is, "different how?"
You shrug again, not looking at him. "I don't know… Like the house should be messier. We should be tripping over toys in the hallway or something."
He lets out that breath even slower now, "Whiskey leaves her toys in the hallway all the time." He offers gently. "I've almost eaten shit twice this week."
"That's not the same. You know it's not." You say sadly.
"I know." He agrees and shrugs. Silence embracing you both again as the dishwasher clicks off.
You tap your fingers against a glass sitting on the dish mat. "I just keep thinking that you— we— deserved that. And I can't really give it to you." Your voice catches in your throat, annoyingly.
He frowns, straightening his back as he looks at you. "Hey… No. Don’t do that."
You shake your head almost immediately, "it's not self-pity, I just—"
"It is though." He cuts you off. "And I don't like it."
You raise your head to meet his eyes. Dark brown and pooling with worry. He lets them scour your face, looking for any sign that you're even more upset at his words. When he doesn't find that, he continues.
"I don’t stay with you for your uterus." He says it flatly.
"Wow. How romantic." You huff.
"You know what I mean." He rolls his eyes, shifting his weight slightly. He uncrosses his arms, running a hand up over his head. "Ive pictured it too. I've pictured you yelling at me about car seats. I’ve pictured stepping on toys at 2am because our hellspawn couldn’t be bothered to put things away. I’ve pictured diapers and onesies and talking to your belly. All of it. I’ve pictured it, babe." He sighs, "I've also pictured losing everything else once too." He adds, a bit quieter. Then he shrugs. "And that one felt a hell of a lot more real. So if I have to pick which fantasy I'm giving up on? Easy."
You stare at him sadly.
He just shrugs. Like all of that is nothing. "I want you. I've already got the best thing. I don't need kids."
Your eyes start to well up before you can stop them. He can't just say shit like that.
He sees it and groans softly, head tipping back as his eyes close. "Ah shit, don't cry. I'm bad at crying. I start saying stupid shit."
"You're already saying pretty stupid shit." You whisper, wiping a tear from your eyes but a smile is tugging at your lips.
He smiles a bit as he steps closer to you, guiding you around until you're facing him. Then his hands slide around your waist and slip into the back pockets of your jeans. "You think I'm sitting around here disappointed?" He asks softly. "You think I look at you and go, damn, shame about the statistical probability of that one?"
You snort, though it sounds more like a cough. "You are such an asshole."
"Yeah, maybe." He shrugs. "But you've yet to kick me to the curb, so I guess I'm doing something right here." You press your face against his chest as he holds you, breathing in deeply. He lets you, running his hand up and down your back. After another minute or two, he exhales a breath against your hair and smiles a bit. "You know," he starts. "I used to think there was this checklist to living a happy life. My parents had one and they were the happiest people I knew."
You pull back slightly to look at his face, confused. "A checklist?"
"Yeah. A checklist." He nods, adjusting his arms so they're tucked up closer against you. "Figured we’d graduate. I’d enlist. We get married and buy a house. Have some kids a few years after. Get a dog. That was our key to happiness."
You almost smile at him again.
"I kept thinking if we didn't follow it exactly, it meant we screwed something up. And I know, I know, i fucked the marriage thing up all to hell and then everything just started happening, the dog, the house, the cars… and they just kept happening until I shipped out." He says softly. Then his mouth twitches up into a smile. “But if this is what we get? I'm okay with that. Our life is perfect just how it is."
Your throat tightens, and the inside of your cheek feels raw from biting at it. "I just don't want you to resent me."
"For what?!" He scoffs, "Not producing progeny that would inherit my temper and your stubbornness? Think you saved us all. That kid would've been a menace to society."
"Sam." You repeat.
"I'm serious." He moves one hand and tips your chin up. "I don't resent you. I look at you and I see my girlfriend. The woman who wrote me letters every week when I needed them the most. The woman who dragged me home and refused to let me rot in bed." His thumb brushes the wetness under your eye away. "That's not lacking, okay? And yeah, I'll probably always wonder what a kid of ours would've looked like or acted like. You will too. But wondering isn't the same as resenting. And besides, we've got Whiskey and she's like 2 toddlers combined."
Whiskey suddenly jolts awake at the sound of her name. She looks around the room, spots you and Sam. She stretches when she stands, grabs her tennis ball, and trots over with her tail wagging hard enough it thumps against the cabinets with a thwack.
Sam looks down at where she's sat at your feet and chuckles. "Speak of the idiot."
You let out a laugh at that, bending down to pick up the tennis ball before she shoves it into his leg. "She thinks we're being too serious."
"She's right. Can we stop it?" He chuckles softly. You toss the ball down the hallway. Whiskey tears after it, skidding across the hardwood as she does. Sam leans back against the counter, watching you play with Whiskey. "We're allowed to be sad about it.” He says softly. "I'm not pretending it's nothing, babe. I promise."
"I know you're not."
"And if that means we get to sleep in on Saturdays," He shrugs, "and take spontaneous road trips, and maybe— I don't know— adopt another eighty-pound creature at some point…"
You raise your eyebrows as you look at him, "Another one?"
He nods, "go big or go home, baby. Two of those dumbasses. Double the fur. Double the expenses. We'll complain about vet bills but secretly love every bit of it."
"You'd lose your mind." You laugh softly, tucking back tear-stained hair behind your ear.
"I've already lost my mind, I live with you." Whiskey comes barrelling back down the hall then, nearly wiping out as she turns the corner. You lean into him again and he kisses the top of your head. "You're it for me." He says softly, his hand settling on your lower back as Whiskey stops in front of you.
Only now, you don't feel the burden you've been carrying around for weeks. All you feel is the love he has to share.
i know i say this often but i cannot say it loud enough: people who comment on fics, people who reblog posts and engage with fanworks are the people who generate community and without them fandom would be nowhere, so truly thank you for your presence, you make the world go 'round <3
Remember when joining fandom as a younger person meant lurking for a bit and figuring out the vibe and etiquette instead of coming in on day one and calling people weirdos for liking weirdo shit in the weirdo factory.
Keeping Track
Pairing: Nick (Tea) x BFF!Reader
Summary: Nick knows his other half better than she knows herself.
Contains: The sweetest boy in the world, snuggles, and a confession.
Words: 600ish
"I hurt and everything sucks," you whine, crawling into Nick's bed. "Smother me and put me out of my misery."
He chuckles and pulls you to him, and you let it happen. You rest your head in the crook of his neck and throw a leg over his and hold him back with an arm across his middle. His massive hand comes to rest on your lower back, and its warmth begins to seep into your bones almost immediately. The boy's an oven, and you're happy he's your oven.
"It's just PMS," he whispers.
WHAT.
"Excuse me?" you ask.
"It's why you hurt and think everything sucks; the redcoats are planning an invasion."
"And how do you fucking know this?"
"I know you," he shrugs, even though you're practically lying on top of him.
"How." It's not a question. It's a demand.
"I keep track of these things."
"Why."
"Because I care about you."
You're not sure whether to raise hell or cry.
Dammit. He's right.
"And uh…" You swallow hard, on the verge of tears now. "How long have you been keeping track of these things?"
He goes quiet, like he's either calculating or wondering if he should lie.
"Couple years," he answers.
"Hm," you hum, nuzzling into his side a little.
"Are you mad?"
"No," you breathe. "Just surprised."
You lie there for a moment, head spinning as you process this information. Why would a guy bother tracking a girl's cycle?
"Is it so you knew when to avoid me?" you ask.
"What?" he exclaims, body tensing under yours. "No!"
"'Cause I'd understand if it was," you sigh.
"It was… for other reasons." He squirms. This must be good.
"And what are those other reasons, Nicholas A?" you ask in a teasing tone.
He's nervous. You can feel it. What reason would he have to be nervous?
"Nick," you prod.
He swallows.
"It's because when you were hemorrhaging, you'd let me cuddle with you."
"What?" you breathe.
"When you were hurting on movie night, you'd either lie in my lap or let me lie behind you and put my hand on your belly," he admits. "For the warmth. So I uh… I read some of Mom's magazines and started taking notes and I figured out when things were happening."
"You really did that for me?" you ask, on the verge of a My Girl era meltdown.
"One could argue that it was for me," he chuckles, holding you a little tighter. "I kinda looked forward to it. Not to you hurting, but you letting me cuddle with you."
There it goes. The dam breaks, the tears fall, and you cling desperately to the sweetest person you've ever met.
"Don't cry," he begs, rolling to his side and holding you to his chest. "It'd only be sad if I didn't get the girl in the end. And I got her."
"Yeah, you did," you attempt to say, but it comes out as a wet and unintelligible sob that he laughs at.
"It's okay," he assures you. "We're together now."
You are. You're being held tightly by the love of your life. Your other half. The person who knows you better than anyone else... even yourself.
"We should've been together forever." At least you can make words sound like words now.
"We were," he responds. "It's just… more now."
You nod against him, unwilling to let go of your favorite person in the world. He keeps holding on too, and after the tears have stopped leaking, you have something to confess.
"Nick?"
"Hm?" he hums.
"I wouldn't have stopped you."
"Stopped me from doing what?"
"If you'd tried to cuddle with me when I wasn't hemorrhaging," you clarify. "I wouldn't have stopped you."
CW: Strong language, the utter hotness that is rockstar Eddie with M. Shadows’ voice
Word Count: 3.6K
Summary: A night full of eyeliner probs, Max sass, and fulfilled dreams in the dingiest bar around with your two best friends.
@chaoticgood-munson thank you x infinity for designing the Robin and Steve pic for me for this fic (I love you so much!!) ❤️
“Fuck.”
You throw your eyeliner pencil in the sink in frustration as you take in your reflection in the mirror. You’ve always been content with the bare minimum when it came to makeup, though tonight you’re resolute in making an extra effort. Or, at least, you were. You curl your lip in disgust as you survey the thick, crooked black swipe along your right upper eyelid that is comically unlike the left, despite your best efforts. You dab another cotton ball in the tub of Noxzema on your tiny vanity, and rub your eye furiously to erase the mistake and try again.
You silently curse yourself for even attempting this. Eddie probably puts eyeliner on better than you.
You halt your aggressive cotton ball scrubbing, eyes narrowing at your reflection in confusion. Uh, where the fuck did that intrusive little thought come from?
A soft knock at the bathroom door snaps you out of your reverie. “Hey, it’s me. Can I come in?”
You soften as you hear your sister’s sweet voice. “Yeah, it’s open.”
The door opens slowly, and you shuffle away in the cramped space so it doesn’t knock into your elbow. Max’s bright blue eyes meet your reflection in the mirror, and her face falters slightly between amusement and alarm.
“Holy shit, sis. What the hell happened to your face?”
“Nice, Max,” you snort sardonically, adding the cotton ball to the ever-growing pile of rejection in the sink. You sigh heavily. “I’m not cut out for eyeliner, apparently. I know you’re surprised.” Your mouth turns up slightly in a smirk.
Max tilts her head to the side. “And what is it that you think you need eyeliner for?”
“Um, nothing really." You try to keep your voice even. "Just going to go see a band tonight. ”
“What? Where?” Her surprise is evident.
“The Hideout. It’s no big deal.”
“It’s a Tuesday night.”
“I know.”
Max crosses her arms, waiting for you to elaborate. You wipe some stray face cream from your cheek and turn towards her. “Eddie’s band is playing, and I’m going to go watch.”
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, though it’s a touch of enthusiasm you hear in her reply. “Really. Not Munson’s band, but Eddie Munson’s band, huh?” She puts some extra emphasis on his first name.
You shrug nonchalantly. “Like I said. No big deal.”
“It’s just interesting,” Max continues knowingly, “that you’ve been in here for the past hour—” your eyes go wide at the false accusation—“slathering yourself in grungy makeup just to go see Eddie Munson rock out with his little band on a freaking weeknight. I dunno. Sounds like a big deal to me.”
“That’s presumptuous of you.”
Max snorts. “That skirt says otherwise.”
You groan. “Maaax!” You tug at the maroon and black plaid skirt self-consciously as you turn towards yourself in the mirror once more. “Crap. Am I trying too hard?”
She chuckles and squeezes her way in the bathroom, shooing you towards the toilet. You close the lid and sit down as she fishes the eyeliner pencil out of the sink. “No, I’m just giving you shit. You actually look really hot.”
You’re pleasantly surprised at the compliment. “Oh. Really?”
“He’d be nuts not to—”
“Nah, nah, no, Max. Nuh uh. That isn’t what this about.” Max quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at you as your explanation of the events of the last week come out in a rush. “It's not! I went to Eddie like, a week ago to see if he and his band would take some of the stuff I wrote and make them into songs. They went for it and I think they’re going to play one of them tonight in their set. That’s why I’m going.”
Max’s face softens as she pops a hip against the sink. “You showed him the notebook?”
Max is the only other person that’s ever read it. “Yep.”
“And he didn’t go running for the hills?”
You bark a flat laugh. “Told me it was ‘fucking metal, Mayfield,’” your voice tries its best to imitate Eddie’s.
Max giggles as she twists the cap from the liner. Oh, you love that sound. “Figures,” she reasons. “Here, let me.”
You draw your face away from her hands, certainly touched Max would offer to help, but a little wary of her expertise. “You know what you’re doing with that?”
“No. But neither do you,” she smarts back, and you both chuckle softly as Max reaches over to surprisingly finish your look better than you both thought possible.
“Steady hands, I guess.” Max tries to make it a joke, but there’s an unintended sorrow in her eyes from what her words imply.
“Hey,” you start, voice thick with threatening emotion. “There’s a song in there for you. It’s arguably for everyone in our little, um... party, but it’s especially yours. One of these days, I want you to hear it, okay?”
“Is it ‘fucking metal,’ like Eddie says?”
“Oh, god, don’t say fuck,” you admonish with a groan. You pull your little sister into a hug. “It’s the most metal. It had to be, to be for you.”
“You’re cheesy,” Max mutters into your chest.
“You love it.”
“I really don’t.”
You know she does.
About an hour later, you’re riding in the backseat of Steve’s car as he drives you and Robin to the Hideout. You’ve already endured several comments about your look: Steve’s being largely concerned and unimpressed while Robin’s take a more suggestive route.
“Are you sure we’re just going there to hear a Mayfield Original, as performed by Corroded Coffin? Because I think your whole ensemble screams, ‘Eddie, please eye-fuck me from the stage.’”
“ROBIN!” you and Steve exclaim.
She chuckles and defensively holds her hands up in front of her. “Hey. I’m just saying.”
You cross your arms over your chest and pout as self-doubt begins to creep in. That’s not how you wanted to look tonight at all. Steve flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror to watch you brood out the window. “You do look… different. Good different.” Bless the man, he's trying.
“I’m just trying to look the part,” you grumble to the window.
“The part of a rockstar goddess songwriter? Yeah, girl. You nailed it,” Robin turns to give you two thumbs up. You can’t help but preen at her words.
“Wait, these are rock songs you wrote?” Robin’s inference startles Steve.
"Uh, yeah," you reply.
“Right, Steve, because Eddie Munson totally gives off ABBA cover band vibes,” Robin snickers.
“I like ABBA,” Steve mutters, and you and Robin can’t help but chuckle in spite of your poor friend. He’s a bit slow on the uptake at times, but as you’ve both seen, before… he’s present when it counts.
You throw him a bone. “And ABBA likes you, Steve. As do I for coming with me, tonight. I really am glad you’re both here.”
“Of course. So is this the song you wrote about me?” His reflected eyebrows wiggle at you.
You bite your burgundy-stained bottom lip. “Ah, no. This one’s a bit, um… dark. Don’t judge too harshly, okay?”
Robin’s blue-green eyes are deep with compassion as they meet yours. “Sweet lady, we would never.”
She doesn’t even have to throw a look or an elbow at Steve, as he replies on his own in kind. “Yeah. Exactly what Rob said.”
You drive in comfortable silence for a few moments before Steve speaks up over the radio. “So, it’s really going to be nothing like ABBA, huh?”
You belt out a good-natured groan before it melts with Robin’s laughter as Steve maneuvers his sedan into the parking lot of the Hideout.
Steve parks the car, and then escorts you and Robin into the bar. The Hideout is a part of a large, brick building that houses several different establishments: a small check-into-cash office on one end and a small appliance repair shop on the other. The dingy plexiglass sign brandishing the bar’s name over the door is half burnt-out, illuminating only the HIDE and half of an overflowing pint glass. You inwardly smile to yourself as you walk inside. This is exactly what you pictured the venue to be for Eddie Munson’s ABBA cover band.
Steve holds the door open for you and Robin. Directly in front of you is a long, polished bar that runs longitudinally away from you, curving at the front and then again at the very end. Fluorescent green lighting is strung around the mirror behind the bar, and it does well to illuminate the rows and rows of liquor that flank the mirror. You notice that below the counter where the mirror and rows of liquor bottles rest is another set of shelves with more liquor, outlined in that same green backlight.
It tracks; living in a place like Hawkins would necessitate an endless supply of booze.
The smell of sticky spilt beer and stale smoke invades your nostrils as you survey the rest of the bar. Several high top tables are scattered haphazardly in the room that houses the main bar. The adjoining room is larger, longer than it is wide, and it has more tables along a continuous wooden booth along the back wall. More tables with barstools dot throughout the room, two TVs are questionably set up in the corners (you’d bet that they don’t work), and a ratty pool table is situated in the middle. At the front of the room is Eddie with the band. His back to you, guitar slung over his broad shoulders, hands flailing about wildly. His bandmates are able to translate as they mill about the tiny makeshift stage that you’re pretty sure is just a bunch of 2x6s and plywood. Hell, Eddie was probably the one to make it.
Steve breaks off from your group to grab sodas from the bar. You all decided on the way over that you wouldn’t attract attention to yourselves at your inaugural visit to the Hideout. You wanted to be able to return, especially if all went well tonight.
You and Robin claim a high top table near the back and you watch intently as Eddie finishes setting up. Gareth and Jeff have taken their places opposite each other on Eddie’s flanks, and Grant’s drum set is crammed along the back of the platform. You incline your head curiously as you notice a small keyboard on a wobbly stand next to Grant. You hadn’t noticed that at practice last night.
You turn to say something to Robin when Steve arrives hurriedly at the table, precariously balancing the pint glasses in his hands before nearly dropping them on the table. He seats himself next to you, sliding your drink in front of you.
“I made sure the bartender washed the glasses before he put anything in them,” Steve says with a frown.
Robin mutters, “Of course you did,” before taking a drink. You won’t tell him, but you’re sort of grateful he did.
Whining feedback startles all three of your attentions to the stage, where you find Eddie’s intense brown eyes already on you. A Cheshire-cat like grin sweeps across his face as he locks his gaze with you, and he loudly addresses the crowd.
Well, he addresses you three and the four other patrons at the bar.
“We’re Corroded Coffin, and we’d like to welcome some new faces with us tonight,” he nods toward your table. “Are you all ready to rock?!”
Steve groans at Eddie’s antics, and you elbow him sharply in his side. He tosses a charming smile your way, feigning annoyance.
The familiar chords of Metallica’s Ride the Lightning blare from the amplifiers and Steve jolts at your side. “Oh, my god, it’s so loud!” he leans in close to yell over the music. “I think my ears are bleeding!”
You nudge him harder and take a sip of your soda. “Stop and just wait for the ABBA.”
Steve guffaws and elbows you back, and you can’t help but feel the fluttering of nerves in anticipation of the band’s set list. It’s not like they’re playing at the Garden, but they might as well be with how your palms have gone clammy as you watch Eddie slay the particularly complicated chords of the song.
Robin leans in to speak, and you mirror her to meet her halfway. “Um, Mayfield, they’re actually really good.”
“Right?!” you nod in agreement. Robin’s choppy locks are swaying back and forth as she bobs her head to the rhythm. You start to relax a bit.
The Hideout is treated to two more heavy metal songs, one you recognize as a Dio song (but you’re unsure of the name) and one that you’ve never heard before. Eddie’s gritty voice finishes the song with a flourish, and he harmonizes with Gareth before Grant slams on the drums for the finale. You clap loudly as the song ends, and Eddie inclines his chin toward you with a smirk. His hair is plastered to his head in stringy, sweaty strands, barely held in place by his rolled black bandana. His chest heaves with the exertion of their performance so far, and the silence that hangs as the chords fade makes you nervous that maybe they won’t play Nightmare after all.
The corners of your mouth turn down just slightly, and you don’t notice as Grant takes an adapter and plugs it in to the small Casio keyboard. Eddie’s lips meet the microphone and he calls your attention back to him on stage.
“We have one final song for you guys tonight. It’s an original song, written by the wickedly lovely siren in the little red skirt you see sitting at that table right over there.” He points his index and middle fingers at you and curls a crooked grin as he appreciates your cheeks flush from the attention.
Not that anyone but Steve and Robin were paying attention, but you don’t care about that right now. Your wide eyes are locked on Eddie’s as your heart hammers in your chest.
This is it.
“This one's called Nightmare. Enjoy it, you assholes!”
Robin cackles. “I think I might like him,” she states, leaning back slightly to catch your gaze with a wry smile.
All at once, the song begins, but it’s different this time. You see Jeff on the Casio, playing those same haunting lullaby-like notes from before, but they sound so much more intense and sinister coming from the keyboard. Your mouth drops open at the change; you absolutely love it. Robin grins and reaches a finger over to your chin to push your open mouth back closed. You bite your lip and giggle.
Eddie only has eyes for you and your reactions as he and Gareth begin the malevolent guitar intro that mirrors the lullaby. You hear Robin gasps an "Oh!" and you can’t help the smile that curls on your lips. Eddie looks staggeringly wicked as his raspy voice screams into the microphone,
Nightmaaare!
Gareth and Jeff are quick to reply with background vocals, Now your nightmare comes to life
Dragged you down below, down to the devil’s show
To be his guest forever, Peace of mind is less than never
Hate to twist your mind, but God ain't on your side
An old acquaintance severed, Burn the world your last endeavor
The tempo increases just slightly and Eddie’s lips curl around the microphone as he grits,
Flesh is burning, you can smell it in the air
'Cause men like you have such an easy soul to steal, steal
So stand in line while they ink numbers in your head
You're now a slave until the end of time here
Nothing stops the madness turning!
Haunting, yearning, pull the trigger!
Steve’s mouth is gaping as Eddie and Gareth harmonize the chorus. The familiar melody has you humming along, another round and you’ll be able to sing along. The very thought of that makes your senses tingle. This is real, now. It’s actually real.
You should've known the price of evil
And it hurts to know that you belong here, yeah
Ooh…
Eddie’s grin is positively manic as he shakes his head to punctuate the hook:
It's your FUCKIN’ nightmare!
The breathy yelp you let out is as involuntary as the goosebumps that spread from your arms to your toes. Eddie seems to wait a fraction of a second to gauge your reaction while Jeff and Gareth chant their background vocals,
While your nightmare comes to life
Your wide, genuine smile tells him all as you mouth, YES!
Eddie, like the menace that he is, fucking chuckles into the microphone before launching into the second verse,
Can't wake up in sweat, 'cause it ain't over yet
Still dancin' with your demons, victim of your own creation
Beyond the will to fight, where all that's wrong is right
Where hate don't need a reason, loathing self-assassination
You've been lied to just to rape you of your sight
And now they have the nerve to tell you how to feel, feel
So sedated as they medicate your brain
And while you slowly go insane they tell you
Given with the best intentions!
Help you with your complications!
You’re up out of your chair now, right hand open and punching the air in time as you sing along with the chorus,
You should've known the price of evil
And it hurts to know that you belong here, yeah
No one to call, everybody to fear
Your tragic fate is looking so clear, yeah
Oooh,
It’s your fuckin’ nightmare!
Eddie closes his eyes and launches into the guitar solo, and Robin finds your hand, her eyes wild with emotion. “Oh, I—you wrote this, Mayfield?”
You nod, biting your lip.
You look to Steve, whose eyes are wide as saucers and he blinks a couple of times before throwing his arm around your shoulders and pulls you briefly into a side-hug. “I’m not sure what they’re saying half the time, but that chorus…”
A frenzied bubble of glee bursts from your lips, and Robin stutters, tripping over her words. “It’s so real,” she scream whispers, and gives your hand a squeeze. You hold tight to her as the band begins the bridge.
Fight! Fight! Not to fail! Fail! Not to fall, fall
Or you'll end up like the others
Die! Die! Die again! Die! Drenched in sin, sin
With no respect for another
Oh
Eddie’s wicked smile is back as he tosses his head, the messy mane of curls flying around him as he finishes a complicated guitar riff, and he growls his favorite four lines,
Down! Down! Feel the fire! Fire! Feel the hate, hate
Your pain is what we desire
Lost! Lost! Hit the wall! Wall! Watch you crawl, crawl
Such a replaceable liar
You hear Robin gasp again, and you’re about to squeeze her hand that you’re still holding, when you notice an abrupt change in pitch, tone and tempo of the song that was not there yesterday.
Eddie is singing directly, and only, to you. You’re lost in his beautiful obsidian eyes as his grainy voice transforms to something hauntingly soulful, more melodic; and it positively roots you to the spot.
Your hand grips Robin’s like a vise.
And I know you hear their voices, calling from above
And I know they may seem real, these signals of love
But our life's made up of choices, some without appeal
Your bottom lip trembles slightly with the overwhelming weight of the words of Eddie’s surprise lyrics. It abruptly pierces your resolve and you’re dangerously close to breaking, especially as Eddie croons the next line,
They took for granted your soul
God, who is this man in front of you? How does he know what secrets lie deep within you like this?
And, then, the maniacal smirk is back as his gravelly voice returns as he tells you,
And it's ours now to steal
As your nightmare comes to life
You half gasp, half cackle at his choice of words.
He’s right; only you think your already soul’s been stolen, transaction complete, ownership transferring from the real and imagined horrors of the Upside Down to the front man of Corroded fucking Coffin. Who could have known?
Even Robin is up with you, body swaying with yours as the familiar words of the chorus leave your lips,
You should've known the price of evil
And it hurts to know that you belong here, yeah
No one to call, everybody to fear
Your tragic fate is looking so clear, yeah
Oooh,
It’s your fuckin’ nightmare!
The reverberations of the amplifiers ring around the grimy walls of the bar for a few moments before Eddie quickly unplugs his guitar before slinging it over his back. In an unnaturally athletic move, he jumps from the stage and crosses swiftly over to your table. You’re already rounding it as he reaches you, and you fling yourself into his awaiting arms. Your chest is heaving and you’re caught between laughing and crying, all of these long-repressed emotions boil to the surface and you’re forced to handle all of them at once.
Normally, this would send you spiraling. Instead, you’re grounded in Eddie’s arms. You’ll unpack that later, for sure; but for now, you cling to him, holding him tightly, trying to convey the level of your gratitude in the ferocity of your embrace.
Eddie chuckles softly into your hair as one of his hands comes up to thread through your thick strands, securing your head against his chest. “Did we do all right then, sweetheart?”
A thrill runs down your spine as you angle your face up at him. “Fucking metal, Munson.”
The Beginning ✨
Next Chapter ➡️
Edit: this fic officially has custom dividers expertly made by the lovely @corrodedseraphine ❤️🔥 HUGE thank you for making this happen so quickly!! Couldn’t love them more, seriously!
