#my childhood was... weird and confusing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vingtetunmars · 2 months ago

Text

Teenage Dirtbags

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: Childhood friends turned rebellious teens, you and Eddie Munson have always been thick as thieves — sneaking out, breaking into abandoned diners, and laughing at the world that doesn’t get them. Her parents disapprove, the school calls him a freak, but none of it matters when they’re together.

Tags: NSFW, smut (18+), fluff, friends to lovers, childhood friends, coming of age, mutual pining, rebellious teenagers, "us against the world", parents disapproval, impulsive getaways, eddie munson is a sweetheart, p-in-v, confessionnal sex. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Save to say most of my fic inspiration for Eddie are from songs. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 9.4k (oh wow)

masterlist

1979

You were going to snap.

The plastic spork bounced off your tray and skidded across the table. You didn’t even need to look to know who threw it—same kid who’d been messing with you all week. Earlier, it was a balled-up napkin. Yesterday, it was a grape. Today, it was everything short of a full-on food fight.

You kept your head down, picking at the sad excuse for macaroni on your tray, hoping he’d get bored. He didn’t.

“Hey,” the boy behind you whispered, yanking a lock of your hair just hard enough to make your eyes sting. “You put glue in it or something? Why’s it so crunchy?”

Your jaw clenched. You bit your cheek to keep from turning around and launching your milk carton at his face. The din of the lunchroom made it easy for teachers to ignore—unless someone got loud.

Which someone did.

“Cease your torment, cretin! Or I shall summon the Lord of the Underworld himself!”

Your head whipped up. The boy behind you froze.

Standing at the end of your lunch table was a skinny kid with a buzz cut, a tattered Black Sabbath patch safety-pinned to his denim vest, and a tray of untouched lunch balanced on one hand like a waiter. His other hand pointed accusingly, finger straight and eyes wide like a televangelist on TV.

“What the hell, Munson?” the boy behind you asked.

The new kid didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped to one knee in the middle of the cafeteria floor and raised both hands to the ceiling.

“Dominos. Ravioli. Infernum-malarkey!” he bellowed, deepening his voice into a theatrical growl. “Oh great horned one, curse this mortal with itchy skin and uncontrollable gas!”

Laughter burst out from nearby tables.

You blinked.

Then—you laughed too.

It started as a confused giggle and turned into a real, actual laugh. Loud enough to startle the kid behind you into silence. He slunk away without a word, disappearing into the crowd.

When you turned back around, the buzz cut boy had taken a dramatic bow.

“Eddie Munson,” he announced. “At your service.”

You stared at him for a beat, then smiled, “You’re weird.”

He beamed like you’d just handed him a trophy.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”

And just like that, the empty seat across from you wasn’t empty anymore.

1984

The hallway erupted like someone had hit “play” on a fast-forward button—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices rising as students flooded toward freedom. But right in the middle of the chaos, you took your time.

Your locker was stuck again. You wiggled the handle with practiced irritation, muttering a quiet curse under your breath.

And then—

Slam!

A hand hit the locker next to yours with dramatic flair.

“Need a spell, m’lady?”

You didn’t even have to look. The smug tone, the scent of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke—it was unmistakable.

“You’re gonna bruise the metal if you keep doing that,” you said, lips tugging into a smile despite yourself.

Eddie Munson leaned against the lockers like he owned the hallway, grinning at you through his mess of curls. His denim vest was half-unbuttoned over his Hellfire Club tee, and he had a binder stuffed with loose papers under one arm. Somehow, he made chaos look cool.

“Maybe it’ll bruise back,” he quipped, giving your locker a gentle kick. It creaked open instantly. “See? You just have to speak its language.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping back so you could grab your books, “you keep me around. Which says so much more about you than it does about me.”

You bumped his shoulder as you closed your locker, and he didn’t move an inch.

“Plans tonight?” he asked, falling into step beside you like he always did.

“Not unless you’re planning something.”

He grinned wider. “I may or may not have found a way into the old diner by the train tracks.”

You arched a brow. “Eddie.”

“It’s abandoned! Kinda. Mostly. Anyway, I hear the power still works.”

You stopped walking and turned to him, arms crossed. “If we get caught again—”

“We won’t.” He leaned in with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “We’re ghosts, remember? Shadows. Teenage legends.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a quiet laugh. “You’re full of shit.”

“And yet,” he echoed with a smirk, “you keep me around.”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no hiding the fondness in it. You always rolled your eyes around Eddie. And he always stayed close anyway.

Like he had since the cafeteria, five years ago.

Later that night, the lock was rusted, the side door warped just enough to slip a crowbar through. Eddie grunted as he wedged it in, muscles tense, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. With one good shove and a metallic clank, the door creaked open.

“After you, partner in crime,” he whispered, bowing with a flourish.

You stepped inside, the soles of your sneakers crunching on old tile dust. The air smelled like mildew and grease that had long since congealed into memory.

A few rays of moonlight filtered through cracked windows, casting long, silvery shadows across the booths and checkered floor. The whole place looked like someone had locked up in ’64 and never came back. A half-burned “Daily Special” board still hung above the counter. A stack of chipped coffee cups waited behind the bar like someone might show up to pour a round.

“Holy shit,” you breathed. “This is so cool.”

“Told you.” Eddie’s voice was soft, reverent even. “Place is like a time capsule. All it needs is a jukebox and someone to roll by on skates.”

You wandered past the booths, running your fingers over the cracked vinyl cushions. The red had faded to dull maroon. He followed a few steps behind, glancing around with wide eyes like a kid in a haunted house—excited, cautious, thrilled.

“Bet there’s still silverware somewhere,” he said, hopping over the counter with a thud. He pulled open a drawer, rattling around. “Bingo.”

He held up a rusted spoon like it was buried treasure.

You chuckled, ducking behind the counter with him. “I’m stealing a salt shaker. This is too good not to commemorate.”

“Here,” he said, digging deeper into the drawer. “Comet-brand bottle opener. Still shiny.”

You pocketed it with a grin. “We should open a museum.”

Eddie stood up on the counter, arms spread wide. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Hall of Bad Decisions. Featuring cigarette burns, petty theft, and a distinct lack of adult supervision.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound echoing off the walls.

The truth was, no matter how dusty or broken the place, it always felt electric with Eddie around. Every forgotten building was a playground. Every half-dumb idea felt like genius. With him, even rusted cutlery felt like gold.

You leaned against the counter, smiling up at him.

“This place is gonna be ours for a while, huh?”

He looked down at you and nodded, his grin softening.

“Yeah,” he said. “Until the next one.”

Eddie’s van purred softly in the driveway, headlights off. The glow from the porch light was enough to see the curve of his grin as he leaned across the driver’s seat to look at you.

“You sure you don’t want me to summon Satan again?” he teased, voice low. “Might scare your mom into going easy on you.”

You laughed quietly, hand already on the door handle. “Pretty sure she’s more terrifying than Satan.”

He tilted his head, mock serious. “Valid.”

A beat of silence passed. You looked at him. He looked at you.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said. “That diner was… weirdly magical.”

He smirked. “Like I said—teenage legends.”

You leaned over and bumped his shoulder gently. “Call me when you get home.”

Eddie saluted you, then added, “I’ll keep an eye out for demon cops. You never know.”

You rolled your eyes, but it made you smile as you slipped out of the van and jogged up the front steps. You gave him one last wave before unlocking the door and slipping inside.

The smile dropped as soon as the door clicked shut.

The hallway was dim, the only light coming from the kitchen. Your mom was sitting at the table, elbows resting on a half-folded newspaper, her fingers pressed against her temple. She didn’t even look up when she spoke.

“You know what time it is?”

Her voice wasn’t angry—just tired. Drained in that way that made your chest twist a little.

“Yeah,” you said softly, stepping out of your shoes. “I lost track.”

Your mom finally looked up. Her eyes flicked to your jacket, your tangled hair, the faint whiff of dust and old grease you carried back from the diner.

“You were with him again.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

She sighed and sat back in her chair, eyes heavy. “You can’t keep doing this, sweetheart.”

You stayed by the doorway, hands in your pockets, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you mumbled.

“Not yet,” she said. “But trouble follows that boy like a shadow.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but you thought it anyway.

Good. So do I.

Without another word, you walked down the hall and shut your bedroom door behind you.

The only light in your room came from the moon outside your window. You crossed the floor, dropped your jacket on the bed, and fished into your pocket.

The bottle opener from the diner caught the moonlight just right as you turned it over in your hand.

You smiled again—just a little this time.

The smell of questionable pizza and overcooked green beans lingered thick in the air, but it didn’t matter. You were already weaving through the tables with your tray in hand, heading toward your table—the one where noise, weirdness, and near-constant laughter were part of the deal.

“Okay, but we cannot open with ‘War Pigs’ again,” Gareth was saying, waving half a sandwich like it was a conductor’s baton. “We’re becoming predictable.”

Jeff leaned across the table, chewing thoughtfully. “People like predictable. It’s crowd control.”

Doug piped up with a mouthful of tater tots. “Predictable gets you heckled.”

“And heckled means notoriety,” Eddie added from the center of the chaos, his boots kicked up on an empty chair, half a Twinkie in hand. “Notoriety builds legacy.”

You dropped your tray across from him and plopped into your seat, arching an eyebrow. “You guys planning a set list or starting a revolution?”

Eddie pointed the Twinkie at you like a preacher. “Both, sweetheart. Both.”

“You’re late,” Doug said, nudging his tray your way. “We almost gave your seat to a freshman.”

“You touch my seat, I take your soul,” you deadpanned, snatching a tater tot off his tray.

He shrugged. “Fair.”

“Anyway,” Eddie said, pulling a notebook from beneath his jacket like it was classified intel, “we’re down to two opening tracks—‘The Trooper’ or ‘Symptom of the Universe.’”

You bit into your apple. “You’re seriously debating this like it’s the damn Super Bowl.”

“Because it is,” Gareth said, dead serious. “Thursday night. The Hideout. Four people in the audience max. Maybe five if Jeff’s mom shows up.”

Jeff raised his soda can. “She always does.”

“I’m just saying,” you said, setting your apple down, “no one in that bar cares what song you start with. They just want something loud, something angry, and maybe to get a free beer if they flirt with the bartender.”

Eddie beamed at you. “And that’s why you’re an honorary member of this band of degenerates.”

“Honorary?” Doug asked. “She literally helped us roll for loot two weeks ago.”

“I fell asleep halfway through,” you reminded him.

“And still somehow survived the ogre ambush,” Gareth muttered.

“Yeah, ‘cause Eddie kept rerolling behind the screen.”

Eddie gasped, hand on his chest. “Are you accusing your fearless Dungeon Master of cheating?”

You grinned. “Not accusing. Just observing.”

He tossed a crust of bread at you. You ducked. The others laughed.

The table was loud, obnoxious, and borderline unbearable to anyone sitting within a ten-foot radius. But to you? It was home. You didn’t care about the campaign schedule or the band drama half as much as they did, but it didn’t matter. You were part of it anyway.

Here, no one tried to change you. Or warn you away from being yourself. Or away from Eddie.

Which, judging by the way he was still looking at you over the rim of his soda can—with that crooked smile that always spelled trouble—you’d have to deal with later.

But for now, you kicked your feet up beside his, stole another tot from Doug’s tray, and settled into the noise.

Later that day, you were walking toward Eddie’s locker, planning to meet up before heading to the parking lot. But you knew something was wrong before you even saw it.

The crowd gave it away.

A couple of underclassmen lingered nearby, whispering and pretending not to look. A few seniors passed, snickering behind their hands. That knot in your stomach twisted tighter with every step.

And then you saw it.

FREAK

Spray-painted in jagged red letters across Eddie’s locker door. The paint still dripped, fresh and bold and proud.

Eddie was already there, standing in front of it like it wasn’t even his. He had one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the strap of his bag, eyes scanning the word like it was graffiti on a bathroom wall and not a personal attack.

You approached slowly. “Jesus…”

He looked over at you, then back at the locker. “Creative, huh?”

“Are you okay?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

But you didn’t buy it. Not from the way his mouth pressed into a thin line. Not from the way he wouldn’t touch the door.

“It’s bullshit,” you said, voice low, sharp. “We should tell—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “It’s not worth it.”

“Eddie—”

“It’s just a word.” He finally reached forward and popped the locker open like the paint wasn’t even there. “I’ve been called worse. Hell, I am worse. Freak’s kind of a promotion.”

You stared at him. He looked tired. Not angry. Not even hurt. Just used to it—like he’d seen this coming the day he first wore a Dio shirt to school and never looked back.

He pulled out a book, slammed the locker shut, and slung his arm around your shoulder like nothing happened.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do something illegal.”

You tried to smile. Tried to match his energy.

But you kept glancing back at that word. And the way he didn’t even flinch.

You weren’t even in a bad mood until you heard the voice.

“…yeah, I did it. Told you I would,” some guy was bragging just outside the door. “Spray-painted it right on his locker. FREAK—like billboard size.”

A snort of laughter followed. “No way.”

“Swear to God. My cousin had that red paint in his garage. Took like three seconds. Guy’s a loser anyway—no one’s gonna do shit.”

Your jaw clenched. You peeked out through the cracked door just enough to see who was talking.

Ryan Garrison.

Smug. Stupid. Already walking away with two other guys, all of them laughing like they’d just pulled off a harmless prank and not openly vandalized someone else’s property.

Your hands curled into fists inside your sleeves.

You didn’t say anything then. Not yet.

But you had a name now.

And something about the way Eddie had looked at his locker yesterday—like it was a fact of life, not something he deserved to fight back against—stuck to your ribs like ash.

This wasn’t going to slide.

Not this time.

Behind the bleachers, Eddie was sitting on the concrete, knees pulled up, lazily plucking at the strings of his guitar. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the air. He didn’t look up when you approached—he never had to.

You dropped beside him, legs stretched out, pulling your sleeves over your hands.

“I know who did it.”

He paused, just long enough to let the words settle. “Did what?”

You gave him a look.

He sighed through his nose, set the guitar down gently beside him. “Doesn’t matter. I already told you—”

“It was Ryan Garrison.”

Now he looked at you.

You could see it then—how his jaw tensed for just a second. Not surprised. Just… disappointed in the predictability of it all.

“He was bragging about it in the hallway,” you went on. “Didn’t even bother to whisper. Just loud and proud with his dumbass buddies like it was a joke.”

Eddie leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky. “God, I’d love to be that stupid. You think life’s easier when you’re that full of yourself?”

“Probably,” you muttered, then nudged his knee with yours. “But also… I have an idea.”

Eddie turned to you slowly, brow arched, curiosity piqued. “Oh no.”

You grinned. “Oh yes.”

“What level of felony are we talking here?”

“No felonies,” you said sweetly. “Just… maybe some light vandalism. Minor property damage, at worst.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I say we skip last period,” you continued, “grab a carton of eggs from the corner store, and redecorate Ryan Garrison’s shiny little Camaro.”

Eddie blinked. “You want to egg his car?”

“Don’t you?”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I do love performance art.”

You bumped shoulders. “Thought so.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like he was trying to be the voice of reason, but couldn’t quite resist. “You’re gonna get detention.”

“You’ll be right there with me.”

“Oh, I’m definitely not letting you do it alone,” he said. “If you go down, I’m going down with you.”

“Us against the world,” you said, holding out a pinky.

Eddie linked his pinky with yours. “Always.”

The lot was mostly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the faded lines and scattered cigarette butts. Ryan Garrison’s Camaro—sleek, waxed, obnoxiously red—sat like a trophy near the back row.

You crouched behind a scraggly bush with Eddie, both of you gripping your smuggled plastic bag of ammo: a dozen slightly-warm eggs from the corner store fridge. You could barely contain your grin as you peered around the shrub like war criminals on a covert op.

Eddie whispered, “Okay, listen. We do this fast, like guerrilla warfare. You take the driver’s side, I’ll take the back. We launch, we leg it. Got it?”

“Got it,” you said, cracking your knuckles dramatically.

“One… two… go!”

You darted out from cover, pulling an egg from the carton mid-run. The first one hit the windshield with a glorious splat. The second one smacked the driver’s side door, dripping yolk down the shiny paint.

Eddie whooped from the rear bumper. “Eat poultry, you shiny bastard!”

He chucked two in rapid fire—one hitting the trunk, the other bouncing off the rearview mirror with a satisfying crack.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, breathless with laughter. “We’re going to hell.”

“We were already going to hell!” he shouted gleefully, winding up and letting one rip straight at the hood.

Then, “HEY! WHAT THE HELL?!”

You didn’t even turn around to confirm. You knew that voice.

“Run!” you yelled, grabbing Eddie by the sleeve.

You both took off, legs pumping, laughter bubbling out of your chests as Ryan’s furious footsteps pounded behind you.

Eddie tossed the empty bag over his shoulder as you rounded the edge of the lot, diving into the passenger seat of his van while he jumped behind the wheel.

He jammed the key into the ignition. “Come on, come on, come on—YES!”

The engine roared to life just as Ryan came into view, red-faced and livid, streaks of yolk still dripping down his car in the distance.

Eddie peeled out of the lot with a screech of tires, flipping him the bird out the open window. You slammed the door shut just in time and nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Holy shit!” you gasped, clutching your stomach. “We’re actually gonna die!”

Eddie was howling, one hand pounding the steering wheel. “Did you see his face?! He looked like his soul left his body!”

You were breathless, wild with adrenaline and glee, wind whipping through the open window as the town blurred past you.

“That felt so good.”

Eddie glanced at you as the wind whipped through the cracked windows, hair tousled, eyes gleaming.

And in that moment—in Eddie’s van, hair messy, heart racing—you felt more alive than you had in weeks.

Just two teenage dirtbags with egg-stained hands and nowhere else to be.

The van was parked at the edge of the woods, a spot you both stumbled on years ago—your unofficial hideout from everything. The trees opened into a clearing that caught the last light just right, turning everything gold and soft and quiet.

You and Eddie were lying side by side on the grass, backs pressed into the earth, heads tilted to the sky where the clouds burned orange and pink.

The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving a slow, syrupy warmth in your chest. One of your shoes was off. Eddie’s jacket was draped over both of you like a shared blanket.

He was playing with a blade of grass between his fingers, eyes half-lidded. “Do you think the eggs did any actual damage? Like, cosmetic damage. Paint-eating level.”

“I hope so,” you said softly.

He chuckled. “You’re terrifying.”

You turned your head toward him. “You’re just now realizing that?”

He gave you a lazy grin, and the world shifted just a little.

It was quiet for a moment. Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then Eddie spoke again, voice lower. “You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?”

You blinked. “Breaking and entering? Vandalism? Petty crimes in general?”

He snorted. “No—well, yes—but I meant… this. You and me.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He plucked another blade of grass. “It’s weird, right? Everyone else seems to… grow out of their people. Switch friends like seasons. But you stuck.”

You smiled, looking up at the sky again. “Maybe I just like weirdos.”

“Lucky for me,” he muttered.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. You were too busy trying to memorize this version of Eddie: eyes soft, voice gentle, golden light kissing his cheekbones.

You could feel it again—that fluttery thing in your chest that always showed up when he got quiet like this. You’d buried it for years under jokes and reckless nights and pretending you were just partners in crime.

But it never really left.

And now, lying beside him like this, it itched behind your ribs.

You turned your head slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know… if you ever decide to grow out of me, I’m locking you in that abandoned diner.”

He tilted his head toward you, smirking. “You’d have to catch me first.”

“Oh, I’d catch you.”

He chuckled, and the sound felt like home. Then, more seriously, “Not gonna happen. You’re stuck with me.”

Your chest ached in that soft, good way.

“Good,” you said, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t really want anyone else.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was full of something unspoken.

And you let it hang there, golden and quiet, in the space between your shoulders and his.

You should’ve known something was off the second you walked through the door.

Your mom was in the kitchen, humming. Humming. She hadn’t done that since... since she took your journal and called it "worrisome." And your dad was pretending to read the paper, though he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.

Your stomach dropped.

“Sweetheart,” your mom called, too brightly. “We’re having dinner with the Darrows tonight. Come change, would you? Put on something… nicer.”

You blinked at her, halfway out of your shoes. “The Darrows?”

She smiled, the kind that never reached her eyes. “You remember their son, Nathan? He goes to the youth group at Trinity.”

There it was.

“You invited someone from church?” you asked flatly, incredulous. “Why?”

Your dad folded the paper like he’d been waiting to jump in. “He’s a good kid. Polite. Plays varsity basketball.”

“He wore loafers to gym class,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly. “He said Dungeons & Dragons was ‘satanic.’”

Your mom’s smile faltered just slightly. “Maybe it’s time you spent time with people who could be a good influence on you.”

You stared at her, chest slowly filling with heat. “This is about Eddie.”

“No,” your dad said—too quickly. “This is about your future.”

You laughed. A cold, stunned little sound. “You think I’m gonna marry Nathan Darrow?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“You’re trying to fix me,” you snapped. “Like I’m broken. Like Eddie broke me.”

“He’s not—” Your mom stepped forward, her voice soft but sharp, “—the kind of person you should be around.”

That did it.

You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. You just turned around, walked calmly to your room, grabbed your bag, and climbed out the window like you had a hundred times before.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t have to.

Eddie opened the door the second you reached the top step, like he already knew it was you.

He took one look at your face and stepped aside, wordless.

You dropped your bag on the floor with a dull thud, toeing off your shoes.

Then you just stood there, in the soft yellow light of his living room, swallowing back the lump in your throat.

Eddie watched you quietly. “They tried again, huh?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “Tried to sell me off to a Bible boy.”

He didn’t laugh. He just opened his arms.

You stepped into them without hesitation.

He held you tightly, chin resting on the crown of your head.

The trailer was quiet now. Wayne was working the night shift, and the TV buzzed low in the background, playing some late-night rerun no one was really watching.

You were both at the tiny kitchen table, a half-eaten bowl of cereal between you, cold by now. Eddie was lazily flipping through a tattered Hit Parader magazine while you stared at your hands, still a little wrung out from earlier.

Then, suddenly:

“Let’s get outta here.”

You blinked. “What?”

Eddie looked up, grinning like a spark had just caught in his brain. “Like—out. Just for a night. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

He shrugged, leaned back in his chair. “Chicago. Why not? It’s what, three, four hours from here?”

You stared at him.

He was serious. And maybe a little sleep-deprived. But also serious.

“You want to drive to Chicago tonight?”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

“Eddie, we don’t have money.”

“I have ten bucks and half a tank of gas.”

“I have eight,” you said slowly. “And a granola bar.”

“See? That’s a feast,” he said, mock offended. “We’ll live like kings.”

You snorted. “What would we even do there?”

He shrugged again, that boyish, chaotic light in his eyes. “Get lost. Walk around the city. Maybe sneak into a punk show. Or sit on a rooftop and scream at the skyline. Doesn’t matter.”

And the thing was… it didn’t.

Because he was looking at you like you were the point of it all. Not Chicago. Not the getaway. Just the idea of being free with you.

You looked at him for a long moment, then said softly, “Okay.”

His smile grew, slow and wide. “Yeah?”

“Let’s be stupid.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You threw your bag into the back. He brought a couple of tapes, a hoodie, a few crumpled bills, and his lucky lighter. You didn’t even ask why.

As the van pulled out of the trailer park, the town faded behind you like static. Streetlights blurring. The stars overhead flickering faintly, and the open road stretching out in front of you like a promise.

“Freedom tastes like exhaust fumes and bad decisions,” Eddie declared, one hand out the window like he could catch the wind.

You laughed, head resting on the seat. “We’re gonna regret this.”

“Maybe,” he said, glancing at you with a crooked smile. “But not tonight.”

And for once, it felt like you could breathe.

Like running wasn’t running away—it was just running toward something.

Something that looked a lot like him.

They didn’t even check IDs.

Maybe it was the smeared eyeliner and scuffed boots. Maybe it was Eddie’s jacket with all the safety pins or the way you both walked in like you belonged.

Either way, you were in—bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the ceiling dripping with condensation, someone screaming into a mic like the world was ending and it needed to be loud.

You and Eddie lost yourselves in it. No one from Hawkins here. No judgmental stares. Just noise and lights and sweat and freedom.

He grabbed your hand during a guitar solo and spun you in the crowd, his hair sticking to his forehead, laughing like he was seventeen and unstoppable. You grinned wide, your voice raw from yelling, from singing along even when you didn’t know the words.

Later, after the band finished their set and you’d slipped out a side door that led into an alleyway full of graffiti and old posters peeling off the bricks, Eddie fished out a joint from his pocket like it was treasure.

“You carried that through state lines?” you asked, eyes wide.

He just smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You both leaned against the alley wall, the buzz of leftover adrenaline in your chest, sharing slow, quiet puffs between bursts of laughter.

The world softened.

The city was asleep, or pretending to be. Traffic lights blinked for no one. Steam rose from the grates in the sidewalk. You and Eddie walked side by side, dazed and giddy, your fingertips tangled together without thinking about it too hard.

You were both too high to be cold, too happy to care.

You kicked a stray can down the street. He tried to hop on a newspaper box and nearly fell off. Everything was hilarious.

And then, in a lull between laughs, he said, “Y’know, this feels like a movie.”

You glanced at him, lips parted in a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Like… the part right before the world gets all complicated again.”

You were quiet for a moment. The good kind of quiet.

Your hand tightened around his.

“I don’t care if it gets complicated,” you said softly, watching your steps on the sidewalk. “As long as you’re in it.”

He looked over at you—really looked—and for once, didn’t deflect with a joke.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. No dramatic tone, no grand promise. Just fact.

You nodded, a little dizzy. From the weed. From the night. From the boy beside you who made this whole goddamn city feel like home.

“I’m glad I have you,” you murmured, barely audible.

He squeezed your hand.

“Right back at you, trouble.”

The world was pale and still when you woke up.

Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing gently rocking you awake. One of his arms was curled around you, his other hand half-asleep against your hip. The old blanket he kept in the back was tangled around your legs, and the van windows were fogged from the inside.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

There were no words.

Just the soft hum of morning settling in, the birds starting their songs, the ache in your limbs from a night lived hard and full.

Eventually, Eddie blinked awake, eyes squinting at the light filtering through the windshield. His gaze flicked down at you. He didn’t look surprised. Just… calm.

You gave him a sleepy smile.

He smiled back.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Eddie parked a few houses down from yours like usual. The sun had fully risen now, casting golden light over the familiar neighborhood. Lawn sprinklers clicked on. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Everything felt painfully normal.

You sat in the passenger seat for a moment, your bag in your lap, neither of you ready to break the spell completely.

“Well,” you sighed, hand on the door handle. “Back to pretending.”

Eddie leaned forward, resting his arms on the steering wheel. “We’ll make it out again. Next time—maybe even with money.”

You smiled, heart pinched in the best way.

You opened the door, swung one leg out—then paused.

Leaning back in, you reached across the console and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks for running away with me,” you whispered.

His eyes widened just a little—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. He just smiled, slow and warm.

“Anytime, trouble.”

And with that, you slipped out of the van, hugging your bag close, and vanished up the side of your house just before the neighborhood fully woke up.

Eddie watched the spot you disappeared into for a few seconds longer, his fingers brushing the spot on his cheek where your lips had been.

School was out, and the Hellfire boys were all grouped near the back of the lot like always. Gareth leaned against Jeff’s car, drumsticks tapping lightly against his thigh. Doug was halfway through a story about a kid who fell asleep in math and drooled on his own worksheet. You were only half-listening, the zipper of your backpack clenched between your fingers.

Eddie was off to the side, scrawling something into his well-worn campaign binder, crouched on the curb. The sun caught in his hair. His chain hung loose. He looked ridiculous and perfect.

You smiled without meaning to.

“Alright, nerds, same time Thursday?” Eddie called out, shutting the binder with a dramatic snap.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jeff grinned, already sliding into the front seat.

The group started peeling away, shouting jokes and farewells, backpacks slung over shoulders.

You waved at Doug and Jeff as they piled into the car. “Later, losers.”

“Bye, honorary loser,” Doug called.

You turned back just in time to catch Eddie’s eyes. He grinned, and you shot him a mock salute.

“Drive safe, Munson.”

“I always do,” he lied, winking as he slid into the van.

You didn’t look away immediately.

And he didn’t either.

Then, with a little wave, he backed out and rolled off toward the main road.

You were still watching the van disappear when Gareth stepped up beside you, arms crossed.

“So,” he said casually. “When are you gonna tell him?”

You blinked. “Tell who what?”

He gave you a knowing side-eye. “C’mon.”

You tried to laugh it off. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure,” he said, drawing the word out. “Totally. You just happened to stare at him like he personally invented sunlight.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

Gareth just smirked. “I’m just saying. The rest of us already know. It’s just you and Eddie who haven’t figured it out yet.”

You turned away before he could see the color rising to your cheeks.

“See you Thursday, Gareth.”

“You owe me five bucks when you finally kiss,” he called after you.

You flipped him off over your shoulder—but you were smiling.

His room was a mess of posters, records, and the distinct scent of weed curling through the air. The window was cracked just enough to let the smoke drift lazily outside, and the two of you were stretched out on the floor, backs propped against the edge of his bed.

Eddie held the joint between his fingers, gesturing with it as he recounted the latest Hellfire session like he was reading from a holy text.

“And then—this is the best part—Doug’s bard tries to seduce the necromancer’s skeleton minion, like full-on charisma roll, flowers, everything—”

You choked on a laugh, nearly dropping the soda can in your hand. “What did you do?”

“I made him roll with disadvantage for being a creep,” Eddie said proudly, eyes alight with glee. “And the skeleton punched him in the face.”

You snorted, nudging your socked foot against his leg. “God, you’re so mean to them.”

“I’m fair,” he corrected, passing you the joint with a grin. “It’s not my fault their stupidity knows no bounds.”

You took a hit and leaned your head back against the mattress, exhaling toward the ceiling, warm and light and a little dizzy in the best way.

Eddie kept talking, something about a cursed dagger and Jeff accidentally summoning a demonic goat, but you weren’t really listening anymore. Not fully.

You were watching him.

The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way he moved his hands too much when he got excited. The little scratch in his voice when he’d smoked just enough.

Something in your face must’ve changed—softened, maybe—because he stopped mid-sentence and tilted his head at you.

“…Am I that interesting,” he asked, smirking slightly, “for you to stare at me like that?”

You blinked, startled.

Heat crept up your neck.

“Maybe,” you said, too slow, too honest.

He blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second—then he looked away with a quiet chuckle, scratching the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with the silence that followed.

You passed the joint back to him, your fingers brushing his. Neither of you commented on how long that touch lingered.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking toward the window.

“You’re weird,” he said finally, voice a little softer now.

“You’re weirder,” you murmured back, your cheek tilted toward your shoulder as you watched him.

Then, after a beat, you blinked and looked away.

“…Sorry,” you said softly, the word slipping out like it was pulled from somewhere deeper than you expected. “For staring.”

Eddie didn’t answer right away.

You figured maybe he was trying to think of something funny to deflect with, like he always did. But then you heard the creak of the mattress as he shifted closer, and when you glanced back at him, he was already looking at you again.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. No smirk. No teasing.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Eddie leaned in just slightly, one elbow resting on the floor, hand curling near your knee but not touching.

“I like it,” he added, voice low.

Your breath caught.

“Like what?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“The way you look at me,” he said. “Like I’m… something.”

You blinked. The joint burned slowly between his fingers. You didn’t even notice the smoke anymore.

“You are,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve always been something.”

Eddie let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh, like he didn’t know what to do with the truth of that. “You’re really gonna kill me, aren’t you.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you, his eyes tracing yours like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when you were this close. When the light was soft and low and you weren’t looking away.

“Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for, like, ever, and if you keep looking at me like that…”

You didn’t give him a chance to finish.

You leaned forward, slow but sure, giving him time to stop it—he didn’t.

Your lips brushed his in the softest, smallest movement, and then again, fuller this time, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt to hold onto.

Eddie let the joint fall into the ashtray. He kissed you back with both hands cradling your face, warm and a little clumsy like every nerve in him was firing at once. His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he pulled you closer, tasting like weed and soda and every shared laugh you’d ever had.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.

It just was.

Something about kissing Eddie felt inevitable now — like you’d already been halfway doing it for years in every shared secret, every getaway, every “you okay?” and “come with me.”

The weed buzzed warm through your limbs, making everything feel hazy at the edges. Soft. Slower.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed against your lips, eyes flickering over your face like he wasn’t sure you were real. “You’re really doing this to me, huh?”

You smiled, fingertips tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Just shut up and keep kissing me, Munson.”

That got a breathless laugh from him, the kind that disappeared into your mouth as you pulled him into another kiss. Deeper this time. Messier. Less careful. His hands slid up under your hoodie, thumbs tracing the skin of your waist like he couldn’t believe you were letting him.

You rocked into him just slightly — enough to make his breath catch, enough to let him feel you weren’t playing around.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then under your ear. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You’ve been ruining me since seventh grade,” you whispered back, tilting your head to let him in.

You felt him smile against your neck, his hands tightening on your hips like he couldn’t help himself.

“Take me to your bed.”

Eddie’s eyes widened — pupils already blown out from the joint you shared earlier, but now they were all you could see. “You sure?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

For a second, he didn’t move — just looked at you like he was trying to etch this moment into his soul. Then, carefully, he lifted you off his lap and helped you to your feet, tugging you gently by the hand toward the bed.

Once you were sitting at the edge, Eddie stepped between your knees, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Still with me?”

You answered by kissing him again, pulling him down with you until your back hit the mattress and he was leaning over you. You could feel him — his cock, hard and pressing into you through layers of clothes — and your cunt clenched in response.

Hands fumbled with zippers and fabric, laughter slipping between kisses as you both struggled with nerves and anticipation. You helped him pull off your hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, followed by your shorts. His shirt went next, then your bra, then your underwear — and suddenly you were bare beneath him, flushed and glowing.

Eddie’s eyes roamed every inch of you like he’d never seen anything so sacred.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Like… shit, I don’t even have words for you.”

Your face flushed deeper. “Then maybe just kiss me.”

And he did — from your lips to your neck, down your collarbone, teeth grazing gently as his hands explored you. When his fingers found your folds, he paused at how soaked you were.

“You’re really like this for me?” he murmured, running soft, slow circles that made your thighs twitch. “Goddamn…”

Your back arched, head falling back with a gasp. “Eddie…”

He took his time, working you open with gentle touches, one finger inside you, then two, curling and coaxing until you were clinging to his arm.

Only when you were writhing, panting, nearly coming undone from just his fingers, did he reach for a condom from the drawer.

You watched as he pulled his pants and boxers down, revealing his cock — flushed, thick, and hard. You swallowed at the sight, nerves and need colliding in your gut.

Eddie noticed. “Hey,” he whispered, leaning over you again. “We go slow, alright? You say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You nodded, hands trembling slightly as he rolled on the condom and settled between your legs, guiding himself to your entrance.

The stretch was slow — deeper than anything you’d felt, and you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. Eddie stilled, brushing your hair from your face.

“You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah… just full.”

He kissed your temple. “I got you, sweetheart.”

When he started moving, it was careful — slow thrusts, each one deeper than the last, his hands bracing on either side of your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting more.

Every drag of his cock against the walls of your cunt made heat bloom low in your belly. His name left your lips like a chant, and in return he whispered yours with quiet reverence.

“Feels so good… you’re so perfect,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as his thrusts got a little faster, a little harder. “I’ve wanted this—God, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Your fingers clawed into his back as the tension built in your core — a tight, spiraling burn. And when his hand slid down to circle your clit just right, it tipped you over.

You came with a cry, clenching around him, and that was all it took.

Eddie moaned your name as he buried himself deep one last time, spilling into the condom with a quiet, shuddering gasp. His body collapsed over yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder as your breaths mingled in the thick silence.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Just breathing.

Just there.

Eventually, Eddie rolled to the side and pulled you with him, your limbs tangling as you lay together in the warmth of it all.

You stared at each other in the dim light, faces flushed, lips swollen. Then, shyly, you leaned in and kissed him — soft and slow.

“Still high?” he murmured.

You smiled. “Maybe. But also just… happy.”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek and grinned. “Me too.”

Your head rested on Eddie’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart as your fingers absentmindedly traced circles on his skin. The room had gone quiet except for the hum of the amp in the corner and the soft rustling of sheets every time either of you shifted.

His arm was wrapped around your shoulders, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“You good?” he asked eventually, voice a little raspy from smoke and breathless moans.

You nodded against his skin. “Yeah. Really good.”

A beat.

Then his voice dropped quieter, more uncertain. “So… that wasn’t just a high thing, right?”

You tilted your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, softer than you'd ever seen them. There was no teasing in his face, no cocky smirk. Just Eddie — wide-eyed, open, vulnerable.

You shook your head. “No. It wasn’t.”

A long breath left him, like he’d been holding it since the second your lips first touched. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve had feelings for you since, like… forever. And if I just ruined everything by being a horny idiot, I’d probably walk into traffic.”

You laughed quietly, scooting up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t ruin anything. I like you too. You know I do.”

He let that sink in, blinking up at the ceiling for a second. Then he turned back to you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “So what does that mean for us?”

You hesitated — not out of doubt, but the weight of saying it out loud.

Then you smiled, heart full. “I think it means you’re my boyfriend now.”

He blinked, a beat of silence… then lit up like someone plugged him straight into the power grid.

“Yeah?” he grinned. “Like officially? I get to tell people you’re mine and everything?”

You smirked, tucking your face into his neck. “Only if I get to tell people you’re mine too.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you impossibly closer. “You’ve always had me.”

There wasn’t a formal declaration, no big gesture. Just the two of you tangled up in each other, whispering and laughing and exchanging quiet kisses until you both dozed off.

And when Eddie drifted to sleep with his arms still around you, he had the softest, dumbest smile on his face — like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

The cafeteria buzzed with noise, same as any other day — clattering trays, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, the occasional yell from the jocks’ table. But none of that mattered as you made your way toward your usual spot.

You slid onto the chair beside Eddie with a lazy grin, and without saying a word, you reached into your pocket and handed Gareth a crumpled five-dollar bill.

He blinked, then slowly smirked as he took it. “Knew it. Knew it.”

Eddie glanced between the two of you, confused. “Wait, what the hell is this?”

“She owed me five bucks,” Gareth said casually, tucking the bill into his jacket. “Told her the day you two finally kissed, she’d owe me.”

Eddie’s brows shot up. “There was a bet?”

You shrugged innocently, picking at your lunch. “It wasn’t a bet. It was a prediction.”

Gareth snorted. “Same difference.”

Doug leaned forward, frowning. “Wait, kissed?”

Jeff narrowed his eyes. “Are you two—?”

Gareth grinned smugly. “Oh yeah. They’re a thing now.”

Doug blinked. “Since when?!”

You leaned back with a smile. “Since Friday.”

Then, just to twist the knife, you added casually, “Might’ve been more than just a kiss.”

There was a beat of silence before all three of them — Gareth included — let out overlapping groans of “Ew!” and “Dude!” and “We did not need to know that!”

Eddie was laughing, head thrown back, clearly loving every second of it. “God, I love this table.”

Doug covered his ears. “There are things you keep to yourself, man!”

“I did!” you said through laughter. “I was just being honest!”

Jeff shook his head. “There’s honest, and then there’s traumatizing your friends at lunch.”

Eddie leaned in, dropping his arm behind you on the chair. “They’ll live. Let them suffer.”

You grinned and rested your head against his shoulder for a second, completely unbothered by the dramatic reactions surrounding you.

Gareth muttered, “If you guys start making out at the table, I swear I’m transferring schools.”

You winked at him. “Noted.”

In the weeks since that night, everything had shifted — but in the best way. You and Eddie were still you — still sneaking off, still laughing until your stomachs hurt, still thick as thieves — but now there were kisses between conversations and fingers laced under the lunch table. He left scribbled notes in your locker. You stole his flannels. Everyone in school knew, and honestly, neither of you cared.

Being with Eddie was easy, loud, chaotic, and soft in all the right places.

But even with how bold you both were, one line remained uncrossed: your parents.

Until one afternoon, completely unannounced, Eddie Munson showed up at your front door.

You were in your room when the knock came. Then the second knock. Then your mom calling your name, a note of confusion in her voice.

When you came down and rounded the corner into the living room, you nearly choked on your own breath.

Eddie was standing in front of your parents, hands folded politely in front of him, hair surprisingly tamed, black jeans swapped for clean, hole-free ones, and his usual graphic tee replaced with a collared shirt. A button-up, no less.

He looked like someone had dressed him for a church bake sale.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. Sir," he said, with the most forced, dramatic smile you'd ever seen. “I hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to formally introduce myself.”

Your mom was too stunned to speak. Your dad just blinked.

You, on the other hand, stood frozen behind them, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You could practically see the effort Eddie was putting into this performance — the polite tone, the slightly bowed head, the complete absence of any skull rings or visible chains.

He even brought a Tupperware of cookies. Store-bought. But he tried.

Your mom finally said, “Well… that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, I do my best,” Eddie replied with a small chuckle, glancing briefly at you behind their backs — and the look he gave you was pure mischief.

You were going to lose it.

Your dad finally broke the silence with a gruff, “Well, we weren’t expecting visitors.”

Eddie nodded solemnly. “Understandable, sir. I wouldn’t want to barge in, but I figured—” he held up the Tupperware like it was an offering to a god, “—it’d be rude not to say hello properly. Y’know, now that I’m… dating your daughter.”

Your mom gave you a sharp look. You stared back, eyes wide like I didn’t know he was coming either! And then you looked at Eddie, who just stood there, proudly holding his plastic box of cookies like it was a peace treaty.

“Anyway,” he continued, his voice syrupy sweet, “I just wanted to assure you both that I have the utmost respect for your daughter. She’s brilliant. And funny. And kind. Also, she's terrifying when she’s mad, so I know better than to screw it up.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow. Your mom tried to hide a smirk.

You were going to explode.

“I cleaned out my van this morning,” Eddie added helpfully. “Even vacuumed.”

Your mom blinked. “…Oh?”

“Just thought it might help my case,” he grinned.

And somehow, some way, it did.

Your parents weren’t charmed exactly — not yet — but Eddie’s sincerity was hard to deny. He wasn’t pretending to be someone else. He was just turning the volume down. Being presentable. Being brave.

After a few more awkward exchanges and a polite invitation to sit (which he accepted with way too much formality), you ended up next to him on the couch while your parents asked him safe, small-talk questions.

He answered everything — enthusiastically, but just shy of theatrical — and even managed to win a chuckle out of your dad with a well-timed joke about shop class.

When your mom stood to go grab drinks, Eddie leaned toward you slightly and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I feel like I’m in an episode of Leave It to Beaver.”

You snorted.

“Don’t laugh, you’ll blow my cover.”

You stifled your smile behind your hand.

And when your mom returned with a tray of iced tea and Eddie accepted his glass with a “thank you kindly, ma’am,” you realized just how far he was willing to go — not to change who he was, but to show the people you lived with that he cared. That he wasn’t just your bad influence. That he was something steadier, something that could be good for you.

He caught your gaze while sipping politely from his glass, and his pinky stuck out just a little — just for you. Just to make you laugh.

God, you were in trouble.

You walked him out with the front door clicking shut behind you, silence stretching over the porch like a blanket. The evening air was warm, a slow breeze rustling the trees above as you both stepped down the driveway toward his van.

Eddie was quiet for once, hands in his pockets, still wearing that ridiculous button-up. His curls had started to frizz a little from the heat, and the edges of his nerves were just starting to show again.

You didn’t say anything until you reached the passenger side.

“That was stupid,” you said, arms crossed, but your mouth was tugging into a smile.

Eddie turned to you, playing innocent. “Define stupid.”

“Showing up like that. The shirt, the cookies, the ‘yes ma’am, no sir’ routine—”

“Hey, that was sincere performance art,” he shot back with mock pride. “Do you know how hard it was not to swear for twenty minutes straight?”

You laughed, stepping closer until you were right in front of him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his cleaned-up façade. “It was so stupid.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “But did it work?”

You looked up at him, letting your eyes soften just enough to let the truth slip through. “Yeah.”

Eddie exhaled, just a little. “Good.”

You leaned in, pressing a hand to his chest, fingers curling against the collar of his shirt. “You didn’t have to prove anything to them.”

“I know,” he said softly, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “Wasn’t for them.”

Your heart fluttered.

You let that hang between you for a second before pulling back, smirking. “Still stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “But you like stupid.”

You nodded. “I like you.”

He kissed you gently — not rushed, not greedy, just warm and sure and a little amused. When he pulled back, he whispered, “Same.”

Then he opened the driver’s door with a dramatic bow. “Until our next ridiculous adventure, m’lady.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed him lightly toward the seat. “Go before my dad changes his mind.”

He blew you a kiss and climbed in. As the van rumbled to life and pulled away, you stood there barefoot on the driveway, grinning like an idiot.

Yeah, you liked stupid.

Especially when stupid came with a heart like his.

Things didn’t change overnight.

Your parents didn’t suddenly love Eddie — they weren’t inviting him over for Sunday dinners or quoting Iron Maiden lyrics at the table — but they were trying. The edge in their voice softened when they said his name. The disapproving glances turned into skeptical ones. Your mom even smiled at him once, unprompted.

That was a big day.

Eddie kept being Eddie. He didn’t start tucking in his shirts or going to church — he just showed up with a little more patience and a lot less noise when it came to your parents. He didn’t mock the rules anymore (at least not out loud), and you made sure not to push every boundary just to prove a point.

You were figuring it out. Together.

And as for the two of you?

It was good. Stupidly good.

The dynamic hadn’t shifted much — you were still sneaking off in his van, still laughing until they wheezed, still lying side by side under open skies talking about nothing and everything — but the label gave it something extra. Something real.

Calling each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” didn’t change who you were. It just put a word to what you'd already been feeling for a long time. Like a puzzle that had been finished for months but was missing that one last piece.

Now, it was all there. In place. Whole.

Sometimes, you’d look over at him while he ranted about guitar solos or rolled a joint with theatrical flair and think — God, how did I ever live without this?

And sometimes, he’d catch you staring and smirk. “You’re doing it again,” he’d tease.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

You'd smile, lean in, and say, “That’s because you are.”

And Eddie — blushing, grinning, stupid, hopeless Eddie — would mumble something like “Damn right,” and kiss you like he meant it.

Because he did.

And you never stopped letting him know you meant it, too.

#kar's fics ☆#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fics #eddie munson #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things

1K notes · View notes

comikbook · 4 months ago

Note

so you talk about your religious trauma and it’s a major theme in your art, and i was wondering what your current relationship with religion is? is in, do you practice any religion or consider yourself religious? if it isn’t too personal :)

im willing to answer !! i dont talk about it on most of my socials outright because people tend to misinterpret things intensely when it comes to this kind of topic, but ill give it a shot trying to write it out. In fact, I will give the whole story of my experience with religion. So its gonna be long.

there will be talk of psychosis, eating disorders, delusions, and self harm in this post. However I will not be graphic in my descriptions.

To start out I suppose for context, my parents are not catholic. my mom doesn’t talk about religion, and my dad doesnt follow anything in the real sense, but practices a lot of principals of buddhism. My nana was catholic, and my extended family vary in their religious beliefs.

That being said, (i think to my nana’s influence) when i started school i attended a small private catholic school which has since been shut down. fun fact ! if you’ve ever watched the Netflix doc “The Keepers” my school was only about 3 miles from where one of the nun’s bodies were found. The priest who was suspected to be the one to blame previously taught at the school i went to before moving to the one he is known for teaching at. Not really relevant, but i did always feel a bit uneasy there as a child so it was a weird thing to find out later.

Anyways, I attended this catholic school for 3 years. pre-k, kindergarden, and first grade. I would often ask to use the restroom and just wander around the halls or hide in the bathroom. I would get scolded for asking questions that were “inappropriate”. The one i remember most vividly was “If God created all of us, who created God ?” to one of the nuns, who became upset with me. We weren’t taught whar we should have been, and when I did move to public school i was far behind my peers in specifically science, math, and history, but I digress. This is my one class photo from our yearbook !

It is important to note that my first remembered instance of psychosis started when i attended this private school. My mom was picking me up one day, there was heavy traffic. She was trying to get over and was complaining no one would let her. I caught myself staring at my reflection in the front mirror of the car, and the clicking of the blinker kind of overwhelmed me. In the constant clicking I “decoded” a message that involved me being told to do something particularly violent. In my small brain in addition to my outside influences, I thought the person that sent this message to me was God. I was confused as to why, but I felt i did something wrong to deserve it. i quietly prayed in the back seat internally for forgiveness.

So I started to receive more messages from “God” commanding me to do something or another, typically vile in some way. i would hear this voice in my head frequently, until eventually it faded out and stopped. I dont remember when it stopped, i just remember i had this experience as a child and then when i was a little older i just didnt think about it anymore.

I do have gaps in my memory of my childhood, pretty big ones, for reasons im still struggling to understand to this day. So that makes things fuzzy. I do remember falling back into religion briefly in middle school, but eventually fell out of it again.

As i approached the end of highschool my mental health was tanking. Mostly with depression and anxiety, however this wouldnt be the worst it would get. In 2019 I was in college and things were getting increasingly worse. I was one of the few people that loved the isolation of the quarantine actually, i fear if not for that what was to come would have been way worse.

My symptoms of psychosis started to creep back into my life. I was already isolating before the quarantine, but got worse after it had started. I know i said i enjoyed it, and i did, but it also fed into some bad habits. Anyways I was becoming increasingly scared and paranoid, I was actively self harming, I was extremely depressed. I had plans to take my own life, a few of them actually. I started eating less. I didnt think much of it, I was just depressed, i have been depressed most of my life so this was just a particularly bad bout for me is what i thought.

That is, until one night where I had my first psychotic episode. It remains to be the worst and only very big episode i have had. I dealt with it mostly alone, never alerting my family of it. I was on the phone with one friend i had at the time, although they were not the kindest to me overall. Despite that they sat with me. This episode led to me standing in one place for over 2 hours too scared to move. When I finally did, it seemed to trigger a more violent outburst.

I wont go into too much detail but i left the experience cried out, bloodied, and heavily bruised. My legs were entirely black and blue for over a month following. After this episode I finally decided to try to get help, and I met with my psychiatrist for the first time. I was immediately put on several antidepressants which ended up being beneficial but in the beginning caused me to lose my appetite entirely. This is when i fell more and more into my eating disorder. With this though, I was still experiencing delusions and hallucinations and got put on my first antipsychotic.

It helped with my symptoms, and it helped me get back to a normal weight. Even tho at the time I was abusing my adderall I was still able to get my body (mostly) back to normal, at least physically. That being said, while my symptoms were lessened they were not gone, it just became less scary to me. Maybe it was because I was being desensitized, but thats something to ponder another time.

I started to become more and more infatuated with catholicism again from that original episode forward. I was obsessed and that voice of god returned to me. I started hearing clicking and chirping coming from the back of my right ear, which ive dubbed as a “chip” in my brain placed by god for me to receive his messages. I thought there was an evil inside of me that needed to be let out, which i did by participating in frequent bloodletting to force out the bad, and make my body create newer, cleaner, and holier blood. This was something i felt I had to keep up often so that this evil force wouldnt take over. I was eventually able to stop self harming, and have been clean for over 2 years now. It is hard and i still feel the need to “cleanse” myself, but i try my best to push it down.

Fast foreward to 2022 and I would start the first piece in my painting series. I still experienced symptoms but much less frequently ! I started to detail my experience thru art. I would finish the first piece in my series titled “Forgive Me Father” in 2023. Since then I have made many more.

So we finally get to today. I have waited to talk about my current relationship with religion until the end as I felt the context was necessary, and to be honest it is complicated. As you can tell, It has effected me greatly and has come and gone in my life.

I would say from where I am now, I am not religious. A better way to put it i suppose is i consciously make the choice to not be. Like I said its complicated.

I like to think of it as there is two of me in my body. One is paranoid, scared, and extremely delusional. This is the part that still believes god is communicating with them. This is the person that still prays for forgiveness and cries over the fear of being sent to hell for their sins, all approved and constructed by god himself. and then theres my rational side, which exists im sure solely because of my medication. This part is extremely self aware, can tell when i am being delusional or irrational, who knows this is something caused by my illness. They exist side by side, at the same time, always. They fight in my head for control but always exist simultaniously, think of it like a pie chart. one may be more prevelant but the other is still always there.

So in a way, there is a lot I do personally believe. That being said the reason I do believe is because of my schizophrenia. So I choose to navigate my life as someone who actively does not believe as an attempt to not let the delusion control me. do i think people who are religious are delusional ? I do not, but I know in my personal case what leads me to believe these things is an unwell mind.

I still have an intense fascination with catholicism and religion in general. I think its a beautiful thing, it moves me, but i must keep it at a distance to avoid hurting me. It is not something I can actively engage in outside of general interest because it would kill me, and despite my previous statements i would like to live at least a little longer haha.

With all that said, and I doubt anyone will read this whole thing, its been a rollercoaster of a ride. If anyone has questions about it, feel free to ask. Im an open book about this stuff online most days, and Im willing to offer any information about it.

#my art #in gods hands #psychosis #mental health #mental heath awareness #schizophrenia #schizophrenic #psychosis awareness #religious delusions #religious trauma #mental illness #writing

2K notes · View notes

targaryenluvs · 2 years ago

Text

DELICATE

pairings: dark!coriolanus snow x innocent!wife!reader

warnings: erm we’re back at it with another dark corio! possessiveness, literal murder, threats, vulgarity, nc touching -dumbification/babying, emotional manipulation and vulnerability, sexual undertones and thoughts, ownership?? NOT PROOFREAD

summary: coriolanus had to marry. lucky for him one of the most eligible girls of the capitol was up for grabs. only problem? he hoped his cold exterior would keep her away but nothing broke her sweet spirit. what happens when he finds himself being drawn to her light? and how far was he willing to go to keep it untainted and all to himself?

word count: 2.09k words

a/n: i swear i can only think of dark ideas for him because he is practically crayz - i loved this concept tho so enjoyyyy - annoyed i can’t find any post-lucy gifs snd i’ve already used the other one help me plz

taglist: @sleepydang @aspieundercover @darktrashsoulbear @3lliesrifle @rafeysbafey @zejjef @themorriganisamonster @cryfordemie @winterblu2 @earthangel-111 @taylarxse @alexameliamg @katastrophic04 @jjggdfvvy @joshwifeyslaymamaballs @10ava01 @kis9na @princessdaella @princessloveweird @prettybiching @justacaliforniandreamer @bxtchopolis @witchafterz @har-rison-s

PART TWO

coriolanus wanted nothing more than a relaxing night. he’d been at a campaign meeting for about four hours and he’d gotten absolutely nothing out of it.

he was in the right mind to fire them all and work it himself but he knew he couldn’t. all he wanted was to go home, have a bath drawn for him, eat dinner with you and go to sleep.

coriolanus had seen a number of weird things in his life but nothing was weirder than seeing you, hanging up the laundry to dry. you’d stopped him in his tracks but hadn’t yet noticed his presence as you hummed to yourself and went about your business. after staring in confusion for a few minutes he cleared his throat, “y/n. what are you doing?” you turned towards him with a smile, “it’s christmas! so i sent the staff home for the rest of the day so they could be with their families. don’t worry i had them prepare your bath, dinner and everything else. there were some things left to do so i thought, why not do them myself? i cleaned my room and yours, ironed the previous batch of laundry and placed them away, dusted the library and i was hanging up the laundry until you showed!” you beamed as you continued to hang the clothing.

coriolanus took a seat on one of the lawn chairs as you continued. he decided to watch you, to make sure you were okay. because who on earth wants to do laundry? that was the very reason you had so many servants. but here you were.

“you can head inside corio, no need to wait for me!” you said sweetly. coriolanus was a strong man, always rational. but god when you spoke so sweetly to him- no. “there’s no need, i’ll wait till you’re done.”

the sun was hanging low as the last rays illuminated the dining room. you’d set out candles, flowers and other pieces on the table. back home you loved setting the table, until your father would reprimand you for doing something you didn’t need to. what will people say if my daughter is acting as a servant?

but right now you felt at ease.

you had a good life. good friends which were rare to find in the capitol. good family and a good husband. he was proper, took care of you in every way, even if he didn’t love you, you were grateful to be married to someone you liked. admired. you’d heard whispers of corio’s childhood, his depleted resources and poor upbringing. but you couldn’t care less. he was more of a man than anyone you knew. and he was extremely pretty, your parents would’ve probably married you off to whomever they thought would help with social standings so this match? a lifeline.

coriolanus kept himself in check. he was up for presidency, his name and wealth restored and he was respected and feared. you were a diamond in the rough. whilst all the other girls in the capitol were, special, to say the least, you weren’t like them. first of all, he could tolerate you. like you even. you were exceptionally smart, well-read and spoken, respectful of those worthy but even those beneath you. you were kind, not the fake kind of the capitol. kind to everyone, helping everyone however you could.

and to him it was more than perfect. someone kind would be easy to have, easy to be married to. he knew from the second he saw you as marriage material that you’d never endanger those around you. you cared, enough to put your happiness to the back of the line. you’d be easy to control. after the wedding he expected you to be clingy, desperate for his love and affection. as any girl would from their husband, but you kept your distance. you didn’t push yourself on him, you did your duty. you did what was required and more. but you always listened, listened to him.

so he assumed you’d be easy to be married to, but he was always in awe of you. your sweet smiles every time you passed eachother in the halls, in the morning at breakfast and at night for dinner. always catering to him.

“what should i wear?” “you can choose.” “you tell me.” “it’s your choice.” and god did it inflate his ego. you were always asking about him, how his day was, what he did, who he saw etc. but it wasn’t just small talk, you were always listening. absorbing his words like a sponge, wide eyes, head nodding along dumbly. he loved it. and over the year he found himself, caring, on the inside at least.

every time you’d go out there were hungry eyes consuming you. your face, body everything. and he wanted to personally pluck out each eyeball and feed it to their families. so again, overtime, he’d shield you, protect you. his sweet wife who knew nothing of what the others wanted to do to her. a hand on your back, an arm around your waist, a peck on your forehead and his large red coat around you. all for show right?

he wanted to puke.

the smell of cabbage wafted to his nose and he was oh so close to putting this fist through the wall. who on earth-

you were humming, again. “corio!” your voice was music to his ears, corio, no one said it to him anymore. not even tigris. but he only liked, only wanted it to come from you. “dinner is served, some of your favourites are here. i asked tigris what you use to eat as a kid. ooh, you never told me you liked cabbage, me too! guess that’s another thing we have in common.” you beamed as you walked over with a bottle of wine, “tell me when to stop.”

he eyed you up the entire time. trying to catch a fleck of disgust whilst you ate, andddd, nothing. you weren’t lying, you actually liked it. he swallowed his own fear and began to eat.

“mm, i was wondering what you wanted me to wear tonight? i’d like to match corio, if that’s okay with you.” corio smiled slightly, “i would like to match. i have something i would like you to wear tonight sweetheart.” your eyes darted forwards as the word fell, sweetheart.

you couldn’t help the smile that came to your face, he only used terms like that in public. and based on his reaction afterwards, of which there was none, it meant that he probably didn’t even realise. or he did, you could never read him.

the red dress did things to coriolanus. the idea of you in it has his head spinning, but to actually see you in it? he wanted to throw you onto his bed and never let you out.

but to you it looked as if he was studying the dress rather than looking at you in it. “you look good.” you grinned, “thank you corio! i love your suit, you look very handsome.” you straightened his suit as he looked over your shoulder, your back was bare. “do you have a throw?” you quickly nodded and picked it up from the dresser. “good.” you already got a million stares in ordinary clothing, tonight was going to test his patience and anger.

the gala was gorgeous. for once there wasn’t ugly statues and weird color matches. a clean and pristine white hall, chandeliers, gold accents.

your heels clicked on the floor as coriolanus held his arm for you. “your hand please.” corio stared, waiting for your further explanation. “when we link arms your arm is too high for me. i end up with my arm at my neck.” you laughed as he lent his hand, which you gladly took.

stares and compliments at every corner of the room, everyone was looking at you two. the future president and first lady of panem. a match made in the capitol. you and coriolanus made the rounds, talking to present sponsors, potential sponsors and other candidates, much to coriolanus’s distaste. after a while you realised you were sort of just standing there, so you excused yourself for a drink and a closer view of the band.

“you look, ravishing.” charles operman. a sight which no one wanted to see, but to you he was just an ex-peer of the academy. “charles! thank you, corio picked it out for me.” you’d missed the way his jaw clenched at the mention of your husband, but you were to engrossed by the angelic singer and band. “you know, i always thought we’d end up together.”

the abruptness of his sentence had you choking on your drink, “excuse me, i’m married charles. i’m sorry if you thought that we would be together, i see you as a friend. i’d hate to lose a friend.” you smiled as he got uncomfortably closer and leaned into your ear, hand on your bare back.

coriolanus’s grip on his cup was tightening as he listened to lucky drone on and on. he wanted to see the life leave charles’s eyes, maybe his head would make as a nice present for you. “excuse me.” he nodded his head as he placed his cup on a passing waiters tray. you were helpless, and he was here to help you.

his breath was hot in your ear and you could smell the liquor on him as he was grabbed from you. “coriolanus, sir.” charles mocked salute as coriolanus stared at him, maybe he thought if he stared long enough hed burn into the floor. coriolanus rarely smiled, but this one was unsettling to say the least.

“if you ever put your hands on my wife, look at her, speak to her. it will be the last time you do so. i might just call in a favor with dr gaul, i hear your fond of snakes?” charles’s eyes widened, he hated snakes. he couldn’t even watch the 10th hunger games, the second he saw the snakes he ran to the bathroom and hurled.

“when i become president, you better keep yourself in line. it’d be horrible to see your family in the games no?” charles took a step back, “you can’t do that, i’m capitol.” coriolanus drew back,

“you won’t be for long.”

you couldn’t believe your eyes, of course he’d protect you but, threatening? he’d never do it right? the shutters of cameras had you reaching for corio, “can we leave my love?” coriolanus turned to you, “of course sweetheart.”

he’d stayed up for a long time. a smile came to his face when he remembered the sound of charles’s neck snapping. the door creaking open revealed a disheveled you, “corio? are you awake?” he sat up as you released a breath.

“what is it y/n?” you took a shy step forward, “i uhm, i can’t stop thinking about charles. he scared me, i didn’t know what to do corio. i-” you couldn’t stop the tears from falling as coriolanus swiftly got out of bed, helping you into his bed. “i- can i sleep here tonight? please?”

this was definitely not how he first expected to have you in his bed, but how could he say no to you? your hair in its braid, messy and lose, puffy eyes and tear stained face. he wished he’d first seen you cry underneath him but he’d take what he could get. what he didn’t expect was for him to like this, the scene of you crying, needing him. he was the one who could help you, console you, coddle you.

coriolanus nodded as he moved back to the bed, tucking himself and you in softy, caressing your hair and kissing your forehead. god he’d held out for so long, denied himself and his feelings but having you in his arms was all he could ever want, but the idea of being in you flooded his head.

would you cry like this? would you shout and scream? did you like it soft and sweet? he couldn’t be soft and sweet, he’d savour the moment but he loved the idea of unravelling you, he’d be the only one to see you like this, him being the only one to make it happen.

you curled into his chest, like a baby. your soft cries and whimpers went straight to his crotch and soon enough you were asleep.

his sweetheart, his delicate little wife.

corios hand slipped downwards and into your pants, he promised himself he just wanted to feel but god you made it difficult. he saved you tonight, didn’t he deserve a reward? didn’t matter if you detested he had you where he liked. so he slowly rolled over and placed you on the bed.

your eyes fluttered at the change of placement but he couldn’t care less. he was done waiting.

you squirmed underneath him in your sleep but his worries faded away.

#coriolanus snow x fem!reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #yandere coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #hunger games x reader #the hunger games #yandere coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x female!reader #coriolanus snow smut

10K notes · View notes

dragonji · 2 years ago

Text

2am musing on jyt again♡ now that i am thinking of it i never decided how they acsended i just skipped straight to autistic martial god x2 romance arc. and the heavenly shenanigans of course. but i really should put some thought into that currently nonexistent ascension story perhaps

#j.txt #i have some of their early childhood/family situation figured out but Nothing else....... to be perfectly honest i believe its bc of #my utter confusion on How to have a martial god ascend w/o it involving mass war crimes or never before seen talent hmm..#like i have him working as a guard for merchant journeys pre-ascension while haring off to paint weird animals on the side..#and not much beyond that</3 OHH. perhaps. i could have it involve a painting session of some powerful beast that he ends up having to #unfortunately disperse/vanquish. and thus frees some city or wtvr frm its predation. and then hes in heaven trying not to #manfully cry about having to kill such a cool animal #will workshop when my eyes arent burning but I can probably make this work. special thanks 2 charlie for making me think of jyt again mwah

0 notes

momentomori24 · 2 months ago

Text

WAIT ARE YOU KIDDING ME MY MEMORY WAS ACTUALLY RIGHT LET'S GOOO???

I'm not gonna look it up just in case it's a spoiler or something but with how many flashbacks with Karua are being shown I feel like we're gonna be seeing her at some point. I might be totally off but purely based on my fickle memory she looks strangely similar to "Nozomi", I think (I haven't encountered her yet I just saw her in passing before while avoiding spoilers for the game like the plague). That could just be me misremembering but I wonder if that means anything. Regardless of whether or not that will mean anything, I do really wanna see Karua again because I love her and need to know she's safe. She may not remember me if we do meet if that last flashback is foreshadowing but that's okay.

#the hundred line #hundred line last defense academy #hundred line spoilers #karua kashimiya #nozomi kirifuji #I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING #i was so confused when we first met karua that her name was “karua” and not “nozomi” cuz i thought they were the same character #i already knew karua was our childhood friend that we will get separated from a year ago when the game was first announced #but i forgot her actual NAME so when he called her karua i was like “is her name karua nozomi and the're just on first name basis?"#until we got her actual last name and i was so confused like “did i mix up the characters and nozomi just looks similar or something????”#BUT NOPE THEY MIGHT ACTUALLY BE THE SAME PERSON HUZZAHHH #i was interested in nozomi along with eito takumi and darumi cuz the art featuring her i've come across so i made sure to remember her name #and because she didn't show up with our main cast i thought she might show up later #i thought my shitty memory was just being weird again when i kept being confused between her and karua i'm so glad it's called out #takumi you just made a TERRIBLE first impression XD poor guy #momento rambles

14 notes · View notes

foldingfittedsheets · 11 months ago

Text

A basic human skill that people usually lock down around the age of three or four is impulse control. To conceptualize an action and it’s consequences before taking it. Maybe considering how that action affects other people. We then refine it through most of our childhood.

When I was a teenager my hold on this ability became… tenuous. I became a volatile and dangerous creature.

It’s probably not unique to me, but I had a perfect storm in terms of mental upsets. I had just mastered enough basic social skills, so I finally had a strong group of friends when my dad suddenly needed to move for work. Ripped away from my support network, blooming with hormones, I was dragged to Arizona. I was always a child of forests and mist and suddenly everything was hot, dry, and extremely pointy and aggressive.

Additionally to being abruptly transplanted I found myself an object of affection in a way I’d never been before. Lonely and desperate to make friends the only people who wanted to spend time with me had romantic designs. I just wanted to figure out my shit but I had a baby lesbian flirting with increasing aggression in art, a soft boy making heart eyes at me in biology, a senior nerd asking if I wanted to play Halo at his house and could he hold my hand?

Reader, I snapped. I didn’t want this romantic attention but I also didn’t want to be alone. My brain coped the only way it knew how, by simply cutting out decision making. Any action was the right action to take.

It started with the boy in biology. I’d stolen his pencil out of mischief and to my overwhelming fury instead of trying to steal it back he just softened his eyes and chucked me gently under my chin, a gesture so overtly sweet and romantic that I saw red.

I stabbed him with his own pencil.

I honestly and truly have no memory of it. It happened as fast as a snake striking and I was instantly filled with terrified remorse. Unfortunately that manifested as psychotic giggling.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I don’t know why- I’m so sorry!” I said, while hysterically laughing. I ended up having lodged some graphite in his palm and had to tweeze it out with my nails while apologizing furiously. (It’s very important to note here that he forgave me and we’re still friends)

That was weird, I thought. Why didn’t I think before I stabbed someone?

The next event was equally catastrophic, and I had even less reason to do it. In gym with two girls I was tentatively befriending, we were warming up running laps. I started racing one of them. At breakneck speed we were sprinting around the gym.

This time, there was a blip of thought before I fucked up. I should get the other girl! I have no idea why or what the plan was but I turned on a swivel and body checked the other girl. We both fell down in immense pain. I think that’s the moment I broke my tailbone. Her knees were horribly bruised and she looked at me in bewildered pain. “Why did you do that?!”

I had no idea. I apologized and helped her up, both of us hobbling like newborn horses, bruised and hurting.

By this time there’d been enough social upheavals that I was reduced to spending time with some girls I had nothing in common with and low key disliked. Sat at a table listening to this girl talk about how she wanted to be a stripper when she grew up I thought, You’d better put the cap on before you throw it.

I then chucked my empty water bottle directly at her face. It bounced off her forehead with a bop! that would have made a sound mixer weep at its perfection.

All eyes turned to me is startlement. I stared back at her, stunned by my own action, just as confused as everyone else at the table as to why I’d done that. One of the girls to my right said, “Were you trying to hit that fly?”

“Yes!” I lied, “I’m sorry, I thought I could hit the fly!”

Everyone laughed at my antics and I joined in rather than admit I had just chucked something at her for no reason.

Things did start to improve after that. I solidified a friendship with the girl I’d raced (who I developed a massive crush on and ten years later would go on to date). My outbursts turned more whimsical rather than aggressive. Like accosting a girl leaving the cafeteria to look deeply into her eyes and say with great compassion, “It’s going to be alright.”

My new friend and I snuck into the van that delivered our cafeterias baked goods and lay giggling in the back. When I’d impulsively hopped in she’d joined me and made it a game.

After a year in Arizona I broke down crying to my mother, an act of great desperation, and we ended up moving back home. My impulse control returned to normal teenage levels and life resumed in a happier state of mind.

#ramblies #story #writing #ffs foibles #funny story #teen angst #arizona #impulse control

2K notes · View notes

ovadzs · 2 months ago

Text

you are in love ᥫ᭡.

✄you’re not in love with Oscar Piastri, and you’re getting pretty sick of everyone thinking you are. come on, you’re just best friends (since like, forever) and yes you maybe used to be head over heels but you’re not now, seriously! and definitely the rumours and the photos you post and the way you’re sort of kind of living together isn’t confusing at all! just friends, really.

✄mcs: oscar piastri x fashiondesigner! reader

✄trope: childhood best friends to… something?

✄cw: fluff, yearning (?) you’re both idiots, landos annoying (as usual) smau! so posts/messages etc! NOT PROOF READ.

✄word count: 10k

✄notes from me??: hi everyone !! exams are finally over, everyone cheer now. so strange to work towards something like that and then it be done, though. anyway,! in all honesty? i hate this fic. i honestly don’t think it’s very good, or logical, or fluid, and i actually can barely bring myself to post this. i’d really appreciate any feedback or anything! and PLEASE, any ideas of fics im DESPERATE. like genuinely !! have no ideas but so much motivation to write! also, this smau kicked my ass like genuinely i was tweaking on getting the photos in place and then they all DELETED? horrifying. never (definitely will do it) again. i hope you like this a LITTLE more than i do! ‪‪❤︎‬

You don’t believe in soulmates, not like that, anyway. But sometimes, the way life works out, seems to test your obstinance. You’d met Oscar Piastri when you could only waddle around, and now here you are, sketching him in the corner of your sketchbook affectionately.

Although you’re a designer, you are still an avid doodler. You had pages upon pages of stupid comics and sketches, mainly centered around him, and Lissie, and Lando. Funny, that was the universe shouting at you again. Out of all three of you, Oscar was the one who had always dreamed of Formula One, and yet you’d all been pulled into its orbit. You, stitching together the outfits on the drivers’ backs, and Lissie, flouncing around Lando, finally becoming a publicist of sorts.

You and Lissie had always been so close, that you knew it hadn’t mattered when she’d left to go pursue a career on the other side of the world. But when Oscar had left, you hadn’t been so sure. You truly thought that was it, that he’d go off and drive and you’d be in that same town, watching your fingers bleed from pinpricks from needles.

You had been in love with him, obviously. Who could blame you? He was quiet, thoughtful, and caring, and you knew him. Truly. Inside and out.

But once he left, you let it go. Let him go. That night, tears welling in your eyes. His rueful smile and messy hair, arms extended. You’d hugged him so hard, certain that was it. And when you’d whispered those stupid three words, and he still got on the plane, you decided maybe it was better, that it was over. Childhood love wasn't real, anyway. Your brain hadn’t even finished developing yet.

But still, it was weird to be back with him. As adults, professional and different. You didn’t laugh as much now, but it was louder when you did. He looked the same, but just, sort of bigger? And he still looked at you, just as he had then. But actually, he laughed more. It was nice to see him happier. He’d been so focused, determined, when you were younger. Desperate. And he’d made it.

You finish your sketch, unsatisfied with the shape of his nose, before Lando comes crashing in.

“Good morning, mate.” he says cheerfully, trying not to trip on his undone shoelaces.

You raise an eyebrow at him hesitantly. “You seem cheerful. What’s up?”

He just beams back. “What, am I not allowed to be happy?” he replies, and you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s Clara, isn’t it?” you ask suspiciously, and he nods enthusiastically.

“She’s coming with me to the gala thing. And you know, I explained to her that it will be pretty public, and people will assume things, or make comments, and I understood if she didn't want that, but she said yes anyway. Like, seriously. Like she was willing to go through it, cause she’d rather be with me publicly than secretly, like being with me is the only option anyway.” he boasts proudly, evidently cheesing, and you can’t help but grin back supportively.

You were glad Clara was coming. You hadn’t met her yet, but he was gushing about her so often that you were desperate to make up your own mind about her. She sounded brilliant, but Lando had sometimes made questionable choices before.

“That’s great, Lando. Genuinely. Do you know what she’s wearing? I could like, incorporate it into your suit, if you wanted. That would be cute.” you say pensively, scrunching your nose at him, and he bursts into laughter.

“I forget that's literally all you think about.” he responds, and you mock being offended.

“Yeah, kind of my job. Anyway, stand straight.” you fire back, walking over to him and pulling your green measuring tape against his torso.

“So, I was going to go for a 1960’s theme for your suit, to celebrate when McLaren was established, sort of? It would be subtle, but that sort of style. Although, I want to try and add a 70’s kind of flare on the bottom, but I can’t tell if that’ll look shit. The sketch looked cool, but you know-” you ramble, scribbling down numbers as you instruct him to raise various limbs.

“Actually, I don't know. But for the record, I would’ve fired you by now as my designer if you weren't good at it, no matter how much Oscar would protest. Funny, you know I actually sent Lissie one of your designs first, so you wouldn’t have needed your boyfriend or your sister to get here.” he murmurs, trying to sound sarcastic.

“Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t have accepted the job if I only got it through them anyway. And for the record, you know he isn’t my boyfriend. You can stop joking about it now.” you reply firmly, and he throws his arms up in innocence, making you curse.

“Lando, stay STILL.” you sigh, exasperated, and you hear a familiar chuckle from your studio doorway.

“Yeah, Lando. Stay still.” comes Oscar’s gentle voice, and you smile instinctively.

“Morning, Osc.” waves Lando, and you catch Oscar wave back in the corner of your eye. You nod at Lando, withdrawing back to your desk, and swiftly close your open sketchbook.

Oscar makes his way towards you, placing down a drink by your arm.

“Careful, it’s hot.” he mutters, before turning back to face Lando. You smile at him absentmindedly, focused on comparing your measurements with the design you’d been working on. You hear them chatter, the sound muffled, until Lando shouts out.

“You guys smell the same.” he practically shrieks, and you look up at him incredulously.

“Um, what?” asks Oscar blankly, and you copy his expression.

“You smell the same. Like, your clothes. Well, you smell like her.” he accuses, like he just figured out some deep, ugly secret.

You inhale deeply. “Yep, my bad. I’m staying at his place at the moment, but I hate using any other laundry detergent, hence the smell of the clothes.” you state simply, surprised by his grin.

“Oh, finally! Lissie and I have been waiting for this for forever. Does she know?” he asks excitedly, pulling out his phone.

Oscar coughs awkwardly. “She’s just staying until she finishes the work here.” he explains, gesturing to the piles of boxes and wiring exposed around the room, and Lando sulks.

“Moving in together would be an insane thing to just, like, do, Lando. We’re not even together. You’re such an idiot.” you hiss awkwardly, trying not to think about a strangely domestic life with the Australian to your right.

He laughs quietly in agreement. “You are such an idiot. I’ve been saying this for a while.” he adds, wisely, and you look up at him gratefully.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. You’re still practically married, doing laundry together.” Lando mutters, dropping his voice to barely a whisper. But it’s still loud enough that you both hear it, even though neither of you even blink.

“Alright, Lando. I think we’re done for today. I’ll text you when to drop back round to try some stuff on, okay?” you mumble firmly, waving him away with a calculated flick of your wrist.

“Touched a nerve?” he jokes, but his eyes are uncomfortably serious. And he did touch a nerve. You grit your teeth and smile angrily at him, nodding your head to the door.

“Bye, mate.” chimes Oscar, raising an arm as Lando slowly ducks out the door.

There's an uncomfortable silence, but it's momentary, because you’re suddenly too concentrated on what Lando mentioned- he really does smell like you. He’s close now, his head peering over your hunched shoulder. And it shouldn’t matter, and you shouldn't even notice, but you do. And it's pretty simple why.

Textures, smells, sounds. Colours. The way patterns jumped at you. They made you part of who you were, part of how your mind worked. And you had your own specific smell, your own style, the colours you used in your work and the textures you liked best. And here he was, straying from his usual familiar scent, and into yours instead. And maybe it was weird, for you to obsess over it so much. But it was like a form of identification. It was how you’d found your jumper, when it was thrown among all the others at the school. Stupid, little things like that.

But the worst part was that it wasn’t offputting, like when something wasn't matching up to how you thought it should be. Instead, you didn’t mind it. And you knew full well, if it was anyone else, you would.

“Do you like it?” you ask suddenly, breaking the silence, and you watch him lean further, admiring the detailed design in front of you.

“Its so obviously, like, you. But also so obviously him. That's brilliant, really. It will look amazing, I’m sure.” he replies earnestly, but you huff a little.

“You can be honest. No one's ever honest with my designs, but I need it now. This is a big deal.” you mumble, stressing the importance of the outfit, and he smiles gently.

“I am being honest. It’s seriously impressive. I don’t know how you managed to come up with a suit so unique? He’ll be better dressed than me, that's for sure. I’ll try not to take it personally that you requested him instead of me, by the way.” he responds, and you wince.

“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t realise you found out about that. Frankly, I had this sort-of idea for a while, and like you said, it’s very him and…” you start, but you trail off slightly.

“... and he's more likely to have people talking about his outfit than me, right?” he chuckles, clearly unoffended, and you nod back quickly.

“You got it. Sorry though, seriously-”

“Will you be my date?” he bursts out, interrupting you mid sentence.

“Um, sorry?” you ask, startled, and he just blinks back at you.

“To the gala. Unless someone’s already asked you, like Lando, because that would make sense. You know, design and designer, good marketing. Or if you don’t want to go, that's fine. But if you do, and no one-” he explains, and you decide to return the favour and cut him off.

“That would be nice, yeah. I’d love to. And for the record, Lando asked Clara. I’m so excited to meet her, really. How is she?” you reply simply, and Oscar exhales, relieved.

“She’s brilliant. Truly, you’ll love her. You’re sort of alike, really. Bubbly. She reminded me of you, when I first met her.” he answers honestly, and you scowl at him.

“I’d rather not know that Lando's dating someone that reminded you of me. That’s gross. But hey, you think I’m bubbly?” you tease, and he looks away, trying to hide a grin.

“Not my finest adjective, I know. But don’t worry, she’s still very different from you. You’ll see what I mean.” he sighs, before asking a simple question.

“So, what are you going to wear?” he asks, and you freeze.

Shit. You’d agreed so quickly, forgetting that very very important factor.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Well, I can’t copy this, because I don't want to match with Lando. Wait, what are you wearing?” you fire back, eyebrows raised expectantly.

He quickly pulls out his phone, showing you a picture of his suit. It was fairly standard, but had some interesting shapes and creases you admired carefully.

“Okay, who are you wearing?” you rephrase, and he looks at you guiltily.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ll find out. I just got sent this photo by Anna this morning.” he explains quickly, and you nod sharply.

“I like the shape. Harsh where it should be soft, but it doesn't look uncomfortable. And the subtle blue is intriguing. I can work with that. I just need to find out who designed it, so I can ask about the fabric.” You ramble, unfocused on him, but he’s grinning.

“What, you’re going to match with me, instead?” he smiles, and you roll your eyes.

“Good marketing, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” he bemuses, and you shake your head, suppressing a laugh.

***

Other than Lando being a dickhead, the night went incredibly. Your designs had gone down insanely well. An endless stream of compliments flooded you, about Lando but also about your own attire. And as usual, Oscar was right. Clara was brilliant. You loved her, like, immediately. You’d both ran off, leaving the boys, and you’d spent most of the night flouncing around fancy guests and trying to act a lot more important than you were.

She was creative, funny, and absolutely bubbly. It was actually the perfect adjective.

You were leaning against the edge of the stairs, deep in conversation about your upcoming collection, when you felt a familiar hand rest on your shoulder.

“Hi, Osc.” you whispered, not even bothering to look up.

“How'd you know it was me? Could’ve been a different dashing young man, asking you to do something crazy like dance. To this song. Which he would somehow know you very much love.” he grins, and you turn to face him, pulling that reflexive scrunched face.

“I always know when it's you.” you mumble back, and it sounds way more serious than you’d intended. “But for the record, you know dancing is reserved for the kitchen only. Or if I feel like winning in Just Dance, like usual.” you respond, hoping your subtle rejection doesn't land too seriously. He rescinds his extended hand back into his pockets, shrugging casually.

“So, how long have you been together?” comes Clara’s gentle voice, watching you both carefully.

“Oh, no, we’re not-”

“Together? No, it’s-”

You quickly talk over each other, in a blatant panic, hands flapping, but Clara just laughs, sharp and clear.

“Wow, sorry. Must’ve severely misread Lando’s message, when he said I could finally meet his best friend's girlfriend tonight.” she giggles, and you want to laugh with her, but Lando’s stupid toothy grin gleams at you, emerging beside her.

“Must’ve been autocorrect. I meant best friend’s best friend. Or a friend that's a girl, you decide. Sorry for any confusion.” he smirks, sounding annoyingly sincere.

“It’s alright, Lando-we know you didn’t go to school. Grammar is hard.” you say calmly, smiling back at him. He flashes a scowl at you before taking Clara’s arm and whisking her away, much to your annoyance.

“She didn’t protest against dancing.” comes Oscar’s hurt voice, and you snap your neck up to face him, but he’s already laughing at you.

“I’m joking. Just came to check you’re alright. You disappeared.” he states matter of factly, and you just rest your head on his shoulder, giving yourself a moment of quiet.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m actually quite tired. And this dress is too tight.” you groan, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and uncomfortable.

“You made it.” he chuckles, and you whack him affectionately.

“Yeah, I know. Whatever.” you pause, listening to the music.

“So, imagine I’m a different bubbly, um, dashing, woman or whatever. Who happens to know that this is kind of the only song that isn’t house music that you listen to.” you beam, holding out your right hand, raising your eyebrows.

He laughs, and takes it, and you follow the pathway conveniently made from Lando and Clara towards the middle of the floor.

***

yourusername

yourusername too fancy for me lol, but the clothes seemed to suit it. (get it?)

oscarpiastri claranelson landonorris

View more comments

user8 blown me away, as usual

user12 so cute

user21 oscar has a gf?

↳ user42 you’re new here arent you

claranelson mclaren garage is going to get real sick of us soon

↳ landonorris didnt realise we were hard laucning in yourusernames comments

↳ claranelson oscar has this girl in the garage every weekend and they arent together so actually you just hard launched us

oscarpiastri you looked better than you danced

↳ yourusername well im a good dancer so thanks

↳ user36 please get a room, thanks guys!

user36 can we please talk about clara and lando for a sec??

↳ user59 lmfao wait are u the mf that dedicated a whole blog to proving they were together

↳ user36 i dont play about my niche pink haired influencers bro

↳ claranelson wait i remember this ahahh well done

You switch your phone off and flop onto your bed, sighing. It was so bizarre to you, staying here. Calling it your bed, like you owned it. Like it wasn’t in Oscar’s house. It had been generous of him to offer so quickly to let you stay, and he clearly didn’t care about how long your studio would take. Sure, you’d spent many hours in this house, but it felt so different now. Your mess, all over the carpet. Scraps of fabrics and sketches and clothes strewn around. You, bringing colour all over the plain walls. It was genuinely like you lived here. In this room, at least. You’d never even seen Oscar’s bedroom.

But he wasn’t here right now, probably training, and you’d always been curious.

Huffing, you trail to his door, pushing it open. It was pretty boring- as expected. He had an interesting simulator stuffed in a corner, but the room seemed so devoid of character. Almost like a hotel room. You’d been there for two weeks and you’d already made it seem lived in, while his was just so plain.

You scan the shelves for something interesting, and you pause when you see a long row of photos. Various frames and sizes jump out at you, the irregularity of it all making you uncomfortable. It’s cute though, an endless array of baby Oscar next to overly large karts, or his sisters grinning, or his mum and his dogs. Then you see yourself, face scrunched as usual, scowling at the camera. You were so tiny, pointing awkwardly at Oscar’s shirt, while he beamed. You remembered it well, that photo. It was the first garment you’d ever made, and you hated how obvious you thought the clumsy seams were, even though both him and his family had thought it was inspired. They’d always supported you, even when your own hadn’t. Hesitantly, you pick it up to study it, and you watch a large pile of polaroids fall out the back.

You inhale deeply, recognising them. Lissie and Hattie had been obsessed with polaroid cameras, constantly taking picture after picture. You’d kept a couple of Lissie’s, somewhere in a shoebox, but they were mainly of you and her, or relatives. Hattie had always been the one who took snapshots of you and Oscar.

There were so many. An endless stream of different poses. Back to back, in your embarrassingly shiny prom dress, and his slightly-too-small suit with a tie that matched your pink look. A couple more from that night, including some with Lissie and her boyfriend at the time. Then a cute one, of just you and your sister, grinning. Considering they’d been hidden behind the back of the picture frame, you figure he wouldn’t mind if you took that one. So you do. You stuff it silently into your pocket and continue wading through the polaroids, feeling that familiar sense of nostalgia.

They all blur, grins and scowls and arms over shoulders, and you try to not get too upset. It’s sickening, how sweetly you’re looking at him, in the more candid ones. How he didn’t know, you’ll always wonder. Sure, social cues are often wasted on him, but you were so obvious. The proof was in front of you.

You get to the last one, almost wishing you’d never picked them up in the first place. It was a bittersweet sensation, watching years flash by. Watching you grow up all over again.

But this one's the worst. Both of you, evidently no older than sixteen. Your left hand, gently holding his chin. A wide-eyed grin spread across his face. Your lips, barely pressed against his pink cheeks. It’s adorable and disgusting and you want to rip it up and frame it simultaneously. No context could save that, explain the look on your faces. No excuse could make that seem friendly, and you honestly think it's more intimate than if you’d actually properly kissed him. But you can't even remember the context. It must’ve been a joke, or something. Because you know full well the idea of that would’ve made you want to throw up- not from disgust but from pure panic.

And it’s making you feel a bit sick now, something you haven’t felt since he walked away, that brutal rejection. Well, it wasn’t truly a rejection. It was a conclusion, an understanding. But a painful one. It’s a sharp, clear memory.

“I love you.” you whispered, clinging onto his neck.

“I know. I love you too.” he whispered back, into your hair.

You paused. “You need to go, don’t you?”

“I do.” he replied quietly, but he didn’t pull away from the tight embrace.

And although your brain was screaming at you to rephrase, to tell him not to go, to say you were IN love with him, to not release your grip, you stepped back. You watched his resolve falter slightly, in time with your heartbeat, but you couldn’t leave it like this.

“Bye, Osc. Good luck, yeah?” you grinned, mustering up any joy you could find, like the world wasn't collapsing on you.

He laughed lightly, scanning your fake expression.

“Thank you. But this isn’t really bye, is it?” he murmured back, his tone wavering between genuinity and sarcasm. Back then, you’d thought he was just being nice, and he hadn’t meant it.

Now you realised he was right. And you’re so lost in thought, so unfocused, you don't notice you are still holding that photo. So unfocused, you don’t notice he’s leaning against the doorframe, watching, until he speaks.

“You’re not usually in here.” comments Oscar, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

You jump, and turn to face him, a somewhat guilty expression painting your face.

“Ah. Hi, Osc. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I was just-” you begin, but he chuckles at you, walking forwards.

“-Curious? Yeah, not unlike you. What did you find?” he asks, eyes crinkling.

“Um, I found these polaroids. Hattie’s, I assume?” you reply, shielding the one intertwined in your fingers.

“Uh-huh. I meant to give them to you, when I found them, but I forgot. You’re welcome to take any you want, obviously.”

“I already did. Took one, I mean. One of me and Lissie, you know?” you respond, breathing slowly. He’s not looking at you, instead he’s studying the array of photos beside you.

“I know the one. Are you planning on taking the one of us you’re trying to hide now, or what?” he jokes, still not looking up.

“I’m not hiding anything. I’m just holding it. Anyway, how did you know which one I’ve got?” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“It’s my favourite.” he says casually, and you almost explode.

You blink awkwardly, unsure on how to reply.

“Oh! Well, obviously you can keep it then, I was just looking at it. I don’t remember taking it.” you babble, handing it to him, but he just shakes his head.

“Funny, I barely remember any of these, but that one. But no, you can keep it. Put it somewhere more visible, maybe?” he jokes, but he doesn't seem to be that light-hearted. He’s sort of awkward, and vulnerable, and you don’t really know what to do.

So you nod, seriously, but don’t stuff it into your pocket. Instead, you pull off your phonecase and slip it inside, making sure it's central before clipping it back on.

“Alright?” you question, and he smiles at you.

“Perfect.”

***

Social media went wild at that simple gesture. Who knew a photo could cause so much speculation? Well, Lando did. Someone had caught a picture of Clara in his wallet a while back, and that's how his rumours had started. But he wasn’t being particularly sympathetic, and neither was Lissie.

“Frankly, this is entirely your fault. You’re just prancing around with Oscar, practically attached at the hip, attending all his races. And then, suddenly, you show up with a polaroid of you two kissing in the back of your phone. I'd even think you were together. Or like some of the theories, that you used to be and broke up, or something. If you really wanted to lay low, you wouldn’t be doing all this.”critiques Lissie, pausing only to sip from her obnoxiously sweet coffee, and Lando nods along approvingly.

“First off, we’re obviously children in that photo. Secondly, why should I have to pretend he’s not my best friend for the sake of the cameras?” you fire back, sulking, and Lando just laughs at you.

“You need to recheck what a child is. Also, calling him your best friend is such nonsense. It’s getting ridiculous now, truly. Look, it sucks. We all know it sucks. But if you keep going the way you’re going, it’s going to explode.” he preaches, trying to sound wise, but you just scowl at him.

“You know I rarely say this, but Lando’s right. Before, it was only the races that had events after. That you were dressing him for. Then it became every other one. Then he brought you TO these events, you’re at every single grand-prix, and you don’t even try to shut down anything anyone says.” adds Lissie, scrutiny painting her face.

“It’s not my place to do that. I’m allowed to be close to my best friend of like, twenty fucking years.” you reply obstinately, and they both sigh angrily at you.

“But are you really just friends?” comes a thoughtful whisper. And it’s not Lissie’s sharp voice, or Lando’s mocking tone. It’s gentler, lighter, and genuine. It’s got an apologetic melody.

“Morning, ‘Ra.” mumbles Lando, smiling widely as she presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Sorry to intrude, everyone.” grins Clara, sitting firmly down on a seat nearby, clearly unbothered if she actually is an intrusion.

“No, it’s all good. I’m trying to seek some moral support from these two, and they are hopeless. Too much unsolicited advice.” you explain, stuffing your hands aggressively into your pockets.

“If I may?” she asks, but she’s not really asking for permission. She’s asking for you to listen, so you do.

“Like I said, are you really just friends?”

You pause. Not long enough for it to be awkward, or for anyone to shout ‘I told you so’, but just long enough to wrap your head around how to phrase your answer.

“No, I wouldn’t say we’re just friends. He means more to me than that. But it’s the same sort of dependency I have on Lissie. He’s just like, part of my life. He’s part of me. But it’s not-” you begin, but she cuts in with another question.

“Do you love him?”

You don’t need to hesitate on this one. “Of course. I always have.”

Now Lissie decides to interject. “That’s a lie. You found him properly annoying, until about five. You despised him, truly. ‘We are only friends because we have to be.’ You said it, so loudly, so confidently, that we all believed you. He didn’t talk to you for a week after that. Walking to school was painful.”

You laugh quietly, remembering the reprimanding you had received for being so mean.

“Yeah, and then I drew him a card to say sorry, and we were fine after that.” you finish, and the whole table smiles at the story.

“I’ve got this one!” calls Lando, winking at Clara slowly. “Are you IN love with him?”

You knew this was coming. It was obvious. Obvious enough that even Lando knew what to ask. So you use the same prepared answer you have stored in the back of your mind.

“No. No, I’m not. And before you say anything, yeah, I used to be. A long time ago. But genuinely, I’m not anymore. Which is why it's so infuriating that I can’t just go to his races. Or hang out with him. Without being hounded with accusations and speculation. It makes me want to leave him alone, even though that's not his fault, and I can’t let them win. I can’t let them take him away.” ‘again,’ you add mentally. But you just watch the sullen expressions stretch across their faces.

Clara speaks first, which you didn't expect.

“Does he know? Like, did you ever tell him? Maybe you should. Just, I don’t know, mention it one time? Tell him that you’re over it now, but it’s hard, with the media and all. He’s understanding. Maybe you can work something out?” she says optimistically, and you just smile hopefully back at her.

Lissie beams at you both. “That’s a good idea. You seemed confident in that, ‘No.’ So, you should be fine. I’m glad you’ve figured it out. Anyway, I’m gonna head out.”

Lando pauses. “I’ll meet you in a minute Clara, kay? I have some, uh, fashion questions.” he mutters, and Clara dutifully leaves, trailing behind Lissie.

He turns to face you, a strange expression on his face.

“You’re lying. You are. I can see it.” he accuses, but you don’t even flinch.

“Norris, stay in your lane. I came for sympathy, and your girlfriend provided much better advice than you ever have. I told the truth.” you reply back calmly, but your words are aggressive.

“You can’t convince me this is like, fucking, casual? Do you see the way you look at each other? This is nonsense, seriously. So stop being a coward, and at least admit it to me that you’re still in love with him. Because you’re lying to us all, and we can’t help you.” he whispers bitterly, and you try not to blink.

“You can’t help me anyway. It pisses me off that we can’t just be friends. But I’d rather it be like this, and that’s how it ends, than I push him away because I can't handle some instagram posts.” you fire back, trying to tell him so much with so few words.

“For fucks sake!” he recoils, exasperated. “You’re both truly idiots. Why haven’t you just considered, asking him out? It’s not unrequited, come on. It’s obvious.”

You never had a short temper. You were cool, and calm, things that rubbed off from the Australian. He’d withered his way into your very own personality. But he wasn’t here now, even in your head. All you saw was some privileged prick, asking you questions you’d been asking yourself for over ten years.

“You’re the only fucking idiot here. I told you, I’m over it. It’s done. I don’t want that with him, not like that, not anymore. Look at what’s real, what’s here, not what you want to see. It’s not going to happen.” you whisper-scream, all too aware of the other people in the cafe.

“You won’t even try?” he asks, seriously now.

“I did. I told him. That last night. And he left anyway. Because it was never going to be enough. I can’t go back there, can’t think of it like, ‘oh, if he knew. Oh, if I told him.’ Because I did. And like I said, this works, now. And I’d rather we spend less time together, because of some idiots on the internet, than because me loving him wasn’t enough again. Because he has other commitments. Whatever, I don’t know.” you mumble, truly quiet now. Pensive. Painful.

You feel him touch your arm. It’s alien, and weird. And you’d rather he just jokingly punched you instead, like usual. ‘You’re such a sap, mate.’ But this weird attempt at comfort made it so much worse, and so much realer.

“I’m sorry.” he says genuinely, but something isn’t right. There’s a level of determination on his face, a drive for success in his eyes, and it's something you’ve only seen before sessions.

“Lando, please drop it. I don’t want-” you begin, but he just smirks at you gleefully, and you hate how visibly the cogs are turning in his head.

“Goodbye.” he sings, and you watch him excitedly sling his arm around Clara as soon as he makes it through the door, whispering something in her ear.

***

You throw yourself into your work for the next week. It’s relentless, and exhausting, but a good distraction. You spend as little time at Oscar’s as possible, even occasionally falling asleep amongst piles of fabric and scraps. On the nights you do huddle in his guest bed, trying not to think of him down the corridor, he seems to tread extra carefully around you. Like he recognises your change in behaviour, but doesn't want to talk about it.

You’re being absent because of Lando, because you think he’s up to something. That’s at least what you tell yourself.

It’s definitely not because you’re overthinking all of it.

Your phone blinds you slightly, as you check the time. 02:33. ‘Brilliant,’, you think, knowing the exhaustion will truly settle in soon. But you just can’t sleep. It’s hot, and your brain is whirring faster than those stupid cars that haunt your life.

Begrudgingly you get up, and blunder your way to his kitchenette, cursing as you accidentally slam a cupboard door way too loudly. He emerges instantaneously, and guilt floods your face.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just thirsty.” you whisper, nodding to the glass in your hand. You can’t really see him, because the cooker hood’s light is so dim, but you hear him yawn.

“Don’t worry. I can’t sleep either, to be honest. I was just checking you’re okay.” he mumbles, and he steps towards you so you can see him.

He’s wearing odd socks and strange green shorts, which don’t go at all with the oversized top he’s wearing with an odd depiction of a croissant on it.

“Hi. Nice outfit.” you giggle, and he looks at himself, like he’d forgotten what he was wearing.

“You weren't meant to see me like this.” he groans dramatically. “Hi.”

You shrug, unsure of what else to do. “I’ve seen you a lot worse.”

That’s true, you have. You’d seen him with chickenpox, chasing you around on grassy fields as you ran for your life. You’d seen him with tear-strickened eyes after falling surprisingly hard off his bike. Mud, all over his face, as you tried to build a ‘bug hotel.’ When he’d got food poisoning at a sleepover one night, and you had to look after him. When he’d been the donkey in the school nativity. The list was somewhat endless.

He smiles at you, like he’s read your mind. “Very true.”

Silence hangs around you. You loved your silence- it was special. A silence that only worked in the peace you created together. The understanding, the thoughts you shared without saying a word. You always knew what he was thinking, and vice versa.

But this silence was different. You couldn’t hear him, hear him thinking. It was like a barrier had been put up, and you couldn’t see through it.

‘Can you hear me, Osc?’

‘Ask me, this time. Ask me what's wrong. Don’t assume it will work itself out.’

‘Ask me where I’ve been. Tell me what you think about me. Tell me what Lando did.’

“So, how’s the collection going?” he asks hesitantly, like you’re a colleague.

You purse your lips, and wonder what the actual fuck is going on.

“I’m almost done. Been working tirelessly, you know. That’s why I haven’t been around.” you reply honestly, chewing on your lip anxiously.

“Huh. Nice. I’m so proud of you, truly.” he responds awkwardly, like he has more to say, so you let him. You just stare expectantly.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows at you.

“Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired, you know? Like you are, I’m sure.” you mumble weakly, watching water fill your glass. You watch it reach the top, and then shimmy around the counter, back to your door.

“Goodnight, Oscar.” you whisper, slipping inside. But you linger, for a second, and that’s all he needs.

“Um, sorry, but like, can you come back?” he calls, and you turn around, placing down your glass and walking towards him.

He looks confused, and somewhat upset, and you want to laugh and joke and tell him to go to bed because it's fine, but you can’t. Because some indescribable emotion is drowning you, and you don’t know what to do. You feel suffocated, like you just want to hide from him, and also like you’re going to be sick. You’ve never wanted to run from him before, ever. You’ve only ever craved his tight hugs, and his soothing slow breaths.

“What is it, Piastri?” you whisper, your throat drying. He strides towards you, studying your paling face.

“Did I do something? What’s going on?” he asks firmly, searching your eyes for an answer but letting his gaze linger on your slightly shaky hands.

“No, you didn’t do anything.” you mutter, and you’re telling the truth. But you want to scream at him, shout until your throat burns. You want him to leave you alone, like before. You don’t want to see his stupid beautiful annoying mole-covered face ever again.

He exhales, relieved, and hugs you tightly, crushing you a bit.

“Good. I missed you.” he murmurs into your hair, and you shiver.

“It was a week.” you reply into his shoulder, but he just chuckles quietly.

“Yeah, but it's been a while since I haven’t seen you in a week. You’ve been so, like, constant recently. In the best way.” he stumbles over his words, but you get the point.

And you give yourself one more breath in his arms before you hurriedly pull away.

“Mhm. About that. I don’t think I can be around so much anymore. It’s just exhausting.” you stammer, and he looks bewildered.

“So I did do something. Come on, you can be honest.” he says, clearly exasperated at the back and forth.

“No,” you reply quickly. “It’s just, like the media side of it all. I make clothes. I’m not meant to be all on camera. And I want to be there for you, and spend as much time as possible with you, but I just can’t because of everything that comes with it. You can understand that, right?” you ask, and he nods.

“Of course I can. But, please don't push me away because of some instagram posts. Don’t disappear on me, we can make it work, yeah?” he responds, and you smile, although your heart is breaking a little bit.

Because that's exactly what you said to Lando, and here you are, letting it happen

And you know something Oscar doesn’t- you still meant what you said then. You weren’t pushing him away because of the media. You were pushing him away because if someone asked you now, if you were in love with him, that ‘no’ would be much shakier.

***

A month later

yourusername

yourusername hi everyone! Long time no see. Studio finally done, ive moved in and everything! Working on a lot recently, and im almost there. So excited to share my clothes with you guys- because im launching eightynine!! More info to come, love you

View more comments

user89 wait ive been waiting for this one hello

user12 oh my god. Oh my god oh my god

user8 so does this mean we can like, buy her designs?? Yay

user76 call me crazy but oscars number is 81 and her lucky number is 8…

↳ user36 wait ur onto something..

↳ user59 blind leading the blind

user42 why havent we seen you at a race in a while? Are you still friends with oscar?

↳ yourusername ofc, still friends with the mclaren boys, just busy

↳user21 oh my god ynosc divorce is confirmed im gonna sob

claranelson cannot wait to wear everything

↳ yourusername ur my top model

lissiematthews so proud of you, always. Love you

↳ yourusername best friend and sister we interlinked

landonorris can i model too

↳ yourusername umm maybe?? (not)

oscarpiastri well done.

↳ yourusername thank you,osc

↳ user42 user21, maybe theyre fine?

You smile slightly as you switch your phone off, and hate yourself for it. It had actually been quite nice, to get away from it all for a bit. You’d seen Lando for some more outfit stuff, but he hadn’t said anything about Oscar. Maybe it was because he realised you actually were keeping a distance. At first, it was awful. Horrific. Then slowly it got better, and you stopped seeing him every time you blinked.

And you realised it was indefinitely easier to have space, and breathing room, than to hide feelings and curse social media. There was nothing to question, nothing to confront. Just you, and drawings, and fabric. The true definition of home for you.

That’s when the door swings open, and you immediately become irritable.

“Hello, Lando. Unless Clara’s with you, why are you here?” you ask coldly, and he rolls his eyes.

“I knew you’d like her more than me!” he pouts, and you scowl.

“Not hard, is it?” you fire back, and he laughs sharply.

“Ouch. Anyway, glad you’re talking to Oscar again. He was getting mopey.” he coos, and you wave him away.

“Please don’t. You’ll give me a headache.” you bark, and he blinks, slightly surprised.

“Why’d you say yes if you don’t want to see him?” he asks, quietly. It’s serious, and you don’t like it.

“I do want to see him. I’ve been busy.” you reply back quickly.

“I’m sick of your bullshit. Look, Oscar means a lot to me. You’re messing with his head. And you're messing with mine. And clearly, your own. He came to me, fuckin’ like, distraught. Saying he felt so guilty, that you were so impacted by all the rumours and shit, and that you had to leave him alone. And I had to sit there and tell him you’d come around, and you’d work it out. That he should follow his gut. And he just looked like someone had died the whole time.” he explains quickly, and you pause awkwardly.

“Well, I did need space. It wasn’t his fault.” you respond, shrugging.

“What happens next time? When you get that close again, and then you get scared. Scared to admit you’re not over it? Scared of being rejected? Scared of finding out that maybe it’s fucking one sided? You’re both scared. You’re gonna keep hurting each other if you do this. So either cancel, or confess.” he stated loudly, his tone unnecessarily harsh.

“Lando, you keep overstepping. You need to get the fuck out of my business. I’m not a teenager anymore. I can deal with this. I did what I needed to do.”

“Here! Exactly that. Defensive shit. Because you love him just as much now as you did WHEN you were a teenager. Please, just say it.” he pleads, but you stare at him adamantly.

“You asked him, didn’t you? You asked him the same thing. And he said no, too. And you’re clinging to delusions and preying on vulnerability to make whatever the fuck you’ve got in your head a reality. We had our chance. We had our entire childhood. I told him, and maybe it was too late, but he left anyway. Why reopen that wound? It helps neither of us.” You respond aggressively, but he shakes his head.

“You said no, and you were lying. He’s doing the same.” rambled Lando, and you want him to just fall through a menacing crack in the floor.

“You’re a dickhead, you know that? He said no, ‘cause he doesn't love me. He never did. Not in the way I did. He said it back, in the same way he said it to his sisters. I heard it, I knew it. It was a rejection, and it was a kind one. And that’s all I needed- a rejection. I’m not going through that again for feelings I’m not even sure are there.” you admit, letting your words hang in the air.

Lando sighs. “He didn’t know.”

“What?”

“I asked him, if you two were ever together. A long time ago. He said no, that you’d never even entertained the notion. And once you told me about that night, at the airport, I asked about it. Like, in general. If he regretted anything. He said he would’ve liked to tell you something, but that he chickened out. He thought it would be best to leave it unspoken, leave it as a ‘what if?’” he explains.

“I don’t understa-”

“He thought you were letting him go. Saying goodbye. He didn’t know.”

***

Oscar was punctual. Not late, not early. On time. So as you accidentally arrive at your aforementioned dinner way earlier than you were meant to, you’re surprised to see Piastri sitting there already.

“You look nice.” you say thoughtfully, sitting down opposite him, and he smiles ruefully.

“Thanks.” he replies, scanning the menu.

“So, race weekend. Are you excited?” you ask awkwardly, like it’s not a stupid question. It’s like you’re on a pathetic first date, not someone you used to sit next to in Chemistry.

“Of course. Are you, coming, maybe?” he questions hopefully, and you purse your lips.

“Um, I don’t know. Probably not, with the launch soon. I’m sorry, if Lando was a dick to you, or something.” you mumble, and he grins appreciatively.

“No, he was fine. Just worried. I don’t think anyone other than Lissie has ever seen us argue- it’s not a common occurrence.” he jokes, but it’s sad.

“Hey, we didn't argue. I’m sorry, how abrupt I was. I was just overwhelmed.” you respond, but he just nods.

There’s silence again, and it's that offputting kind, that you’ve never really associated with him.

“This is so weird. What happened to us?” he asks quietly, and it’s so genuine and so full of hurt that you want to cry.

“We stopped being kids a while back, if that's what you mean.”

“You were living with me two months ago. And now we’re sitting here pretending we have things to talk about, like we don’t know everything about each other.” he mumbles, and you don’t know what to do, because he's right. And you feel like it's your fault.

“Nah, you don’t know everything.” you reply snarkily, and he looks up.

“I don’t? Everything from before I left, surely?” he suggests, but you shake your head.

“Nope, not quite. Do you remember my first ever sketchbook?” you mutter, trying to ignore the anxiousness in your chest.

“Yep, pink. Of course! You guarded that with your life.” he laughs, and you watch carefully as his cheeks flush.

“It was because you were in it. Sketches of you, of us, all over. Pages and pages of it. And when Lissie saw, she called me by your last name for weeks. So much, I used to scribble it down near the drawings, to see if I liked it. And she explained we’d have to be married, and I didn't understand that, so I just went with it.” you confess quietly, watching him try to suppress an evident smile.

“Well, what if I told you I had the exact same thing? Do you remember when my cousin came from Australia? The old one, with his girlfriend? He said he was going to marry her, and I asked him what that meant. And he said it was just making sure the person you loved the most was stuck with you, forever, basically. So I marched around declaring I’d marry you so we’d be friends forever.” he responds, his voice breaking slightly, and it's your turn to try not to laugh.

“Wow, we were hopeless.”

“We were.”

Then the silence is back, and it's warm, and familiar, and you feel that gravitational pull back into Oscar Piastri again. And for some reason, that emboldens you. Just enough to say something small. A few, insignificant words, that weren’t insignificant at all.

“You never said anything.”

“We were what, six? Of course I didn’t. I didn’t understand it.”

“Was that it, though? Did it really go away, just like that?”

“No. Did it go away for you?”

“No, but you knew that.”

You wait for another quick response, wait for him to prove Lando wrong. But his slow blinking, his confusion, makes your heart soar and your stomach churn.

“I didn’t know that. How was I meant to know that?”

“I told you, I said I love you. What else did you want me to say?” you ask, your heartbeat accelerating.

“Oh come on, that's not fair. You used to say, ‘thanks, love you’ practically every day. I bought you a croissant once, and you acted like I’d just proposed. I couldn’t ever tell what you felt about me, ever. I just assumed you said ‘I love you’, like because you did. Like family. We were that close.”

“Right, so shaky hands and tears in my eyes was no accurate indication. You’re an idiot.”

“Oh. Then. I am. That is fair, although, when I said it back, you just reminded me that I had to go.”

“Yeah, because YOU said it back so normally. I practically felt you shrug while you said it. I could hear the reflexiveness of the response, genuinely.” you mumble, and he laughs.

“That also makes you an idiot.”

***

Lando never leaves you on read. He always made an effort to not do that, because he hated being left on read himself. So watching him ignore a message he definitely should not have ignored is concerning.

You’re not concerned for very long though, because suddenly a cluster of limbs and pink hair crash into your studio, disturbing your calculated mess.

Lissie and Clara babble over eachother, flinging themselves at you, with a flurry of words that seem to be ‘congratulations’ and ‘condolences’ simultaneously.

“Guys, please relax. Me being in love with Oscar is not a new concept.” you joke, but you’re obviously overwhelmed. And it’s scary, admitting something you’ve been hiding for so long. Fighting for so long. But you were tired, and you were beat. And before you realised, you were crying. Just a little bit.

‘We were hopeless.’

You were. And you realised what you’d felt in that silence, every time. That warmth, that comfort, it was love. It was you both saying how much you loved eachother, because you couldn’t actually make a sound about it. And you really did feel like a fucking idiot. A true, silly, hopeless, idiot, teenager

But you didn’t have to be that again, did you?

You feel hugs and ‘it’s okay, let it out’ whispers, and you let yourself have this moment of vulnerability. You let yourself mourn what could’ve been, and you hoped he was doing the same.

“So, let’s talk about this, yeah? What do you want to do?” asks Lissie, and Clara nods enthusiastically. And you think about Lando and wonder how on earth he’s managed to make her fall in love with him. So you look at them both, and pause.

“What would you do?”

The question is heavy, and serious, and you watch them stiffen.

“I would go for it,” and “I’d let him go,” are their simultaneous answers, and you groan.

“Great, thanks. Super helpful.”

Lissie speaks first. “Look, I watched you go through this before. I know how deep this runs. It’s in your very nature. If you don’t do this, you’ll regret it. More than you already do.” she warns, and you know she’s right.

“You could get over it. For real this time, if you tried. It’s clearly taken so much from you already, and maybe if it was meant to be, it would’ve been by now. If you just left, focused on your clothes and stuff, idk. You’ll let yourself love someone else, and it will be okay,” advises Clara, and you pause at her words. Because somehow, she’s right too.

And you’re so torn, you don’t know what to do. Because you’re so disgustingly horribly obsessed with Oscar Piastri, and you have been for over a decade. You could conjure him perfectly in your mind, every freckle in place. Imagine his voice, his smell, immediately. Your heart almost explodes when you think too hard about him.

Your phone dings, a loud, ugly noise, and you sigh, assuming a range of messages from Lando.

You pack up your stuff, gesturing wildly to the girls beside you. “I’m going to see him, like now.” you reveal, biting your lip again.

“So, what are you going to do then? What are you going to tell him?” Clara asks carefully, and you smile. It’s small, and subtle, but it’s there. The only sign she needed to know you made the right choice, whatever that choice was.

“I’ll let you know how it goes.”

***

You arrive, slightly flushed, at his door, and he opens before you can knock.

“You came!” He announces, like he’s surprised.

“Uh, yeah. Obviously. What did you want to talk about?” You ask, even though you both know the answer.

“We made it a joke earlier, but is it? Is it a joke?” He replies sullenly, and you shake your head.

“No, it’s not a joke to me. I was like, head over heels, insanely in love with you. And I just don’t know how to cope with the idea of what we lost without even knowing we were losing it.” You admit honestly, and he sighs.

“You’re right. I feel the same way. And this might sound pathetic but I want to make up for it. I mean, it can’t feel much different to how we already are, sur-“ and you laugh. A horrible explosive outburst of giggles.

His face collapses, like you’ve just ripped out his heart and jumped on it.

“-I’m sorry, obviously that was back then. If you’re over it now, or whatever else, or the media and so on, that’s totally fine.” He mumbles sadly, clearly reeling from your cackles.

“Oh, Oscar, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just, ridiculous. After all this. You’re not pathetic, not now. You were back then. So was I.”

“We were scared.”

“We didn’t have to be.” You mutter, and he smiles knowingly.

“No, we didn’t have to be. But we were.” He steps towards you, slowly, bringing his hands gently to your face.

He pauses, then says, “Look, you were my best friend. Still are.”

“I was scared to touch your face, in case you flinched.” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your eyes. “I could barely even hold eye contact sometimes. You’d look at me like I was saving you from drowning, when I was actually the one drowning. I used to forget how to breathe when you’d pull my blazer collar down. When our knees brushed in the car. When you’d press your arms against mine and scribble down numbers. I was so scared of you.”

You can feel him breathing on you now, as you study each other’s faces, daring the other person to find something new, something they haven’t seen before. But that’s an impossible task, because you know every mole, and he knows every smile line. You know exactly what his teeth look like, and he can imagine the small scar on your forehead even though he can’t see it.

And there it is again. That silence that screams words louder than your voice ever could. You can hear it in the silence. You are in love, it says. He is in love.

“Are you scared now?” You ask tentatively, and he grins.

“No.”

And that’s when it all comes crashing down, and you throw away any doubt you had about soulmates, because yours is right here. And he’s kissing you so gently, his lips so soft against yours, that you can’t help but sigh. It’s alien and familiar at the same time and you wrap your arms around him subconsciously, carefully playing with the back of his hair.

His cheeks are flushed when you both breathe, and you press your forehead against his.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Are you my girlfriend now?”

“That’s a rubbish way to ask. But yeah, I am.”

He beams, like he’s finally found something precious that he had spent eternity looking for.

“Okay. Nice. Cool. Okay.”

“Are you freaking out a bit right now, baby?” You tease, and he laughs.

“Yeah, a bit. Can you tell?”

“I can. Now, are you going to tell Lando or should I?”

***

yourusername

yourusername hi everyoneee! sorry, it’s been a while again. Anyway. Here’s some news! Took us a while to announce this, because we wanted some time to ourselves, but I’m sure this isn’t a massive surprise to anyone. oscarpiastri

View more comments

user46 DONT PLAY RN

user12 wowwow

user23 i KNEW IT

↳ user46 we all knew it??

landonorris lame Oscars post was better

↳ yourusername only saying that cause ur in it bruh

claranelson yay, so so happy for you

lissiematthews oscarpiastri adoptive brother to actual brother soon?

↳ yourusername bit early for that maybe

↳ oscarpiastri is it really too early?

You switch off your phone, and flip it over to admire the new Polaroid hidden in your phonecase. Identical to the other, truly, but older and newer at the same time. The love in your eyes is the same, but your face is matured, and the frame cleaner.

And you open your sketchbook and you doodle it, lingering on his features that you could draw blind.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #fanfic #fluff #lando norris #fashion #1989 #you are in love #oscar piastri #mclaren #oscar x you #oscar x reader

859 notes · View notes