#waldenwritess

[bowie-byers]

Discord Thread History / Murray's Flop Era

Jonathan Byers x Murray Bauman (@waldenwritess) x Nancy Wheeler (@soemotional)

Thread: Murray's a rlly hot cupid

Murray:

The whole endeavor had started off innocently. Really, it had! With Nancy joining The Weekly Watcher, Murray had wanted to make things official by including headshots on the last page of the paper. It helped build rapport with the audience, he thought. So he'd set out to find a local photographer who could deliver good quality for reasonable rates, and... well, as it turned out, he knew a guy. Murray and Jonathan had kept in touch, of course, though mostly through family dinners at Joyce's place. Murray had seen Jonathan around town a few times, too, with a new girl on his arm. Holly-- a reporter at The Post, as much as he could tell. Murray couldn't penalize the boy for having a type, but he could put two people together in an investigation of sorts. With Gabe's express permission, Murray had tacked up a white sheet to their living room wall to create a makeshift studio for the shots. Now, he was milling about the house, preparing waters (vodka on standby, in case) for his guests. He'd told Nancy to come fifteen minutes before Jonathan, to ensure they didn't run into each other outside and assume Murray was trying to pull a fast one over on them. When he heard a knock, Murray bounded to the door and opened it wide, grinning at his coworker. "Nancy, welcome. There's water in the kitchen, or something stronger if you prefer." Though it was a Sunday, he couldn't resist the urge to talk shop-- just for a minute. "You find anything on that couple in Montana? I know you're writing it up, but... humor me," he flashed a toothy smile. With his family expanding, Murray couldn't travel as much as he was used to-- which was why it was nothing short of serendipitous that Nancy had agreed to come on board when she had. It was a plus that she wasn't tied down, too, though Murray didn't hate the idea of changing that, either.

Nancy:

nancy wheeler was nothing if not punctual! so what if she swerved a little bit through traffic applying her lipstick! she wasn't going to keep everyone waiting. she wouldn't have taken so long though, if she didn't get so caught up in how she was going to look and if she should pin her hair up or let it fall down. it wasn't like the watcher was any big shot paper, but it was rewarding work. still, first impressions were everything, especially as a woman. so, when that first impression was a photograph she wanted to fit the image. eventually, she pieced together something that she labelled as cute and respectable and hauled ass to murray's! she met murray with a quick hug, then shuffled inside, not taking him up on his offer of water or something stronger. instead, she immediately immersed herself into talking about that couple, "well, her husband definitely wasn't replaced by a robot, but there was something...off...from the moment i met him. turns out, he had history working with the state government as some kind of low-down lackey on base of a military facility so i went--" nancy took a breath, then smiled coyly and pointed at murray, "i'll let you read the rest." she eyed her watch, then the door, "so, when's the photographer supposed to get here?" she wasn't in a rush or anything, but, nancy liked to keep up appearences, "it won't take long you don't think? i have a...thing in about an hour."

Jonathan:

Jonathan rolled up to Murray’s place and took a final & rushed drag of his cigarette, squeezing it into ashtray built into his car. It took him a few minutes to organize the mess of equipment in his trunk. Holly had (reluctantly) hauled him to the office a little past 3pm to wrap up a project for immediate press on Monday. Truthfully, he didn’t do much professional photography outside of his work with The Post - besides a couple weddings for Holly's friends over the last year. This was his first friends & family gig other than being passed the camera at household events. He generally liked to keep it that way but saying no to Murray wasn't an option and, honestly, he was happy to help. The buffer in his bank account was also welcome at this time of year, as much as he initially refused to talk about his rates. Dimming the financial impact of his last few road-trips along the coast to visit Holly's family was a nice bonus in his eyes. He trotted up the driveway and opted for the doorbell, adjusting his shoulder bag as he waited for the door to swing open. Murray seemed to be in a chipper mood - great. This was a good start. "Sorry I’m late, I got caught up at The Post and had to pack up my gear.” Jonathan wasn’t the most punctual person, as much as he tried. Murray would know based on the number of times he’d shown up late for his mom’s Sunday dinners. “I have a tripod and reflector in my bag – I can set up wherever you want, really. Have you thought about backgrounds for the shots? I wasn't sure so I brought a few neutral sheets." If not punctual, at least he showed up prepared. For all he knew The Weekly Watcher was orchestrated primarily by Murray himself. This would be an easy gig. Hopefully.

Murray:

Murray's face gave way to a sort of teasing frown, and he tsked his lips. "No killer robots yet... maybe by the twenty-fist century, huh?" he commented, then quieted himself to listen. Murray was hanging on Nancy's every word, a smug satisfaction filling his chest at the mention of government involvement-- wasn't there always? "I suppose it's only fair," he said, though his tone betrayed his desire to hear more. "It's always the military, isn't it? Someone should abolish that shit." Murray busied himself around the living room, moving his knick-knacks and Alondra's toys out of the way as much as possible. "Shouldn't take long at all! Just a few snaps. And the photographer's a real professional," he commented, mischievous gleam in his eye. Just then, the doorbell rang. "Ah! Hold that thought, Nancy." He hurried over to the door and opened it with a smile, waving away Jonathan's apology for his lateness. He'd expected it, after all. "Sure! I've cleared this spot in the living room and went ahead and put up a sheet. You can take it down if you'd rather-- but I thought the light was best here. Mi casa es tu casa," he offered with outstretched arms as they walked into the living room. Moment of truth. "Jonathan, Nancy, Nancy, Jonathan," he motioned between them jokingly. "Nancy's been working on the Watcher for.... six months now?" he asked Nancy. "She's been a great asset, always had the nose for this kind of stuff. Never could've expanded like it has without her." Murray retrieved the water pitcher and glasses from the kitchen and returned, offering it to both of them before pouring a few glasses. "And Jonathan's been working at The Post again, isn't that right? Small world, small town." He hid his pleased smile behind his glass.

[bowie-byers]

Band Fantasy 2.0

Paul Johnson x Cole Montgomery @waldenwritess

Thread #1: Cole's Dingy Y/N Band Fanfic

Paul held the guitar high on his abdomen. The pick guard had fallen off the mahogany body a long time ago – fingers calmly strumming down against a scratchy patch of unvarnished wood. He was gearing up for his last song of the night, bar cheering lightly as he transitioned out of his final original tune. With these occasional solo nights, he preferred to end the evening with a cover – mostly as an ode to the crowd. Dingy bars had a tendency to hum along, which was a nice change of pace from radio silence. “Some of you out there might know this next one.” Paul spoke softly into the microphone, flopping sweaty bangs away from his forehead. He proceeded to move the capo down on the fret of his guitar. It gave him an opportunity to break. “I picked it up while driving down the coast last summer – If you know it, I’d love to hear you sing along.” He caught a drift of pink in the crowd, not entirely registering what it was, but stuck on the colour for a moment longer as he began plucking the intro of Bruce Springsteen’s I’m on Fire. Pub dwellers were slow to recognize it. Paul's cover was even more subdued than the original, without a beat to support gravely vocals. His eyes closed in preparation to sing, chest leaning forward into the microphone stand. “Hey little girl / is your daddy home? / did he go and leave you all alone? / I got a bad desire / oh, oh, oh, I’m on fire.” – A coy smile formed. He peered through bangs obscuring his vision, finally glancing back into the crowd. “Tell me now baby is he good to you? / And can he do to you the things that I do? oh no / I can take you higher / oh, oh, oh, I’m on fire [...]” His sweep of the audience halted as he landed on a group of women singing along by the bar. His eyes fluttered away, once more taken off guard by the distracting mop of pink hair.

Maybe it was the power of sticking out in a sea of mushy colours, but Paul stayed on them for a touch longer. Enough to take in their features - fully making eye contact now. It was comfortable for him. “At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet / and a freight train running through the middle of my head / only you can cool my desire / oh, oh, oh, I’m on fire.” He held the stranger's gaze, head cocking back every so slightly to smirk - and also get a better look. The guy wasn't bad looking. Something about the other guy's stare gave him a hunch that it was mutual. The entire thing felt like a playful game of cat and mouse. He continued to power through the song - intermittently returning to find the splash of pink up until the final chorus. It felt nice for a change. He'd performed enough times to have experiences like these - chest weighed down by a curious pair of eyes in the crowd. It was all very much fleeting, but Paul's emotions always ran higher on stage. It wasn't abnormal for him. He managed to find them one last time before the song tapered off, completely exhausted. Paul muttered a genuine “thank you – have a good night!” to the crowd before darting off the stage to find his hard case by the bar, brain completely overridden with pink. Paul brushed it off as he slid his trusted purple pick between his lips, knees bending to tuck away the instrument.

[bowie-byers]

Discord Thread History: Band Fantasy 1.0

Eddie Munson x Cole Montgomery @waldenwritess

Thread #1: Cole's Sexy Y/N Band Fanfic

tw: drugs

Eddie Munson

Their first song was a wash. It’s not like anyone but himself could tell, but Craig’s drumming was a fucking mess. Probably because of the pre-show coke. Eddie refrained from participating this time around. In fact, he did a pretty good job of showing up at this Lower East Side hole-in-the-wall sober, relying on a lukewarm beer kept by his feet to power through their setlist. The establishment itself wasn’t glamorous. Hell, he was surprised they even had a stage. There weren’t any big lights, backstage, fancy equipment – it was just them, amplifiers, and the sweat dripping down their denim. It was a comfortable environment for Eddie, reminiscent of dive bars that became his makeshift homes along the coast early on his career. The crowd itself was tight in front of the stage but he never paid much attention to the audience while performing. With his feet planted firmly on the tempered hardwood, he kept his eyes on the strings, thighs bucking into the backing of his fender. His eyes only bobbed up occasionally to hit cues with Stacy.

Eddie ended their set with his head tilted back, slinking a single smile at the crowd as a final salutation for the night. Cheering could still be heard as Brody mouthed off his signature thank you spiel, as much as a crowd in a shady bar would holler. He proceeded to prance off the stage with his guitar in one hand and lukewarm beer in the other, polishing it off on his way to the artist’s corner. Twisted Pickle wasn’t playing any gigs tomorrow – which usually meant that they’d all go hard at the after party. It was a familiar routine if they stuck around long enough for the next band to finish. He usually waited around for all the artists to wrap up their performances before taking off. It’s not like the night wasn’t young.

He bee-lined for the bar after packing up his gear. His elbow settled on the counter, yelling above shitty overhead intermission music – who plays U2 after a set like theirs? “I’ll take a rum and coke!” The tender shook their head at his choice. “What? – you don’t have rum? – Coke?” He leaned deeper over the bar to clarify, a playful grin curling at his expression, “Is this a bar?” The dude didn’t find it very funny. New York, what a friendly fucking city. “I’ll have two shots then – whatever you got, thanks.” He reached for the bifold in his back pocket and set down a few bills, fingering the ring on his index finger as the tender poured shots.

Cole Montgomery

Truthfully, Cole had no idea what show he was being dragged to, only that his friend Farrah was bringing a friend and the show was in the Lower East Side, so they wanted to use his place as the meeting spot. He didn't mind much. If not for a few select friends, Cole would never see the outside of his apartment. He was reclusive by nature, and since he'd slowed down on drinking and started on his manuscript, Cole had fallen into a routine of early nights with his cat. There were a few lost months, too, months that turned into half a year of drinking to forget. He’d never been very good at finding a middle ground, so the only way Cole could conceptualize not drinking to forget was locking himself away, the Emily Dickinson-style seclusion. Lately, though, he’d been trying to find a balance… or rather, his friends were forcing him to find a balance. Cole was grateful for a growing community, a group of people who truly cared for him, but it was hard to deny the guilt he still harbored. It felt wrong to let loose and have fun when he'd hurt so many people-- Lee, Max, Jonathan, Will, his mother. The list of people he'd disappointed wasn't short, and maybe he should suffer for that. It was only right, right?

Buzz. The self-loathing would have to wait for tomorrow. Cole spent a few seconds circling his apartment looking for Neetz, and before he could find her the buzzing had begun again, buzzes in rapid succession. “I hear you, Jesus Christ!” he yelled as if Farrah could hear him from the third floor. He was about to give up when he spotted a familiar tuft of black fur wedged between the radiator and the bookshelf. Cole chuckled, gave her a goodbye pat, and shoved his keys and wallet into his pocket. A quick glance at his watch told him they were running late, so he took the steps two at a time and spilled onto the street, breathless. “Fuck you, I heard you the first six times you buzzed,” he greeted his friend with a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, I’m Cole,” he smiled at the new friend. The two blocks to the bar were filled with casual conversation, the weather, other such forgettable things— but Cole’s mind was elsewhere.

As they shrugged into the crowded pub, Cole welcomed the loud music and the feeling of the snare drumming in his chest was weirdly soothing. After his eyes adjusted to the dark, Cole glanced on stage. He recognized the hair first, long, brunette curls shaking with every move he made. Eddie fucking Munson. For a moment, Cole thought he was surely dreaming— or hallucinating— but he hadn’t taken anything in weeks. Cole’s eyes were glued to him throughout the whole set. At first to make sure he was real, and then… because he couldn’t look away. There was something addictive about him, and Cole’s stupid high school crush on Eddie “the freak” Munson came flooding back. The music was good— or so he thought, he wasn’t fully paying attention, but Farrah and her friend seemed to enjoy it. Cole spent the whole set figuring out how to get backstage, who he needed to bat his eyelashes at, and he’d solidified a plan. Only then did he notice that Eddie hadn’t gone backstage; in fact, he’d made a beeline to the bar. So Cole did the same, game plan effectively thrown out of the window.

He slid into a seat a few spaces down from the rockstar and eavesdropped for a moment. Cole laughed at the joke, for what it was worth, and caught the bartender’s eye long enough to order an Old Fashioned. Just one drink, just for the liquid courage to actually approach Eddie, who may or may not even know who he was; God knows they hadn’t talked much back in high school. But, who knows, they both had… certain reputations. Maybe the noticing wasn’t one-sided. “Thanks,” he breathed when the bartender returned with his glass. Cole took a large gulp and glanced up at his target. Sliding the glass over as he moved into the seat closes to Eddie, Cole offered a wry grin. “Long way from Hawkins, aren’t you?” he mused, projecting nonchalance. “I’m Cole Montgomery. Hawkins High class of ’85.” It was weird, being this close to a blast from the past. They hadn’t exactly run in the same circles— as if Cole had a social circle at all— but still, it had him lost in thought, remembering high school. His chest felt heavy, all of the sudden, at the thought of how things used to be. Who he used to be. Cole took another long swig of his drink and turned squarely to Eddie. “Good set, but I gotta ask. What the fuck’s the deal with the name?”