charliedawn

[charliedawn]

I just realised that my blog’s masterlist hasn’t been updated in quite a while. Might try to make it easier on my followers and try tidy things up on this blog. Put everything in there. So if I disappear for a while? Know that I am trying to tidy things up. Even though my blog is a reflection of my life. I am NOT a tidy person. Ahah.

[charliedawn]

HAND RITUAL

Eddie X Fem!Curly/Wavy-haired Reader

Synopsis: Eddie is your boyfriend and you noticed that he seems to love his rings—to the point of having a whole ritual to remove them. You therefore decided to have a ritual of your own to accompany his. Eddie is more than happy to help. (This made me cry. Angst. Mention of character death.)

The first time you noticed that Eddie had a hand ritual was the first time you stayed in his trailer for the night. It was cold outside and Eddie had insisted you stay here since the rain would make it impossible to cycle back home with zero visibility.

He knew what he was talking about. From experience. It hurt.

Therefore, your final decision had been to stay and hope that by tomorrow the sky would clear up. Unfortunately, the only bed available was his—since his uncle usually closed the door to his room before going to work. So you had the chance to see the full extent of that sacred ritual that was to remove his rings and wrist bands to go to sleep.

He always started by the little finger. Easiest. A black stone. A shiny one. It often slipped off from his finger on its own and you then both had to search for it every single time. But you knew it was important to him.

Then he moved on to the ring finger. He usually had two on that one. A skull and a simple silver ring. The silver ring seemed a little too tight. Perhaps a mistake or a treasured souvenir.

On his middle he had this sort of weird-shaped owl. It was heavier than the rest. You could almost feel his relief when it was finally removed. But he had also told you that it was his coolest ring. Very old. The guy who he had bought it from said that it was an antic—from some old tribe in the South.

Finally, on his index finger, he had a cross. There were four skulls around that cross. You weren’t sure if Eddie was religious. Probably not. But he still removed it last and his eyes counted each skull—as if one of them might grow skeletal limbs and run away.

The other hand was his writing hand so he had less rings there. But he did have chains around his wrist that he took off and placed down gently. Then there was the watch that he skilfully detached and laid down next to the chains and the rings.

In a second time of that ritual, he flexed and unflexed his fingers before massaging his wrists. It must be tiring to carry all that metal in a day—but he still did it. You were wordlessly impressed. You then saw him go to the shower and waited patiently. But your eyes kept moving to the rings. You wanted to feel them in your hand—weigh them, rub your thumb over each bump and nick. Instead, you removed your clips and scrunchies to lay them next to his precious items. Your items were less heavy—sure—but just as important.

When he got out of the shower…he stopped dead in his tracks. He had never seen you with your hair down before. Curls. A lot of curls. Even more than him…which was something. He smiled and approached you slowly. He then put his hands on your waist and kissed the back of your shoulder. “Ma’am. Your boyfriend is one lucky man.”

You laughed and leaned back against him. “I know. But I would like to rectify that we were both blessed with each other.”

He smiled against your skin and wrapped his arms around your middle. “Yeah? Eddie Munson? A blessing? Shit. Who could have known?”

He laughed softly in that self-deprecating way that you wanted to kiss away. He rubbed his thumbs over your hips.

“Well…I did.” You looked back at him and grinned. “And not to blow my own horn but that’s why I know I got the best guy around. Because he’s kissing my shoulder and smiling at me like I hung the stars in the night sky.”

He tilted his head a little, pressing another kiss just beneath your ear. His smile stayed, but it softened—melted, really. Like he didn’t know what to do with the warmth you just handed him.

“…Shit,” he murmured again, breath catching in a quiet laugh. “Say stuff like that and I’m gonna start thinking I deserve it.”

You reached up to touch his hand where it was still curled around your waist. “That’s the whole point, Eddie. You do.” You glanced back at him. “You deserve all of it.”

He looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. He leaned his forehead against yours. “You know, I’ve had nights like this in my head. But usually the version of me in those dreams screws something up or wakes up alone.”

“Then lucky for you,” you whispered, nose brushing his, “I’m real. And I’m staying.”

He exhaled, sharp and soft all at once, like a held breath finally being released.

After a quiet beat, he chuckled low in his throat, eyes flicking to the bed. “So, uh…how do you feel about sharing the mattress with a guy who hogs blankets and might accidentally knee you in his sleep?”

You smiled. “I’ve had worse roommates. At least you’re cute.”

He dramatically clutched his heart. “Ma’am, you flatter me.”

You chuckled. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

He grinned and led you gently towards the bed, pulling back the covers with a little flourish. “Well then. Allow me to offer you the five-star Munson sleeping experience. One lumpy mattress, zero working springs, and a personal heater that snores.”

You laughed and slipped in, curls fanning over the pillow. “As long as the heater wraps around me like this every night…” you trailed off as he curled in behind you, pulling the covers up over you both, arms encircling your waist again, “…I’m not complaining.”

“Deal,” he whispered into the back of your neck. Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, Eddie held you like you were a prayer he never thought he’d be brave enough to say out loud.

…

A week later

The mall smelled like hot pretzels and too much perfume, and Eddie had already tried on three different pairs of sunglasses “just for the bit”—none of which he intended to buy. He’d been making exaggerated runway walks up and down the aisles of whatever store you were in, doing spins and posing like a model every time you held something up and asked, “What do you think?”

And the best part? He wasn’t pretending to have fun. He was having fun.

You watched him now, squinting at a price tag like it held the secrets of the universe. His rings clinking every time he ran his fingers through the racks. His hair was a little frizzy from the humidity outside, and he kept bumping into mannequins and apologizing to them.

You smiled to yourself.

Because somehow, you’d ended up with a boyfriend who actually liked going shopping with you. Who didn’t groan or slump into a seat the second you walked into a boutique. Who didn’t rush you. Who gave honest opinions like, “I like the green one. Moss colour-coded.” And who, right now, was holding up a fluffy cardigan and dramatically gasping like it was the last sweater on Earth.

“Oh my god,” he said, looking at you wide-eyed. “Touch this. No, seriously. Feel this. This is like…baby llama soft.”

You reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve. “Wow. You’re right.”

Eddie wasn’t the type you’d expect to enjoy clothes shopping—but here he was two minutes later, dramatically holding up a ridiculously glittery crop top, eyebrows raised, like he was hosting his own fashion show in the middle of the store.

“Now this,” he said, twirling the hanger with flair, “this says: I have confidence, I have sparkle, and I might be a backup dancer for David Bowie.”

You snorted. “Put that down before someone thinks you’re serious.”

“Oh, I am serious,” he said, deadpan, before cracking into that wide grin that always pulled something loose in your chest. “But okay, okay, for real—what do you think of this one?”

He turned, holding up a soft oversized cardigan in a color he knew you liked. It was the exact shade you’d paused at earlier, trailing your fingers over the fabric before moving on. You hadn’t even said anything—but he’d noticed.

Your smile came slowly, warmly. Not at the sweater. Not even at how it would probably look great on you. But at him. At the boy with wild curls and sharp edges who walked around the store like it was a stage, who made you laugh so easily, who remembered the color you liked without you having to say a word.

“You’re smiling,” he said, narrowing his eyes in faux suspicion. “What did I do? Do I have a tag stuck to me again?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m just…happy. I feel lucky, that’s all.”

He blinked. “Lucky? Because I know what alpaca wool feels like and what colour you like best? Isn’t that like boyfriend rule 101?”

You stepped closer, taking the cardigan from his hand and brushing your fingers against his in the process. “No. To have a boyfriend who actually likes going shopping with me. Who has opinions. Who makes it fun.” You glanced up at him, smile softening. “You don’t just come along. You show up. That means a lot.”

He blinked before rubbing the back of his neck. You could see a hint of pink on his cheeks and the tip of his ears.

“Well, yeah,” he said after a moment—as if it was obvious, lips quirking up. “Why wouldn’t I? I get to walk around with you, see you try on cute stuff, make you laugh…and then maybe hold your hand the whole time. It’s honestly a win-win-win situation for me.”

Your expression shifted into something quiet and tender as you saw the look of pure adoration in his eyes as he stood there with heart-shaped eyes.

“I like being with you,” he quickly added, shrugging as if that was obvious. “Doesn’t really matter where. Trailer. Clothes store. Hell dimension. Whatever. As long as I’m with you, I’m good.”

You laughed and rolled your eyes fondly. “You’re such a sap.”

“Yeah but…I am a sap exclusively for you,” he declared proudly, throwing an arm around your shoulders and kissing the side of your head right there in the aisle. “Now, let’s go try on this cardigan. And then maybe I’ll make you try the Bowie crop top. For science.”

You shook your head, laughing again as you walked toward the fitting rooms—but your smile lingered.

Because yeah. You were lucky.

…

The door clicked shut behind you, and your house fell into that quiet that only comes after a full day spent laughing, walking, and stealing kisses in too-bright changing room mirrors. The shopping bags were dropped by the door, shoes kicked off lazily, and Eddie immediately stretched like a cat in his shirt that had ridden up just slightly over his stomach.

“God, my feet hurt,” he groaned, flopping back on the bed dramatically, arms flung wide like a rockstar collapsing after the final encore.

You smiled as you slipped off your jacket and tossed it onto the chair. “You kept dragging me into stores. This is your fault.”

“Excuse me for having incredible taste and wanting to see my girl in everything that caught my eye,” he humphed with a grin, winking at you. “Also, you did buy many of the things I pointed out. That should count for something.”

“It does.” You crossed over to him and crawled up onto the bed, hovering over his sprawled form. “But now I wanna do something.”

He looked up at you, brow raised. “Oh yeah? Should I be worried?”

“No.” You reached for his left hand, fingers brushing his knuckles. “I just want to do your little ritual. The ring thing.”

That got his attention. His eyes softened instantly.

“Y’wanna take ‘em off for me?” he asked, a little surprised. Maybe even a little flustered. “That’s sacred territory, sweetheart.”

You smirked and kissed his palm. “Exactly. That’s why you gonna show me. I want to do it right.”

And so you started—just like he always did.

You began with the pinky. The black stone ring, the slippery one that always went missing. You took it slow, twisting it gently before pulling it off and placing it on the nightstand.

“This one always runs away,” you murmured, setting it down carefully.

He nodded in agreement. “Yeah. Slippery little bastard.”

Then the ring finger. The skull first—cool and familiar. Then the tight silver one, the one that always left a faint indent. You took your time with that one, watching the way his jaw clenched slightly as it slid free. You placed them next to the first.

His middle finger was next. The owl. Heavy, with an odd shape that caught your thumb as you worked it off. He let out a breath as it came loose, and you smiled.

“Still think this one might be cursed,” you commented with a small smile.

“Probably is,” he murmured. “I’m still gonna wear it though.”

Finally, his index. The cross ring. Four skulls. As you removed it, you saw him counting them silently in his head, just like always.

You whispered, “One…two…three…four,” as you carefully slid it off and added it to the growing constellation of rings on the nightstand.

Then you turned to his other hand. He didn’t wear much there—just the chains around his wrist and the watch he never seemed to check the time on. You unfastened the chains one by one, then the watch, setting them down with the rest of his treasures.

After that, you wrapped your hands around both of his and gently massaged his wrists—just like he always did.

Eddie let out a soft breath. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Jesus H. Christ. You’re gonna make me fall in love with you all over again…”

You kissed the inside of his wrist. “Good. That was the plan.”

He looked at you and before you could even think about it, his lips were on yours.

A few moments later

You were now sitting cross-legged on the bed, back facing him, when you felt Eddie shift behind you. The mattress dipped gently under his weight, and then you saw his hands reach over your shoulders, fingers hovering just shy of your hair.

“I wanna do yours,” he told you as his finger stroked your hair lovingly. “Like how you did mine. I mean, not my hair—I mean, the clips. The scrunchies. Let me…let me take them out.”

You glanced back at him, a little surprised.

“Okay,” you finally agreed. “They’re yours to conquer.”

He chuckled quietly. “Oh, I’m gonna conquer the shit out of these clips.”

Carefully, his fingers moved up into your curls, grazing your scalp with the softest touch. He worked slowly, easing each clip out like it was a priceless artifact. You could hear the clink as he set them down one by one on the nightstand beside his rings, laying them just as carefully as you had.

“Am I doing okay?” he asked after the second clip, voice close to your ear.

“Mhm,” you hummed, eyes slipping shut. “Perfect.”

“Not pulling too hard?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Just—tell me if I do.”

He was so careful. Each scrunchie unwound with the caution of someone defusing a bomb, even though your hair was soft and cooperative beneath his hands. When the last one was out, your curls fell in full, loose waves/curls down your back, brushing over his wrists.

He then kissed the back of your neck gently, lips barely brushing your skin, and you shivered.

“Now,” he exclaimed, fingers sliding through your hair, “I’ve seen you do this braid thing before, right? You twist it up like magic? I kinda wanna try. Is that okay?”

You smiled, cheeks warm. “Go ahead. I’m all yours.”

That made him laugh under his breath, the sound vibrating through his chest as he scooted closer. His fingers weren’t precise, not yet—clumsy in the way of someone who’s learning—but they were gentle, loving, and you felt each moment of hesitation as he separated the strands.

“Wait. Is this…is this how it goes? Three pieces, right?”

“Mhm,” you said. “You’re doing great, baby.”

“You’re sure I’m not, like, yanking your scalp off?”

“I promise,” you laughed. “If you do, I’ll let out a dramatic scream.”

He chuckled and leaned down again to kiss your shoulder this time. “Thanks for trusting me with this.”

You smiled to yourself as his fingers fumbled and re-organized the strands again, you occasionally worried about him getting them tangled in his rings before remembering—right—he wasn’t wearing them.

“Does it have to be neat neat?” he muttered, halfway down.

“Nope. Just full of love.”

“Oh, I got loads of that,” he declared proudly. “More than I know what to do with.”

When he finally finished, he tied the end with one of your scrunchies, patting your braid like it was a masterpiece. “There. Beautiful girl with a crooked braid made by her idiot boyfriend.”

You turned, eyes shining. “It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?” he asked, leaning in, foreheads nearly touching.

“Yeah.” You reached out and pulled him into a soft kiss. “I think this is my new favorite part of bedtime.”

He grinned and flopped back onto the bed, arms open wide. “Then get over here, Miss Crooked Braid. Cuddle time.”

You almost jumped into his arms and you both laughed as he kissed you all over your face.

…

Later that night

You started with his pinky. You traced along it slowly, learning the shape of it like you were memorizing a constellation. A bump where a healed scar lived. A callous from his guitar strings. Soft skin at the knuckle where his rings usually sat.

Then came the ring finger—the one with the too-tight silver band, always just a little red when you took it off. You let your finger slide along the inside curve of it, committing the slight crookedness to memory.

His middle finger was longer, stronger. Rough from chords and strings and years of fists clenched in frustration. You held it gently, like a fragile thing, and ran your thumb down the back of it, bone to knuckle to fingertip.

Then the index—his favorite for tapping out rhythms on your thigh, for pointing at stars, for trailing absentmindedly across your shoulder when he was half-awake and dreamy.

And finally, his thumb. Shorter, thick, with a tiny cut near the nail that he hadn’t even noticed earlier that day. You brought it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the side of it before laying it back down against the sheet.

You kept tracing. Over the lines of his palm, along the creases in his wrist. Every scar, every callous, every worn-in part of him you wanted to keep in your hands and in your mind forever.

Just in case, you thought. Just in case the lights go out one day and never come back. Just in case my eyes fail me. I’ll still know you. I’ll know these fingers like the path on a map I walked every day.

Eddie stirred a little beside you, making a quiet sound in his throat. His lashes fluttered but didn’t open, and his fingers curled softly, instinctively around yours.

But then, his eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick and rough from sleep. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. “Just…learning you.”

He hummed and kissed your cheek. And then he was asleep again, breathing slow and steady. But you stayed awake just a little longer, fingers tracing the lifeline on his palm. A quiet breath escaped Eddie and you felt his hand curl slightly around yours, a subconscious comfort even in sleep.

As you nestled closer, your fingers still tracing, you whispered, “I’ll always find you.”

And somewhere in the depths of sleep, Eddie’s lips curved into a small, peaceful smile.

…One night, as you both lay tangled in the sheets, Eddie caught you mid-kiss on his knuckles. His eyes softened in the dim light, and he reached up to brush your hair back.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” he murmured, voice thick with something like awe. “Holding my hand, kissing it…You sure you don’t wanna kiss my face instead?”

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed in the dim light. “I just want to make sure I always remember…you.”

He reached out and gently tucked a stray curl behind your ear, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“Well, I’m not complaining. Feels kinda nice. Just…y’know I’ll stay forever with you, right? ‘Cause am gonna be honest here. I’d be pretty much lost without you now. Can’t even remember how I ever managed to function without you.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. Eddie pulled you closer, his thumb stroking the back of your hand as he murmured,

“Guess I have no choice but to make sure you never wanna leave.”

And in that quiet night, your hands stayed entwined—a silent promise sealed between two hearts. Days turned into weeks, and those small, tender moments became a steady rhythm between you. Whether you were sitting together in silence or lying side by side after a long day, your fingers would instinctively find his. Eddie never minded.

One afternoon, you caught him watching you as you absentmindedly traced the familiar curves of his hand, your thumb gently rubbing over the small scar near his knuckle.

“Y’know…” he started, a little hesitant but honest, “I don’t say this enough, maybe because it feels kinda scary to say it out loud but…I love you.”

Your heart skipped, warmth flooding through you at the simple truth. You turned to face him, eyes meeting his in the faint glow of the street lamp outside the window.

“I love you too,” you whispered, your smile trembling with the weight of the moment.

A shy, genuine smile spread across his face, and he pulled you a little closer, forehead resting against yours. “Yeah. You do.”

It wasn’t cocky. It was simply the words of a man who was now fully convinced. He pressed his lips to yours and smiled.

“One day, baby…Am gonna get you a ring. And it won’t be one of those cheap ass rings I got. No. It will be pure gold, sweetheart. Pure gold. Because shit…you’re my treasure.”

You felt your heart swell at his heartfelt words.

“Pure gold,” you repeated softly, your fingers tightening around his hand. “I’d wear it every day.”

Eddie grinned, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Hell yeah, you will. And I’ll be damn proud to see it on you. Gonna put it right…” He kissed your ring finger. “…here.”

You felt tears come to your eyes—but he didn’t let them fall.

He kissed your mouth next, slow and sure, like he was sealing that promise deep inside both your hearts. In that quiet moment, all the noise and chaos of the world faded away. There was just you, him, and a future shimmering bright—like the gold ring he vowed to give you one day.

…Unfortunately, that day never came.

Eddie was accused of having killed a high schooler and even if you tried so hard to save him. You couldn’t. You looked down at the grave. You were standing beside Uncle Wayne and your eyes were glassy—empty.

Uncle Wayne then wordlessly took your hand. “…That boy loved you more than anything.”

Your eyes filled with tears as you squeezed his hand back. “…I know. He made me the luckiest woman in Hawkins.”

At night…you closed your eyes and the shape of his hands came back to you. Your hands missing the ring ritual, the slow exploration of hands you would never grow tired of touching, his breath against your neck as you fell asleep together. You covered your eyes and sobbed.

You didn’t think the tears would ever stop…knowing that your luck had come to an end.

“Oh Eddie…”

[charliedawn]

Imagine Jack Sparrow being possessed by a sea spirit (Trans reader. Don't like, don't read.)

You were passing by Captain Jack Sparrow’s quarters when you heard that familiar drunken giggle. You knew that laugh—half mischief, half madness—and you paused, unable to resist listening in.

“So, Captain…where’d you pick up the newbie?” a crewmate asked, voice slurred with rum. “Looks awfully young, don’t he?”

Captain had promised you not to betray your secret to the crew, but he was drunk…Nobody knew what to expect with a drunk captain. Your heart tightened. You held your breath, but could only hear Jack's deep laugh and half-slurred answer.

“HE ain't young…He ain't anythin’ but a fellow sea companion with very pretty eyes.”

You exhaled quietly, relief softening your shoulders. But just as you reached for the door, your name floated through the wood—and you froze.

“Didn’t think you swung that way, Captain,” another voice teased. “You think he’s good-lookin’?”

You could practically hear Jack gag. “Don’t make me barf, Shelly. He’s trouble. I pity the poor soul who ends up shackled to that brat.”

The crew burst into laughter. But then one voice piped up louder than the rest.

“Well, least you don’t have to worry. He hates your guts, Cap’n.”

Suddenly, a heavy silence filled the room and Jack frowned, as if pondering on the crewmate's words. Hates? Did you really hate him? He looked down at his half-finished bottle and forced himself to let out a small laugh.

“Bah. She loves me. Just hasn’t figured it out yet.” He chuckled to himself—right as your glare met his across the room. Oops. So much for holding his tongue. He’d sworn to stop using the wrong pronoun, but when it came to you…he always fumbled. It was always better when he wanted to justify his feelings towards you. Being gay wasn't uncommon among pirates, but Captain Jack Sparrow had a reputation to uphold. Fortunately, none of the crewmen seemed sober enough to realise.

“Sparrow is getting a bit over himself. Maybe I should remind him who ends up crying on my lap when the nightmares come?”

That earned a fit of roaring laughters from the crew and you winked playfully at Sparrow who only took another gulp of his drink. You both knew the real reason Sparrow came to your room every night. It was very different from the reason why the many crew members were laughing. He didn’t like to talk about those nights, as they were as painful for him as they were for you.

Captain Jack Sparrow had bought you without even knowing it.

One night, far too drunk for his own good, Jack had tossed a coin to a hunched old woman offering him a “treasure.” He’d staggered back to the ship with a small, squirming pouch. When he opened it, what he found was not gold or pearls—but a beating heart, slick and pulsing.

He’d nearly thrown it overboard—until he saw you.

You emerged from the shadows of the sea, soaked, hair clinging to your face, chest torn open with a hollow where your heart should be. He stumbled back in horror. You clapped a hand over his mouth and dragged him into his quarters.

“My name is Y/N,” you said calmly. “I was cursed with immortality in exchange for my freedom. The heart you’re holding is mine. While it’s in your possession, I’m bound to protect you from all harm. My life belongs to you.”

Jack had laughed, of course. Thought you were mad. Threatened to toss your heart to the sharks a dozen times.

But he never did.

Instead, he offered you a job. He introduced you to his crew and since then, you had been navigating the seas by his side…until he found the box.

“Y/N! Come quick! I found something!”

You rushed towards the call, but your blood ran cold when you saw what he held.

“Captain…please. Don’t open it.” You begged him.

He raised a brow, smirking. “It’s just a dusty old box.”

He popped the lid. Nothing.

“See? Empty. Whatever was in that box, it's long gone…” He tossed the artifact aside and swaggered back to the ship. Fortunately, he had found other boxes full of gold to last for a while. But behind him, neither of you saw the black smoke slip from the box…and vanish into the rum flask tied to his belt.

That night

“Boys!” Jack declared, raising his mug high. “We have uncovered the legendary treasure of Himdar the Dark!”

“Long live Captain Jack Sparrow!” the crew roared, mugs clinking. They all started eating, drinking and telling the terrible things they'd heard about Himdar the Dark at sea.

“They say that his right hand was covered by black rotten flesh, since it was the hand he used to make pacts with the devil!”

“Nah, it was his left hand! And the curses? Never proven!”

But you knew the truth.

You had belonged to Himdar once. He’d cursed you. Your heart had been his most prized possession.

And now, Jack held it.

A low whisper slithered through the room.

“Bring me her heart…”

You stiffened. The words had come from Jack—but the voice wasn’t his.

“Captain?” a crewmate asked, frowning.

Jack blinked. “Ah—just tired, lads. Ignore me.”

The crew bought it.

You didn’t.

…

Later, in the rain, you found him alone—blade in one hand, your heart in the other.

His hand trembled.

You stepped closer, offering a small, knowing smile. “You’re a good man, Jack. I’ve never doubted it.”

His fingers curled tighter around the knife. Your words—your faith—hit him like cannon fire. How could you believe in him, when he barely believed in himself? They all thought they knew him: Jack Sparrow, fearless pirate king. But you saw what they didn’t. The man who woke screaming. The man afraid of dying nameless, buried in a box, forgotten by the sea.

You saw the truth.

He looked at you with tears in his eyes, washed away by the rain and looked back at the heart in his clutch.

“I…I trust you, Captain,” you said softly with a reassuring smile, even though he was the one with the knife above your beating heart. “You'll do what's right.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something—but the words weren’t his.

“You were never his.”

The voice that came from Jack’s throat was low, oily. It made your skin crawl.

You took a step back. “Jack?”

His eyes flickered—brown, then pitch black, then brown again. He staggered, clutching his head.

“Shut up!” he barked at no one. “Shut up, I said!”

You screamed. “Jack—listen to me. Fight it.”

But the spirit was stronger now, pouring through the cracks in Jack’s mind, feeding on doubt, fear, pain.

“I gave my soul for her heart,” the voice snarled. “And you—you worthless drunk—you think you deserve it?”

He lunged at you.

You dodged, barely, and shouted, “Jack! Look at me!”

That made him freeze. Tremble.

“You know me. I’m not her, I’m not his—I’m me. But you…you’re the only one who’s ever treated me like I was more than just a heart in a box. You know me, Jack.”

Jack dropped the knife.

Just for a second.

And in that second, the real Jack surfaced.

He looked at you—truly looked at you—and whispered, “Y/N…”

But the moment shattered like glass.

His back arched, a scream tearing from his lungs, and the black smoke burst from his mouth. It swirled around the deck like a hurricane, howling with rage.

The spirit spoke again, louder now, shaking the ship. “Then I will take both of you.”

You ran to Jack’s side, gripping his shoulders as he crumpled to the floor. His body was cold. Too cold. “Stay with me, Jack. Don’t you dare let him win.”

The spirit coiled in the sky above, forming the vague silhouette of a man—tattered cloak, rotting hand, empty eyes.

Himdar.

“I was promised a heart,” it growled. “I was promised your heart, Y/N.”

You rose to your feet, standing between Jack and the spirit, your chest heaving, still torn where your heart once belonged.

“Well, I was promised freedom,” you snapped. “Freedom to be who I want to be. Freedom to be my own man. And you NEVER respected that. That’s why you asked that old witch to curse me. You pretended to love me, Himdar. But in truth, you never did.”

Lightning split the sky. You reached down and took the heart from Jack’s hand—it pulsed faintly, like it remembered you.

“Do you want it back?” you shouted at the storm. “Then come and take it!”

The wind screamed. The smoke dove towards you—but just before it reached your chest, Jack threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. The heart, between you both, pulsed bright red. A shockwave burst out from it, throwing the spirit backwards.

“NOOOO!” Himdar’s voice echoed, warping into a thousand angry whispers before fading entirely.

Silence. Only the rain remained.

You fell to your knees, the heart still warm in your hands. Jack collapsed beside you, gasping for breath.

“Bloody hell,” he wheezed. “That…was not worth one coin.”

You laughed—shaky, breathless.

He turned to you, eyes clearing. “I almost…I almost hurt you.”

“But you didn’t,” you replied firmly. “You fought him. You came back. You protected me.”

Jack hesitated, then reached out and touched the heart between you, fingers brushing yours.

“What happens now?” he asked.

You looked at the stormy sky, then down at your heart. It was still beating. But something was different. For the first time in centuries, it didn’t feel tethered.

You placed the heart against your chest.

And this time…it didn’t reject you.

It settled and your chest closed.

You gasped. Then smiled with tears of relief in your eyes.

“It’s mine again.”

…

The storm had passed, leaving only sea mist and silence on the deck. The crew had retreated below, shaken but alive, muttering rumors about curses and spirits, trying to forget what they’d seen. You stood with Jack on the quarterdeck. Jack leaned against the railing, staring out at the horizon.

You took a breath and stepped closer.

“I want to give it to you again,” you told him.

He flinched like the words had struck him physically.“No.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack turned, his face uncharacteristically serious. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something raw and trembling underneath.

“I said no. Keep it. I don’t want it.”

“But—”

“You don’t get it,” he snapped. “I already almost lost you once. When I had it before, it was a curse. A bloody, godforsaken anchor tying you to a man who didn’t deserve to be tied to anyone.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“You’re free now. Free to live, to sail, to choose who to love and where to go and what to be. And I’ll be damned if I take that from you again.”

His voice cracked.

“I can’t…I won’t be the one who chains you down again.”

Silence again. He looked away, chest rising and falling with everything he wasn’t saying.

You stepped closer. Slowly.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He didn’t look at you. So you took his hand—and pressed it gently against your chest.

“It was never a chain,” you murmured.

He hesitated and you kissed him. Not rushed. Not desperate. But deep and certain—like a vow spoken without words. His breath caught. His hands trembled. You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips.

“My heart always belonged to you.”

His eyes widened. His mouth parted, speechless. The bottle of rum at his side hit the deck with a soft clink.

“I kept telling myself I was protecting you,” you whispered. “That I was cursed, that you were reckless, that you didn’t know what love was—but I was wrong.”

Jack finally looked at you. His eyes were shining again, though he blinked fast like he didn’t want you to see.

“You do know,” you insisted. “You just never thought you deserved it.”

He stared down at the hand on your heart.

“…I still don’t,” he said hoarsely.

You brushed your fingers down the side of his face.

“Well, too bad,” you said with a small smile. “Because I’m giving it to you anyway.”

Jack gave a soft, disbelieving laugh, then leaned forward and kissed you—clumsy and rough and entirely, painfully him.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“That thing stays in your chest…but know that I accept that heart of yours. Even if I do not literally have it in my hand. Doesn’t make it any less mine.”

[charliedawn]

hi I got to go swimming today and I was thinking about swimming with our Vampire darlings!

Finding a lake and swimming under the stars with them!! Splashing around and having some fun. complimenting their swimwear and getting compliments from these southern hotties. And the Irish one. Just!!! Having fun!! Swimming under the stars with the loves of their deaths!!!

Remmick

Remmick appeared first, shirtless, with dark swim shorts and his golden chain catching the moonlight on his chest. He walked into the lake like it was nothing—then smirked when he caught you staring.

“Yer starin’, mo chroí. Can’t blame ye.”

You told him he looked good and he laughed, low and pleased. Later, he pulled you close in the water, your bodies weightless and slow, and whispered against your ear:

“This lake, these stars, this night—I’ll remember it all even if the world forgets us.”

Bo Chow

He wades in slow, shirt open, swim trunks dark and low on his hips. He raises a brow at your cannonball and smirks.

“Damn, sugar. That splash just baptized half the South.”

You stick your tongue out at him. He chuckles and glides forward in the water, impossibly graceful.

“Look at you. Moonlight on your skin, drippin’ like a dream. Reckon you might kill me all over again lookin’ like that.”

He splashes you right back, eyes crinkling with rare joy.

Cornbread

He’s already in the water before you are, yelling like he’s ten again.

“Get in here, guys! It’s like a hot tub made by God himself!”

When you compliment his swim shorts (loud, floral, ridiculous), he gives you a wink.

“Y’like ‘em? Got ‘em at a gas station. Half price. Deal of the century in this economy.”

He lets you climb on his shoulders, laughing as he topples backward into the water just to hear you scream-laugh.

Mary

She’s got a vintage-style red swimsuit with a sweetheart neckline, hair in a bun, and a straw hat she refuses to take off. She dips a toe in and sighs.

“Lord have mercy, y’all are loud.”

But then you splash her. And her eye twitches.

“…Oh, honey. You’re dead.”

Suddenly, she’s underwater—and then behind you, laughing as she dumps a whole wave of lake water over your head. She snorts when you compliment her swimming suit.

“Well thank ya kindly. Yours ain’t bad either, sugarplum. Real easy on the eyes.”

Annie

She stays at the edge of the lake, arms crossed, watching shyly. You swim up and coax her in with soft words and a warm smile.

“You don’t have to, but I’d love to have you in the water with me…”

Eventually, she steps in, in a pale blue one-piece, holding your hand the entire way.

“It’s nice,” she whispers, smiling faintly. “Better with you.”

You float on your backs together, fingers brushing, stars above and smiling together.

Stack

Stack strips off his shirt like it owes him money and sprints into the water with a roar, flinging himself in like a cannonball champion.

“Bet I can catch a fish with my bare hands before you do!”

He totally can’t. But you let him try anyway. Later, when he sees you smiling at him, he grins back.

“You’re beautiful, you know that? I mean it. Like—my heart’s doing little flips and shit.”

Bert

Bert shows up in swim trunks, cowboy hat still on, boots slung over one shoulder, and that familiar crooked smirk on his face.

“Whatcha think? Too hot to handle?”

You pretend to squint. “You’re gonna get arrested for indecency.”

He chuckles. “Worth it.”

He cannonballs into the lake and soaks everyone. You shriek. Mary screams. Bo curses under his breath. Bert pops up grinning like a golden retriever.

“Lake day! Under the stars? And ya invited me? Baby, I don’t think I told ya enough times how much I love ya.”

He tosses his hat to the shore and splashes you. When you squeal, he grins and grabs you around the waist.

“You’re lookin’ fine enough to raise the dead right now. Moonlight suits ya. Or maybe I just like seein’ ya wet.”

You bop him playfully on the nose, but he just pulls you closer, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw. He then tries to start chicken fights. He tries to wrestle Stack. He tries to convince Remmick to race him to the other side of the lake. It’s chaos. Beautiful, messy, shirtless chaos.

Joan

Joan is serene and silent when she slips into the water, her long dark hair fanning out behind her like seaweed. She’s in an elegant black swimsuit with delicate lace details that look like something from another century. She glides through the water effortlessly. You swim beside her, slow and quiet. She doesn’t speak at first. Then, finally, she brushes her fingers along your arm, voice soft:

“You’re particularly beautiful tonight.”

You offer her a compliment in return—on her grace, her strength, her beauty. She pauses and actually smiles. A rare, small smile that feels like treasure.

“I used to fear water. Now I think I love it—because you’re in it.”

Later, you find yourselves floating close, hand in hand, saying nothing at all. Just feeling the night breathe around you.

[charliedawn]

Sorry if you already got something like this but what do the slashers rooms look like in the nurse reader au? And does the nurse live in the hospital or do they go home

What their rooms (cells) looked like before head nurse Y/N arrived:

After:

Brahms: Nurse Y/N relocated him to a room which he shares with Jason. Nurse Y/N brought him plushies when he behaved and Jason gave him cactus-related or frog-related things for his birthday. He wanted a TV too but Jason doesn’t like noises so…he had to give up on that one.

Jason: Loves nature. He wanted things to remind him of home. Lots and lots of green and sometimes, Brahms gets under the blanket with him because…fluffy blankie. Brahms gets jealous easily.

Michael: Pretty minimalist. Wanted a bed. Maybe a book or two. Not really demanding. Shares a room with Five. Five bought him the dog. No idea why. No idea how he found it either.

Five Hargreeves: Before you ask. Yes. The plushie was a gift from Michael. But not for cuddling, for frustration. Every time Five gets angry, he gets to take it out on Mr. Duckie. Otherwise, a very minimalist room too. But he wanted wood and a mirror so he can see himself grow up everyday. Also, he wanted a mug. For coffee.

Penny: Cave-related. Before the sewers, Penny and Pennywise used to live in caves. But they had to get closer to their prey as time went on. Penny wanted a TV so he could watch cartoons with Brahms.

Pennywise: Same room so…cave-related too. But Pennywise wanted a fake fireplace and a rocking chair. You didn’t question it since he couldn’t use either one to escape. But you sometimes do your rounds at night and watch him stare at that fire for an hour or two. You don’t know what he sees in there.

Eddie Munson (Ghostface): Music-related things. Posters of favourite bands, vinyls, dark-themed things…

Freddy Krueger: His reason: I LOVE ME. He is Eddie’s roommate because they both play guitar and are both loud as hell.

Bubba Sawyer: He wanted a choo-choo. Him and Thomas Hewitt share a room and they both love choo-choos. It keeps them calm.

Thomas Hewitt: Wanted his bed to be in a wardrobe. When nurse Y/N asked the psy, they replied that Thomas used to sleep in a wardrobe due to abuse and fear. But he is working on it.

Pinhead: Everything in that room is almost safe. But Pinhead insisted.

-Vincent Sinclair: He wanted to decorate his own room. He asked for art supplies and painted the walls. He loves it.

-Bo Sinclair: He didn’t have any requirements. So you had to decorate yourself. But he likes it. Also the cat appeared one day while he was fixing one of the cars in the hospital’s parking lot. It’s been following him ever since.

-Arthur Fleck: Old-fashioned. Wanted it to remind him of home a little. But not too much. When he has nightmares about his mother, nurse Y/N is always there to hold him. Big bed privileges.

Slices of daily life:

-Jason overcoming his fear of water. Brahms took the picture.

-Eddie took the guys shopping and they got to cycle and roller-skate.

-Dunkin’ Donuts break.

-Group trip to Crystal Lake.

-Penny the first time he saw Puss-In-Boots.

-Bo and Vincent saw an helicopter/plane for the first time in their life. What in the carnation is that?! Humans can’t fly. It ain’t natural.

-Pumpkin Carving Bonding time between Chucky and Michael.

-Freddy called Jason an ‘ugly motherfucker’.

-Music Festival with the Vamps. It was cloudy so they got the full experience. Look at those beautiful smiles.

[charliedawn]

Hey Charlie! Not sure if when you cleared out your inbox a week or two ago that included my request so I’m resending it if that’s okay. And if it wasn’t then just ignore this lol. But still thank you again for all the wonderful ideas of others you bring to life.

I was thinking of slashers just in general or of your choice, but especially Remmick (and his vampires), and Father Paul, with a new face/patient to St. Louis who’s like a shifter from Twilight (yes twilight 💀). Same wolf shifter abilities, etc.

Perhaps their file reads “commonly described as “coyote-like” in demeanor”

Reason for Admission: Disassociation, Chronic insomnia, Hypervigilance, Nonverbal episodes, Suspected PTSD, History of emotional trauma, Mistrust of authority; resistant to treatment.

Initial Observations:, Patient presents as aloof, alert, and hyper-aware of surroundings. Displays a quiet, emotionally repressed demeanor, but reacts to perceived threats with sharp sarcasm or sudden withdrawal. Physical signs of past injury (scars, bruising) observed. Patient refused to disclose origins. Exhibits high-functioning independence, despite obvious exhaustion and erratic sleep cycles. Often communicates nonverbally—shrugs, eye flicks, brief nods—but can speak fluently when comfortable.

Stack

At first? Stack watched you like a cat watches thunder. Cautious, but curious. You had that bite to you—the snappy, dry one-liners when someone got too close. You could shut down a conversation with a single raised brow or dismissive flick of your eyes.

And Stack? He loved it. “You always this prickly, pup?” he muttered one day, grinning while leaning on a cracked vending machine. “Or am I special?”

You looked at him. Cold. Then smirked—a fleeting flash of teeth. “Only around mosquitoes.” He laughed. Deep, easy, amused. “Good. Keep that spark. Makes the blood sweeter.”

When you stalked the halls barefoot at 3AM, head low, eyes sharp, he’d fall into step behind you with a lazy grin and a cigarette hanging from his lips (even if he couldn’t light it).

“You shiftin’ tonight, or just itchin’ to rip someone’s throat out?”

“Depends who talks to me next.”

He loved that answer.

Mary

From the moment you stepped into the courtyard, barefoot and sleepless with that haunted, hungry look in your eyes—Mary noticed. She was lounging in the shade with one leg draped over the side of the bench, lazily swirling a lollipop in her mouth like she didn’t have a care in the world. But her gaze followed you.

Watched you. Sized you up.

She didn’t say anything for a few days. Just watched. But she started popping up in the same places as you more often. Cafeteria. Courtyard. Therapy rec room. Always casually—like it was coincidence.

Then one day, after you brushed past her in the hallway—no eye contact, just tension coiled tight beneath your skin—Mary gave a crooked grin and said:

“Ya walk like you’re always ready to bolt. What are ya so afraid of, sugar?”

You froze mid-step. Turned slowly to look at her. She tilted her head, that cherry red lipstick catching the light. Mary hovered just a touch to your side, a soft spring in her posture even in concern. Her Southern drawl folded around her words like honey:

“Ya okay, darlin’?”

She didn’t rush, but she didn’t wait either—placing a comfort charm in view: a small jar of salted water rimmed with lavender.

“My friend Annie made it. It helps with nightmares,” she murmured quietly, as if already prescribing peaceful sleep. Her gaze was searching, but gentle; she saw not just your wounds, but your heart.

Annie

At first, Annie didn’t quite know what to make of you. You were so quiet. So still. Like an animal too used to being hunted.

And Annie? Annie could relate to that.

She noticed how you didn’t sit near others in group therapy. How your shoulders never dropped. How you only ever looked people in the eye when you were judging their threat level.

But what she noticed most? You didn’t flinch when you saw her fangs. You looked at her with tired, familiar eyes. Like you’d already seen worse than monsters. Annie stood apart, clutching her bouquet oak sage, rosemary, lavender bound with string. Without a word, she set the herbs on the table and stroke a candle.

The flame danced—gold and steady. She glanced at your hands, then to the wounds, and, finally, to your face. Her eyes softened. She nodded, not in pity, but in solidarity.

She would be there if you needed to talk.

Remmick

You weren’t what he expected. St. Louis had its fair share of blood-dripping, cryptic creepers—Remmick included—but you?

You were something else entirely.

There you sat, in the courtyard under the half-dead willow, back to the brick wall, arms loosely crossed. Barely moving. Sharp eyes tracking everything. The staff, the birds, the way the wind cut sideways between trees. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t smile. You didn’t blink unless you had to.

He saw it the moment he passed—your nostrils flared. You knew what he was. You didn’t react.

You just looked him in the eye. Eyes like amber glass, dulled with fatigue but burning underneath. Something closer to a stray animal that’d been cornered too many times and now bit on instinct. You didn’t talk much, but neither did he unless it was worth saying. You didn’t feed on blood, but he started bringing you raw cuts of meat from the kitchen anyway. Just in case. He never pushed, never hovered. Just sat near you. Shared the silence.

He liked the way you tilted your head when listening. The way your whole body flinched like a whip crack at loud sounds, but then hardened into stone. You reminded him of war veterans. Of wolves that limped home alone.

Eventually, he started calling you things like:

“Trouble.”

“Sharp ears.”

“Me lil’ beast.”

When you didn’t correct him, he kept doing it.

Bo

Bo wasn’t like the others. He knew pain when he saw it. You wore yours like a second skin: insomnia bleeding out your eyes, shoulders hunched like you were waiting for the next hit. You didn’t flinch when people raised their voice—you froze. That’s what caught him.

He didn’t ask for details. He didn’t push. Just met your stare when you got twitchy and offered a slow blink—a silent, steady recognition.

“Wanna tell me what’s goin’ on? Can’t read your mind.”

When you explained your situation to him, he understood and made sure to help you through the transition if you needed help. He did have a few broken ribs the next day from your coyote-side, but he was glad he could see something so cool. He then warned the others in the pack, so they could act accordingly.

Cornbread

Have you seen Cornbread? He’s a big man. The first time he saw you shift—he was speechless. But then he had the biggest grin on his face and opened his arms wide.

“Come to daddy!”

He wrestled you with his bare hands and had a blast at it. For once, someone who he could have fun with without risking injury. He wasn’t about to pass that up.

“Tired already, puppy?! C’mon! We just gettin’ started!”

It was a way to satisfy your coyote instincts and also to make sure you wouldn’t tear up anyone else to bits. Also, Cornbread enjoyed it. He wasn’t bloody and sore in many places, but that felt GOOD. To get those instincts run wild and fight.

Bert and Joan

“Who dya think you’re growlin’ at, young lady/man?” Joan asked—her eyes turning into slits as she heard that sound of disapproval from you when her and Bert had to put you to sleep in shackles because of the full moon.

“Listen to her, baby. This for your own good. We don’t want ya to get lost or kill someone by accident.” Bert tried to gently coax you to bed and close the handcuffs. “These are the best cuffs around. With soft padding and everythin’. Might expensive stuff. Not gonna hurt yar paws at all.”

He kissed your hand and Joan kissed your forehead before they both left the room. If the handcuffs didn’t work, they would have to send Cornbread in. They just hoped you would get used to being surrounded by vampires soon.

They would be the first to check on you in the morning though. Bert would be there with a prime T-bone steak and call you a good girl/bly while you ate. Joan would hug you and tell you that she is proud of you for not leaving your bedroom all night.

Yeah. Hum…So…You got adopted? I think?

Father Paul

Father Paul was happy to get a cell mate. He saw you as the chance to be a father again. What he didn’t know however was that werewolves had a natural dislike for vampires. Your displeasure was quite evident when he gave you a cup of water and said cup was thrown against a wall. But…he didn’t give up.

He showed patience. He waited calmly for you to make the first move. He kept smiling and gained inch by inch until he could be close enough to attempt becoming friends. He talked to you. You were a person of a few words and rather wordless communication.

You were distrustful. He understood.

He started reading to you—sharing things about himself. He didn’t want you to see him as a vampire. He wanted you to see him as Father Paul—your cell companion. He talked to you about the island he had grown to love and the people who used to live there. He wanted you to share things about yourself as well. But he didn’t rush you. He offered you reassurance and a listening ear.

He also took care of you after the transformations.

“Good morning. Slept well? I brought you breakfast. I hope you will eat. Your metabolism needs it. And I would be extremely disappointed if I was to lose my roommate. Starvation is not fun. I can assure you from experience.”

[charliedawn]

Hi, I am very new here, and I just wanted to let you know that I really appreciate your blog (especially the Hannibal works, they’re all fabulous!) ☺️

I bring a lil gift for dear author: 🎂🍪

And a lil gift for the hannibals, of course: 🥩🍖

Anywho, thank you for y’all’s time!

Sincerely, lone-star anon ( f possible, may I be 🌞 anon? Completely understandable if not, but I thought I’d ask☺️)

Author: “Of course dearie. Welcome.”

Hannibal Jr. : “Thank you for the gift. My family and myself enjoyed it greatly. Very thoughtful.”

[charliedawn]

NEW FIC IDEA

Author *excited*

I have inspiration for a new fic! And I want your opinion on it. A crossover that has been in my head for a while. We know that Remmick is more than a 1000 years old, right?

Sooo…What if Remmick met…

…these guys? (The show is called Vikings and it is about…vikings. Please. Tell me you see the vision.)

[charliedawn]

hiiii i’m not sure if u write for specifically one character bc i kept seeing u write for norman bates as part of slasher headcanons, but could u write norman bates x reader fluff? in desperate need for more content of this man 😞🙏

The motel is quiet, just the soft hum of wind brushing against the windows and the occasional creak of wood shifting with the weather. You hadn’t come down from your room all day—something Norman noticed immediately. He tried to tell himself not to worry. People rest. People sleep in. But when he knocked and your voice came through, hoarse and sluggish—“Go away, I feel awful”—his worry took over.

He hesitates at your door now, tray in trembling hands: soup (which he made himself, burning the first batch), a lukewarm cup of tea, tissues, and some medicine he found in an old tin labeled “Mother’s Cold Remedies.”

He knocks again, softer this time.

“I—um—I made you something. For your throat. If…if that’s alright.”

You groan but unlock the door anyway. The second he sees your flushed face and glassy eyes, something flickers behind his own.

Fear.

“Oh, my poor dear. You really are sick.”

He shuffles in, awkward but determined, placing the tray on your nightstand. His hands hover like he wants to do more—straighten your blanket, touch your forehead, hold you—but he doesn’t move until you give a small nod.

“Can you sit up a little?” he asks gently. “You need something warm.”

You do, slowly, and he helps adjust the pillows behind your back. His fingers are cold when they brush yours, but you don’t mind. He notices—and freezes. But you’re too tired to make a big deal of it. You lean into the pillows, eyes closing as you sip the tea.

“I’ll stay,” he blurts out. Then adds quieter, almost ashamed. “I mean, if…you want me to of course.”

You nod. He sits beside the bed, back straight, hands folded in his lap nervously.

“Mother always said…taking care of people was you way of showing love.” His voice shakes. “I never really…had someone to do that for. Not really. But…I want to do that with you. I want to take care of you.”

You open your eyes slightly, your voice scratchy but sincere. “You’re doing a fine job at taking care of me, Norman.”

His eyes flicker toward you—wide, startled— and for once, he doesn’t look away.

“Then I’ll stay,” he says again, this time more certain. “All night if I have to.”

And he does. Without touching, without sleeping, just keeping watch like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. He feeds you the soup spoonful by spoonful, checks your temperature regularly and gives you the medicine.

You then hear him whisper. “Sleep well, my darling. I’ll watch over you.”

…

By morning, sunlight filters through the faded curtains of the motel room, casting golden stripes across the wall. You wake up slowly—not quite refreshed, but still feeling better. The fever must have broken in the night. Your throat still aches, and your body’s heavy, but you still manage to open your eyes.

You blink blearily towards the corner of the room.

Norman is still here.

He’s not in the chair anymore—instead, he’s standing by the small dresser, carefully folding the laundry you’d meant to do three days ago. His movements are delicate, precise, as if each shirt is made of glass. He smooths the fabric with his hands with a gentle smile.

You don’t speak.

Instead, you rise from the bed, slow and quiet, your bare feet whispering across the carpet. Norman doesn’t notice you until you’re right behind him. You wrap your arms around his middle from behind, resting your cheek against his back.

Norman freezes.

You feel the tension ripple through him, a breath caught in his throat like a bird in a cage. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he sets down the shirt he was folding and places one hand gently over yours—just one, fingers trembling.

“You’re…warm,” he murmurs. “I mean—not too warm. Better.”

You nod against him.

“You took care of me. Thank you.”

His voice is barely audible.

“You are very welcome, my darling. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

You tighten your arms just slightly. Letting him know you heard him. That you’re not afraid. His eyes flutter shut, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Norman’s breath is warm against your neck as he slowly turns in your embrace. His dark eyes meet yours as he leans closer, voice barely above a whisper:

“How about a picnic outside? Just the two of us?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. Norman’s face lights up, relief and joy mingling in his eyes. You let go of him, stepping back just enough to reach for the clean towels he’s meticulously folded. Norman gently places the last bundle on the table, then reaches for his jacket hanging by the door—an old black blazer. He drapes it around your shoulders, fumbling with the sleeve for a second before pulling it right.

“It gets chilly out there,” he murmurs.

You wrap the jacket tighter and take his hand. Outside, the morning sun has fully broken through the clouds. The asphalt of the motel parking lot is warm, the scent of pine drifting in from the back lot. Norman leads you past empty rocking chairs on the porch, to a small patch of grass where he’s already spread an old quilt—one of Mother’s embroidered linens.

On the quilt sits a modest spread: a wicker basket lined with gingham, two mismatched mugs, a thermos of tea, and a simple sandwich you realize he made in the kitchenette. There’s even a little vase with wildflowers he must have gathered at dawn.

He gestures shyly toward the quilt:

“I thought…we could sit here. Away from everything—from everyone inside. Just talk? Or maybe…be quiet together.”

You settle down beside him, the quilt soft beneath you. Norman pours each of you tea, tentative but proud of his pouring technique. You lift your mug and catch his gaze—he blushes. You sip. The tea is sweet, fragrant with honey. You turn to him.

“This is perfect,” you say, voice light.

He exhales, a sound somewhere between relief and happiness. He reaches across to squeeze your hand.

“I’m glad,” he whispers. “Because—being with you…it feels like home.”

You lean into him, and for the first time, Norman doesn’t stiffen. Instead, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. The two of you sit in companionable silence, the world beyond the motel fence fading away as you share tea, sandwiches, and the simple joy of just being together.

Norman’s hand feels steady and warm in yours. You glance up at him, heart fluttering in your chest, and your voice comes out quieter than you expected.

“Norman. May I…kiss you?”

His eyes widen, the hesitation flitting across his face like a shadow. Then, slowly, a gentle smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He nods, barely able to speak.

“I’d like that.”

You lean in, your breath mingling for a moment before your lips brush softly against his. It’s tentative, shy—like a question asked in the quietest way possible. Norman’s hands tremble slightly but find their way to your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

The kiss deepens just a bit, careful and sweet, as if afraid to break the fragile bubble of peace you’ve found together. When you pull back just a little, his eyes are wide and bright, a fragile smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he admits softly. “For a long time.”

You smile back, heart swelling with warmth, and nestle closer into his side.

“Me too.”

[charliedawn]

Of course you can pet her!

I also got her tattooed!!

Author: “Cute.”

[charliedawn]

(Momo approaches Jane)

Momo: Hey, Eleven didn't come, Three Eight, since Ricky is 25 and Kali is 21.

Eleven: Ricky didn't come, but Kali came with us.

Momo: Jane, why didn't you tell me before? Now Kali is in danger, and she's an adult. And even worse, if Remmick finds out, he'll go after her, suck her blood, and have the power to create illusions.

Eleven: Don't worry, she's at the Lecter Mansion, which is near here.

Momo: Yeah, and that was the other reason we're here. At least Remmick doesn't know because he doesn't even have telepathy like Anya.

Remmick *heard the both of you* : “Illusion manipulation? Interesting. Guess I’ll have to go to the Hannibal mansion and see for meself.”

[charliedawn]

You write such sweet things <3 I hope you know you mean the world to some. I come back to them when I need a pick me up.

Author: “Thank you dearie.”

[charliedawn]

Hi Charlie! Hi guys. How are you Charlie?

Author: “Good. How about you dearie?”

[charliedawn]

So does this Peter won't cheat or?

(Cookie for the author 🍪)

GASP

GASP

Triple GASP

Cheating?!

CHEATING?!

Calling Peter Hannibal a cheater?

That’s not just a fight—that’s a heart-shattering catastrophe.

Because Peter isn’t just “in love” with you — he’s built his entire sense of self around the idea that he belongs to you. That he’s loyal, devoted, obsessed, and worthy because he chose you—and only you—over everyone. So the second you say it—even half-joking, even offhandedly—it’s like you just accused a starving dog of biting the hand that feeds it. You just told a knight in shining armor he betrayed his queen. You just told Peter Hannibal he isn’t yours anymore.

Tears. Immediate, overwhelming, hot. He’s crying before he can stop himself. Stuttering. “N-No, I would never—how could you—why would you even think that?” Physical collapse. Like his legs give out. He might sit on the floor, or crumple at your feet like a child who just got left behind. “I-I don’t even look at anyone else. I don’t talk to anyone else. I don’t want anyone else. I’m yours. I’m yours!”

Peter grabs your hands, eyes wild and soaked. “Is someone telling you lies? Is someone trying to take me from you? Did I do something wrong? Did I smile at someone too long? I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I swear—”

If you don’t stop him, he starts begging. “Please don’t leave me. Don’t be mad. Please—I’ll hurt them, I’ll hurt myself, I’ll never leave your side again, just don’t say that. Don’t say that again.”

He gets obsessed with the idea that he has to prove his loyalty. That you don’t trust him. That someone else has poisoned your view of him. And that means he’ll go dark. Obsessed with proving himself. Jealous over everyone you speak to. Acting like he’s constantly under trial—and that you’re the judge, jury, and executioner.

“I cleaned everything, I stayed in your room, I didn’t even talk to my brothers today — do you believe me now? Do you see how much I love you?”

The Other Hannibals Reactions:

Oh, you said it. You called Peter—the baby brother, the emotional one, the obsessive romantic—a cheater. And now his brothers are standing in the aftermath. Peter’s curled up somewhere, heartbroken, red-eyed, clutching a shirt that smells like you.

He’s been crying so hard he hiccups.

He keeps whispering, “But I didn’t do anything…I didn’t…I wouldn’t…”

You might’ve apologized.

You might not have.

But his brothers heard. And they’re coming for you.

Morgan Hannibal

“You really called Peter a cheater?”

His voice is calm. Too calm. He’s staring down at you with that clean, calculating gaze—the kind that could diagnose where to cut in one glance. “Let me guess. You were angry. Or testing him. Or jealous. Congratulations — you cracked his ribcage wide open.”

Morgan isn’t yelling.

That would be merciful.

He’s judging you with surgical precision—every word an incision.

“He doesn’t even look at anyone else. He’s like a dog that waits at the door all day for you. And you accused him of betrayal?” He steps closer. “Fix it. Fast. Or I will. And you’ll prefer his heartbreak to my idea of justice.”

Kevin Hannibal

Kevin finds you before you even know he’s coming. His footsteps are heavy. Angry. Paint still streaked across his arms, fists clenched at his sides.

“What the fuck did you just say to him?”

No calm. Just fire.

“I walk into the room and he’s on the goddamn floor, sobbing. Sobbing. Can’t even breathe. Because you—YOU—who he worships—called him a liar.”

He grabs a nearby vase—his own sculpture — and shatters it against the wall. “That’s what you did to him. That’s what you made him feel.”

He’s pacing now, yelling at the ceiling, tearing at his own hair. “He’s not built for this shit! He thinks if someone stops loving him, it means he doesn’t deserve to live. He’s not like us. You broke him.”

He turns, voice lower, deadly serious:

“Fix it. Or I’ll take it out of your hide. Got it, mate?”

Hannibal Jr.

Junior appears when everything is quiet.

After the chaos.

After the sobbing.

He doesn’t speak at first—just sits across from you and looks at you like a scholar examining a flawed experiment.

“You know what Peter is, don’t you?”

His voice is soft. But loaded.

“He’s the weakest of us. The softest. The one who still cries over books and gets shaky when he lies.” He leans forward. “And he’s also the most dangerous. Not because of what he’ll do. But because of what we’ll do for him.”

He folds his hands on the table.

“You hurt him. And if he asks us to—if he so much as whispers it—we’ll bury you so deep, the worms will ask who sent you.”

He tilts his head.

“So tell me. What are you going to do to make this right?”

Hannibal Sr. *searches for a kitchen knife*

Author: Yeah. You called Peter a cheater? Face the consequences. Even I cannot save you. But thank you for the cookie! Author happy. Author munch munch.

[charliedawn]

Author’s Rules

I Write

Psychological horror and dark themes

Slashers and killer characters (e.g., Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, Brahms, etc.)

Found family dynamics and emotional slow-burns

Characters with trauma, fear of love, or neurodivergent traits (e.g., Tourette’s, haphephobia, intense eye contact/staring issues)

Domestic fluff in horror settings (beauty pageants, holidays, kids, quiet moments)

Horror-themed slice-of-life comedy (prank wars, costume parties, chaotic household scenes)

Gothic, folklore, and mythology-inspired settings

Slow-burn redemption arcs and themes of reintegration

Cultural and folkloric representation, including Székely heritage, attire, traditions, and food

Characters with physical limitations (e.g., limps, non-dancers) who navigate or defy expectations

I Don’t Write

Smut without plot or character depth

Non-con or dub-con without clear narrative purpose, consequence, or sensitivity

Romanticizing abuse or manipulation without accountability

Angst for the sake of angst, especially without resolution or growth

Toxic or one-dimensional dynamics portrayed as healthy or ideal

Stories that erase or overlook neurodivergence or disability

Canon x canon pairings, unless requested with specific context

Fetishization of mental illness or horror elements without care or nuance

I Write (Content Types)

One-shots — emotionally intense, self-contained stories

Multi-chapter fics — with long-form character development and evolving dynamics

Character studies — diving deep into emotional states, trauma, and motivations

AUs (Alternative Universes) — especially asylum/hospital settings, folklore/mythology-inspired worlds, school-based conflicts (e.g., Hawkins AU), or “domestic horror” environments

Fluff with dark undertones — comforting horror characters or vice versa, soft killers, mundane chaos in terrifying households

Angst with comfort (eventual or partial) — slow emotional healing, but not always happily-ever-after

Headcanons — character reactions, “what if” moments, group dynamics, or post-canon scenarios

Reader-inserts or OC-centered fics — especially when the reader/OC has depth, fears, or unique abilities

Character interactions — with all the characters I write about or that I know enough about.

Crossovers — e.g., Ghosts (CBS) with slashers, Studio Ghibli, Stranger Things, Sinners, Sherlock Holmes.

(Also might take some time replying. Please. Do not spam or send a request multiple times. Just send me a message to ask if I received it and I will reply.)

[charliedawn]

Decided to have fun and make aesthetic boards for the Hannibal Brothers :

Morgan Hannibal :

Cold/Calculative

Cannibal

Serial Killer

Overprotective

Entitled

Sadistic

Peter Hannibal :

Pathological liar

Manipulative

Obsessive

Martyrdom

Paranoid

Killer

Kevin Hannibal :

Impulsive

Arrogant

Lazy

Cannibal

Violent

Stubborn

[charliedawn]

Tomato Soup Girl

Synopsis: Eddie is impulsive and touch-starved. You are shy and suffer from severe touching anxiety. You two are not meant to meet…BUT. You love tomato soup. Eddie does too. A fight for the last can ends up changing your life forever.

Where is it? Where is it?

Your shoes squeaked as you speed-walked down the narrow aisle in the convenience store, eyes scanning each shelf. Canned goods, canned goods, where—there. You spot it.

The last can of tomato soup.

You all but sprinted, your breath catching in a thrill of victory. Only a few more steps and it’d be yours. The red label glistened. Your hand reached forward—

Another hand touched it at the exact same time. You whipped your head to the side, your fingers tightening around the can. He was tall. Messy curls. Torn denim vest. Rings on his fingers. A smirk on his lips.

Eddie Munson.

You knew of him—most people in Hawkins did. He looked down at your hand on the can, then back at you.

“Well, well,” he said with a grin. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a standoff.” He mock-drew an imaginary pistol from his hip and clicked his tongue. “High noon, aisle three.”

You blinked at him. It didn’t make you laugh. Your grip tightened around the can.

He squinted theatrically, then leant in just slightly. “You look like a woman who takes her soup very seriously.”

“I do,” you confirmed a little too fast, too breathy. Panic flit in your chest like a moth. What’s gotten into you? Why are you talking? But more importantly, why is he still holding the can?

Eddie arched a quizzical brow at you. “Tomato soup. Excellent choice. Fit for the most delicate of palates.”

He wanted to sound funny. Maybe he was.

You weren’t sure what was funny anymore.

You tried to reach for the can once more, but he held it up. You gulped. Was this a fight? Were you seriously gonna fight over a can of tomato soup? You hadn’t fought anyone for anything since second grade—and that had only been a crayon. You had absolutely no combat training other than the occasional sales-attracted moms during price reductions periods…

“I just…” You glanced at the can, then back up at him, heartbeat starting to race. “I need it.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I see that. But see the problem here is…my hand was on it first.”

You didn’t want to abandon your precious. You unexpectedly grabbed the can, yanked it down and right out of his hands. He let go with a surprised chuckle, raising his hands in surrender. You cradled it against your chest, like it was a newborn baby and Eddie Munson was a raccoon who might try to take it away from you.

“Damn,” he exclaimed, tilting his head curiously. “You must really like soup.”

You gave a weak nod, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere behind his left shoulder. It was too much—his voice, the attention, the embarrassment heating your face like someone just lit a match behind your ears.

“I—I might have a problem.” You finally confessed.

He laughed—genuinely amused. “Right. Like…an addiction?”

You shrugged. He understood.

“I respect that. Tomato soup girl.” He stepped back with a theatrical bow. “I’ll let you have this one. Clearly—you need it more than me.”

You clutched the can tighter. “Thank you,” you mumbled.

He squinted again. “Didn’t catch that.”

“…Thank you,” you said louder, eyes finally flicking up to meet his.

Eddie laughed again. “Okay. You’re priceless. And I’m Eddie by the way. In case you were too focused on the soup to catch my name.”

He extended a hand. You didn’t take it. You only nodded slowly, unsure what to say, heart still thudding.

He backed away slowly with a wink and a lopsided grin. “Okay. I get it. No touching the soup girl. Welp. See you around.”

You watched him go. Then looked down at the can in your hands with a small smile.

Worth it.

…

A few days later

You shouldn’t have come to the store today.

But the craving hit again like it always did—warm, savory, nostalgic comfort in a can. Tomato soup wasn’t just a meal; it was a ritual. Something about it filled a space in you nothing else quite can. And you’d hoped, hoped, that today would be different. That he wouldn’t be here. That you’d just grab your can, pay, and disappear.

But fate has a sick sense of humor.

Because Eddie Munson was here again.

You spot him near the freezers. You ducked your head instinctively, pretending to study the side of a cereal box with the intensity of a nuclear physicist. Your fingers twitched around your basket and tried to reason with yourself. He’d probably forgotten about you.

Still, your entire body coiled tight like a spring. You kept your shoulders small, your steps quiet, movements cautious. You didn’t even go straight to the soup aisle. You stalled in baking goods. Pet food. Feminine hygiene. Anything to avoid—

“Hey there, Soup Girl.”

You froze. You didn’t even have to look to know it was him. You turned slowly, every cell in your body screaming to bolt. But it was too late. He was already beside you, holding a pack of microwave pizza and giving you that signature crooked grin.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” He rocked back on his heels. “I was beginning to think you only appeared when the soup shelf was down to its last breath. Like a sorta soup leprechaun.”

You tried to force a smile, but it landed somewhere between a wince and a grimace. “Hi.”

He tilted his head slightly, smile faltering as his eyes narrowed. The way you were hunched slightly, shoulders pulled in like you were trying to disappear. The way your eyes flicked around the store, always moving, never landing. The way you were holding your basket with both hands like it was a shield. You could feel him watching you. It made your stomach twist. Great. Someone else to take you for a freak…

But then, he did something unexpected.

“…You alright?” he asked—genuine concern in his voice.

You nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded slowly. “Yeah. Been there.”

You didn’t know what to say. He didn’t either, apparently, because for a second he just stood there. Why were you finding yourself in another awkward situation?

“I gotta be honest,” he finally spoke up, scratching the back of his neck, “I wasn’t expecting to meet someone as intense about tomato soup. I’ve been thinking about that can battle all week.”

Your mouth twitched and some inner demon forced you to speak up. “I won.”

He blinked and you did too. Why did you say that? What evil spirit possessed you to sound like a bratty kid who had just won a game of marbles?

You were about to apologise when Eddie gasped in mock betrayal—one hand landing dramatically over his heart. “You stole it. Robbed me blind in broad daylight. I should’ve called the police. But they’d probably take your side, huh?”

You nodded, letting your lips curl just a little. “I have soup immunity.” Okay. You really should stop talking now. Nobody wanted to talk about soup. Nobody cared about soup.

Eddie smiled again, and it was different this time. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation immensely.

“Hey,” he continued after a moment, “I was actually thinking…maybe next time, you and me split a can. I’ll bring the paprika, you bring the grilled cheese.”

You blinked. That was unexpected. But what happened next was even more unexpected. Your laugh escaped before you could stop it. It surprised you greatly, the sound. You weren’t supposed to laugh. Not here. Not now. But something about the offer—ridiculous and small and oddly kind—settled in your ribs like warmth from a stove. Eddie’s face lit up like he had just unlocked a secret level in a video game. But he didn’t lean in, didn’t crowd you.

Then, after a beat, he stepped back and winked. “I’ll be around. Same aisle. Just in case you’d want to…I dunno. Talk for a bit.”

You didn’t say anything. But you still smiled a little when he turned around to leave. It seemed like Eddie Munson had infected you somehow…

A few minutes later

You told him you wanted to apologise for the tomato soup incident. He insisted that there was no problem, but you were hella stubborn when your wanted to be…So he ended up accompanying you back home.

Once inside, you realised that he was incapable of staying still for more than a few minutes. He looked and touched everything. He ran his fingers over a chipped lamp, picked up a crooked pen, flipped through a half-finished notebook, like he was reading your life in fragments. He wanted to say something nice but…your place was a junkyard.

And he lived in a trailer.

He opened your cupboard and huffed a laugh.

Soup. Sooo much soup.

He took one out and smiled. He then realised that you had dated all of them with the exact day of purchase. If he was a freak, then you should be given the crown. He shook his head and then saw one on the counter…

Well well well. What do we have here? Why did that one deserve special treatment from her sisters? He looked at it and his eyes widened slightly when he saw that there was no date on that one. Just a name. His.

You returned at that moment with two glasses of juice and found him with the can you had purchased the day you both met. You opened your mouth to say something but, you then realized that there was nothing to justify. You just wanted to remember that day. There was no shame in it. You had made a friend. You wanted to remember that.

Eddie looked back at you and smiled.

“Hey, Soup Girl. Wanna share that one?”

Your blinked before smiling back.

Yeah. He knew…

…

The soup bowls were warm between your palms, radiating a comforting heat that curled around your fingers. You sat at opposite ends of the couch, a shared can split evenly, steam rising between you like a peace treaty. Eddie didn’t talk much at first. Neither did you. But it wasn’t awkward. Just…quiet. He seemed to belong here, in a strange way. Sprawled out on your old secondhand couch like it was made for him, legs wide, shoulders loose. His spoon clinked gently against the ceramic bowl every so often.

Then it happened.

You both reached for the salt at the same time.

Fingers brushed. Just for a second.

But your body betrayed you. A small, instinctive flinch—shoulders twitching back, breath catching in your throat like a hiccup. You hadn’t meant to react. It wasn’t even a bad touch. It wasn’t bad at all. That was the worst part. Eddie noticed immediately. His hand froze, then withdrew slowly, carefully, as if he were pulling it back from the edge of a cliff.

“…You good?”

You stared down into your soup for a second, your spoon barely moving. Your pulse thumped in your ears. You hated this part—the freeze, the fear, the way your mind tugged in two directions like a fraying rope.

You took a breath.

“I just…” you started, voice low. “I don’t like being touched.”

You braced yourself for something—a laugh, a joke, a change in his face. But Eddie didn’t do any of those things. He just blinked. Absorbed it. Then he smiled.

“Cool,” he commented simply, with a little nod. “Then I won’t touch you unless you say I can.”

A beat passed. Then another. And then, with the kind of grin that made you suspicious of its owner’s brain-to-mouth filter, he added, “But I will say—you’re missing out. I give a mean hug. Like, award-winning. I was robbed of a title once. Rigged competition. Big scandal. Whole town talked about it.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been the beginning of a laugh. Your lips curved, just barely. Not ready. Not fully. But something inside you warmed. Not just from the soup.

“Mm,” you hummed, spoon hovering over your bowl. “I’ll add that to the list of things I’ve missed out on.”

Eddie didn’t press. Didn’t scoot closer. Just smiled, as if your smile was something rare and he didn’t want to scare it off. You ate the rest of your soup in silence. But this time, it felt like sharing something. Even if it wasn’t a hug.

Not yet. Maybe someday.

“Hey,” Eddie said and snapped you out of your thoughts, suddenly rubbing the back of his neck. “Would it be…weird if I came back sometime? You know. Just to hang. Talk. Share soup and stuff.”

You blinked at him. The question was casual, but something behind it wasn’t. You felt it. That tiny fear of being too much. Or not enough.

You nodded with a smile. “Anytime.”

He grinned like you’d handed him the moon. What you didn’t expect was for ‘anytime’ to mean literally every night after that…By the third evening, you opened the door to find him holding two grocery bags like he was ready to pitch a tent and declare squatter’s rights, you just stared.

And accepted your fate.

You couldn’t possibly throw him out when the squatter in question was beaming at you and greeting you at the door with a: “Soup challenge night, baby.”

You blinked. “…Soup what now?”

Eddie pushed past you and plopped the bags on the counter. “I hit every grocery store in a ten-mile radius. We are ranking every soup flavour and brand I could find. This one’s organic. This one’s not. This one says ‘homestyle’ and I think that’s a trap.”

You looked at the cans in disbelief. “How many did you buy?”

He grinned at you. “Enough to question my life choices, not enough to regret them.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself and began heating the first can. He handed you a notepad and four categories scrawled across the top in his messy, looping handwriting:

1. Vibe

2. Slurpability

3. Emotional Damage

4. Soup-to-Soul Ratio

You glanced at him sideways. “Emotional damage?”

He shrugged. “Some soups just hurt, man.”

And so began the nightly ritual. Each night, a new soup. A new score. A new round of Eddie’s ridiculous, heartfelt commentary (“This one tastes like getting stood up at prom but making friends with the janitor instead”), and your increasingly sarcastic but secretly delighted responses. It seemed he was rubbing off his confidence on you as you started being more and more comfortable around him. At first, he always sat on the opposite end of the couch. Always gave you space. But over time, the gap shrank by inches, then not at all. Still no touching. Never without permission. But the nearness wasn’t scary anymore. It was warm. Familiar.

Somewhere between can #8 and #12, you caught yourself laughing so hard you had to put the spoon down. You looked over and saw him watching you. And for the first time in a long time, you realized something:

You liked him. A lot. That man had just barged into your life unexpectedly and had little by little became a part of your daily life…

Even if he was Eddie Munson. Maybe especially because he was Eddie Munson…

…

It started as nothing.

Just a quick trip to the store. You and Eddie, as usual. He was still riding high off last night’s soup ranking—had made you watch him act out a dramatic Oscar speech for Best Supporting Broth. You’d laughed until your stomach hurt. You were now in the canned aisle again, when someone called out.

“Munson!”

Eddie turned, his arm brushing yours. A guy walked towards you—someone around your age, all smirk and swagger, holding a six-pack and dressed like he knew people would look. You didn’t recognize him, but the familiarity in his eyes when he looked at Eddie made your chest tighten.

“Didn’t know you got yourself a girlfriend, man,” the guy teased, eyeing you like you were part of the punchline. “She the reason you keep buying soup like it’s the apocalypse?”

You froze. Your palms began to sweat. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but it always betrayed you when it mattered most. Before you could answer—before Eddie could say a thing—the guy stepped forward and, in what he probably thought was good humor, slung an arm around your shoulders.

“What did you do to him, huh?” he said with a mock-pout before smirking. “What’s your secret, huh? Witchcraft? Now Eddie seems to be attached to your hip 24/7.”

It was like your whole body locked up. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Too close. Too sudden. Too much.

The air left your lungs. Then, just as quickly, the weight lifted. Eddie had peeled the guy’s arm off you without raising his voice, but with a grip that said he absolutely could. His body was suddenly between you and the other guy.

“Hey,” Eddie started, tone casual but steel-laced. “Let’s not touch people who didn’t ask to be touched, yeah?”

The guy blinked. Laughed like he wasn’t sure whether it was still a joke. “Relax, man. I was just kidding—”

“Yeah,” Eddie interrupted, smile gone. “She’s not laughing.”

Eddie didn’t look back at you, didn’t make a show of checking on you. He just held his ground. The guy backed off with a shrug, mumbling something about people being too sensitive these days, and wandered off.

Eddie turned then and looked at you. His expression was soft with concern. “You okay?”

You managed a nod.

He let out a small breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Okay. Good. Because that guy? He can bite it.”

You smiled faintly, trying to shake off the tremor in your chest.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

Eddie tilted his head, frowning like you’d just said something in another language. “What are you apologizing for? Being uncomfortable when someone touches you without permission? That’s not a you problem, Soup Girl.”

You looked at him and for the first time, you didn’t feel embarrassed for needing space.

Because he’d protected it.

Without turning it into a scene.

Without turning you into a victim.

Just…stood up for you. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie gave a sheepish little shrug. “No one messes with my soup girl. Besides me.”

And somehow, that made you laugh again—small, breathy, real. The trip ended with him insisting you pick out two cans today. The car ride home was quiet. Not awkward. Just filled with that kind of electric silence that buzzed under the skin. And then, your mouth worked before your mind could truly process it.

“You can stay the night, if you want.”

You didn’t even look at him when you said it. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter and tried to pretend you hadn’t felt your own heart skip. You expected hesitation. A polite no. A joke, maybe. But instead—

“Yeah,” Eddie replied, like it was obvious. “I’d like that.”

He was trying to play it cool—but his knee kept bouncing, bobbing up and down with restless joy. His fingers drummed against his thigh in rhythm, and every few seconds he snuck a glance at you.

You didn’t look back. But you felt it.

One corner of your mouth curled.

It was ridiculous, really. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t a date. It was just…dinner and maybe a movie. But you could tell, by the way he bounced like a restless kid, that this meant something to him.

And, okay, maybe it meant something to you too.

…

By the time you pulled up to your place, Eddie had tried to tone it down, smoothing his palms over his jeans and muttering to himself under his breath like he was giving himself a pep talk. You unlocked the door and he followed you in, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes immediately darting around like he was trying to take mental pictures of everything again. Like your weird soup-stocked home had become his favorite museum exhibit.

“You sure you’re cool with this? Like—me crashing here? I don’t snore, but I do occasionally sleep-talk about dragons. Fair warning.”

You raised a brow. “You sleep-talk?”

He chuckled awkwardly. “Only the important stuff. Soup recipes. Black Sabbath lyrics. Once I did a monologue from The Lord of the Rings in my sleep. My uncle taped it. He was disturbed.”

You snorted. “I’ve survived worse.”

He smiled—wide, a little crooked, a little stunned. “I can sleep on the couch. It looks amazing. Real comfy.”

You hesitated for half a beat as you looked at the couch which would obviously be too small for him to be truly comfortable. “You can sleep in my room if you want.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait. I get your room?”

You shrugged. “We can share. You’ve been nothing but respectful. I trust you.”

You went to grab extra blankets, and he wandered into your room like it was holy ground, careful not to touch anything for more than a second. He sat on the edge of your bed like it was made of glass. Then, a moment later, he flopped back with a groan and mumbled toward the ceiling:

“Sleeping at Soup Girl’s house. In her bed. With her.” He smiled. “Metal.”

A few minutes later

You hadn’t meant to walk in like that. You were just bringing him extra blankets and a spare shirt—something soft and oversized from the back of your drawer. But as you stepped in and looked up—

You stopped.

Eddie was standing near the bed, shirtless, backlit by the low glow of your bedside lamp. The room felt impossibly small, and he felt impossibly present in it. His skin was pale, scattered with freckles and ink, tattoos sprawled across his chest and arms. There was a mess of scribbles—flames, skulls, various creatures and a tiny dice—and lines of script you couldn’t read from here. His jeans rode low on his hips, exposing the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband.

Your breath caught.

You slapped a hand over your eyes on instinct. “Oh—shit. Sorry, I didn’t—”

Your voice died. Because his hand gently reached for yours. Eddie didn’t pull. He didn’t force. Just touched, asked, wordlessly, with the pads of his fingers against your knuckles. Light. Careful. You didn’t back away and slowly he removed your hand from your eyes. He was giving you permission to look. After a moment, you did. Your eyes danced over his chest and you held back a gasp. He knew that you were admiring. He could see it in your eyes. That small spark of light. He slowly interlaced his fingers with yours, and your breath hitched. Then, without a word, he lifted your joined hands—guiding yours to rest against his bare chest.

You felt the heat of him. The rhythm beneath your palm. A steady heartbeat. Real. Alive. And even then, he didn’t speak. He just covered your trembling hand with his own— anchoring, comforting—and let you stay there. Let you choose. You stared at the tattoos on his chest instead of his eyes. Your lashes fluttered, your breath uneven. His ink looked like stories carved into skin. There was so much of him. Too much. Too close. And yet—

You weren’t afraid of him. His thumb brushed yours gently. He did not urge you. If you wanted more, you could. If you didn’t, same thing really. He was already enjoying your curious gaze on him. It was like trying to reassure a timid fawn on the side of the road to come along. And then, he leaned forward. Close enough to press the lightest kiss against your cheek.

You stiffened. Froze. But you still didn’t pull away.

Eddie chuckled, voice soft and warm near your ear. “Hey. It’s okay,” he murmured, his lips just barely brushing your skin. “I promise I’m not gonna bite. Aaaand I got all my shots. Swear.”

You laughed. A shaky, breathy sound. You weren’t ready for more. And he didn’t ask for it. But you stayed. Hand to his heart. His hand over yours. Two people standing in the quiet, in the soft glow of lamp light, in a room that was starting to feel a little less yours, and a little more like both of yours.

…

An hour later…

Your back was to him. His was half-turned, one arm under the pillow, the other curled up near his chest. The tension of earlier had faded, replaced by something sleepier. Softer. Like exhaling after a long, hard day.

You thought he might’ve fallen asleep.

Until you heard his voice.

“…Y’know, I’ve never actually done this before.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Done what?”

He hesitated. You could almost feel the sheepish grin before he said it. “A sleepover. With a girl.”

You smiled into your pillow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously seriously.” He shifted a little. “Like, not the kind where there’s kissing and making out and then everyone leaves before breakfast. I mean…this.”

You turned slightly, just enough to peek over your shoulder. He was staring up at the ceiling now, hair a messy halo, one leg half-kicked free from the blanket.

“I never stayed,” he murmured. “And no one ever asked me to.”

You swallowed. Something about that hit deeper than you expected. “You can stay as long as you want. I already made it clear that I do not mind your presence. You are like my…forever guest.”

He turned his head just enough to look at you. You couldn’t see much in the dark—just the shape of him, the curve of his nose, the glint of his eye. But you felt the weight of his gaze.

“Yeah,” he whispered with a smile. “Guess I am.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then his voice again, a little quieter. “Thanks. For letting me stay.”

Your voice cracked a little, soft with sincerity. “Thanks for staying.”

He smiled. And after a moment, he asked, “Can I like…scoot a little closer?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

So he did. Just enough for his knee to lightly bump yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t try to make it more.

But you felt it. That warmth again. That silent comfort. And in the hush of the night, you fell asleep next to Eddie Munson—feeling, for once, like maybe letting someone in wouldn’t be so bad.

In the morning

You blinked a few times when the sun hit your eyes. The room was still. And then you noticed it. Eddie’s breathing. Slow. Even. Close. You turned your head and found him lying on his side, facing you. His mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his cheekbones, curls tangled over his forehead. One hand had snuck out from the blanket and rested near yours, close but not quite touching—like he’d reached out in his sleep, then stopped just short.

You didn’t want to move. But you must’ve shifted, because a moment later his nose twitched. His brow furrowed just a little—scrunching like he was confused about waking up. And then, his eyes cracked open.

Sleepy. Brown. Soft. Chocolate buttons…

“…Hey,” he rasped, voice low and hoarse with sleep. “Still here.”

You smiled, voice barely above a whisper as you replied. “I noticed.”

He gave a sleepy grin, slow and genuine, then stretched one arm above his head with a dramatic groan before flopping back down, half on his face. His curls puffed against the pillow.

“Your bed’s cursed,” he muttered. “Too cozy. I’ll never leave.”

You laughed quietly. He peeked at you again, through the tangle of his hair.

“…This okay?” he asked. And he meant the moment. The space. The proximity. The fact that you hadn’t woken him up and shoved him out the door the second the sun rose.

You nodded, feeling something soft unfurl in your chest. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding something in. Then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling with a small smile. “I dreamed I turned into soup and you ate me. Spoon by spoon. Before giving me a D for lack of flavour.”

You blinked and laughed. “That tracks.”

His own mouth twitched into a smile. “You’re brutal in dreamland.”

You both lay in silence for a beat. And then, his voice again—warm, content, a little amused. “…Hey. You want me to do breakfast? I make amazing scrambled eggs.”

You smiled and nodded. He looked at you and answered you with a smile. His hand lifted…as if to touch your cheek. But he stopped himself and coughed before quickly getting out of bed. He then walked to the kitchen and looked at what he could cook without making a mess. He did not see the way you looked at him from behind and smiled…a smile that anyone would recognise. It was the kind of smile you gave when your eyes settled on the object of an affection deep and true.

He stood up with a couple of eggs in his hand and started making scrambled eggs. However, he cursed when he saw what time it was. He then turned around to tell you that he had band practice today and that he needed to leave—but that he would be back tonight.

Your eyes did hold a certain disappointment, but you quickly chased it away. You smiled again. “Sure. Have a great time.”

He nodded and quickly got dressed before leaving in a hurry. You then looked at the scrambled eggs and took a bite.

Not the most amazing scrambled eggs.

But still…pretty good.

That night

You’d made dinner. Well—tried to. It was mostly assembled stuff. Things that didn’t require too much time or effort. Pasta, some garlic bread, the good kind of cheap soda in glass bottles. You’d even set the table.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the new normal. Eddie coming over. Talking. Laughing. Ranking soup like wine snobs. Sleeping over. Waking up beside him and pretending it wasn’t the highlight of your week…You knew he would come back eventually.

You just didn’t expect later to be…this late.

The food had gone cold. You’d reheated it once. Then again. Eventually, you stopped checking the clock and just sat on the couch in your hoodie, legs tucked beneath you, trying not to admit you felt a little foolish.

And then the door opened.

You looked up just as Eddie stumbled in, wind-chilled and glowing from the rush of post-practice adrenaline. His eyes spotted the two plates and he smiled. “Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

He said it so easily. So casually. And in the same breath, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek. It was fast. Barely there. But it hit like a live wire. Your body didn’t move. But your brain? Fireworks. Sirens. Screaming goats. Something internally short-circuited.

Sweetheart. He said sweetheart.

He kissed you. On the cheek.

Which, yes, was technically innocent. A blip. But it was still something. Your throat tightened. You nodded stiffly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your entire soul had flinched. But Eddie wasn’t dense.

He stepped back slightly, his brow furrowing. “…Everything okay?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

“Hmm.” His gaze searched your face for a beat longer, then softened. “I mean it, though. I’m really sorry. Practice ran long, and Gareth broke a string, and then we had to run back to get his amp because apparently some people forget half their gear when they’re in love with their own solos…” He trailed off, realizing you hadn’t really responded. So he changed tactics. “…Is that garlic bread?”

You nodded, still frozen.

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re a saint.” He gave a little bow of reverence, then sat down opposite you. You sat there. Still warm from where his lips touched your cheek. Still trembling from the word sweetheart. You had no idea what this meant.

But you knew it meant something.

You then both ate in silence…

…

You stood in the doorway of your bedroom, watching Eddie fuss with the blankets on the bed like he was trying to win a wrestling match against them.

You smiled—tired but genuine.

He looked up and caught your gaze. His hair was a mess, his band tee crooked from where he’d peeled off his jean jacket, and one sock was hanging halfway off his foot. And yet, he looked completely at home.

Which was…becoming a problem.

Because you couldn’t tell if this was just Eddie being Eddie—or if you were slowly falling off a cliff you weren’t ready to name. You lingered in the doorway for a second longer before getting under the blankets as well. Then, as lightly as you could muster you whispered: “Goodnight…darling.”

You turned to sleep. And he spun. A full, dramatic 180, like someone had slapped him with a metal album and told him to pay attention.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, voice halfway between scandalized and stunned.

You blinked. “I said goodnight.”

He squinted and scooted closer. “No, no, no, no. You definitely added a little spice at the end of that sentence.”

You shrugged, heat creeping up your neck. “I was just…being polite?”

“Oh no,” he said, now grinning. “You hit me with the d-word. That’s a loaded word. That’s old Hollywood. That’s flirtier-than-soup flirt, and you know it.”

You scoffed, trying to retreat. “I was being subtle.”

He chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, it was subtle, alright. Like being hit with a brick or by a car. You can’t just casually call a man darling and then go to sleep. That’s not how things work. You can’t just do that to me.”

“Why not?” you challenged.

“Because,” he said, breaching into your personal space—“now I have to wonder what happens if I call you sweetheart again.”

Silence. Thick. Electric.

You both froze.

So…that was on purpose? The casual ‘sweetheart’. He knew what he was doing calling you that.

His voice softened. “You okay with me…calling you that, right?”

You swallowed. Then nodded. Slowly. He smiled. “Then I’m definitely not stopping. And I mean…if you want to keep calling me darling. Please. Do.”

He tried to reach for your hand, but you retreated. You couldn’t handle much more right now. He backed up, hands raised. “Okay. Message received. I will…keep to myself. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He then decided to leave the bed and go to the couch. He understood the need for space.

You hid your face in your hands.

You were so screwed.

…

In the morning

You woke up to warmth. A lot of it.

And pressure. And…tangled limbs?

For a brief moment, your sleep-fogged brain tried to make sense of the situation. You could barely move. Something was wrapped around your waist. One of your legs wasn’t where you left it. And there was a knee suspiciously close to your ribs.

Then you blinked your eyes open.

Eddie. Asleep.

Practically wrapped around you like an overgrown, snoring octopus.

One arm thrown across your stomach, the other trapped under your neck like a pillow he’d claimed in the middle of the night. One leg hooked around yours. And his face—sweet God—his face was pressed into your shoulder, lips slightly parted as he breathed against your skin, dark curls everywhere.

Your first instinct? Panic.

You didn’t do this. This wasn’t normal. You weren’t even sure how it happened—he was on the couch last night. Right? You stared at the ceiling in stunned silence for a moment. Carefully, you moved your fingers.

“…Eddie?”

His grip tightened. You blinked again. He mumbled something. Then nuzzled closer. You felt his breath brush your collarbone and had to force yourself not to make a sound. It was terrifyingly sweet. Intimate. And so unexpected it made your brain short-circuit.

“…Eddie,” you tried again, a little firmer.

His eyes cracked open slowly, heavy with sleep. He looked at you, confused. Then down. Then back at you.

“…Shit.”

You both froze.

He didn’t move—just groaned into the pillow. “I swear I started on the couch.”

“I believe you,” you reassured him quickly.

“I have a history of unconscious bed invasion,” he mumbled. “Wayne’s been trying to cure me of it for years. Same with the sleep-talking. But he never found a solution.”

You laughed, half-nervous, half…surprised. Because this was new. But not scary. Not wrong. Not unwelcome.

He lifted his head, hair a complete mess. “Are you okay?”

You hesitated—then nodded. “Yeah. Just…surprised.”

He smiled sheepishly and began the slow, delicate process of detangling himself from you. “I can go back to the couch.”

You caught his arm gently. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes flicked to you.

You added, under your breath, “But maybe…fewer limbs.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

And when he settled back beside you—this time with a little more intentional space—you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

Invaded? Maybe.

But it was the nicest invasion you’d ever known.

…

A few weeks later

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. You and Eddie were nestled under the blankets, the steady rhythm of his breathing next to you grounding every flutter in your chest. He reached out, fingers brushing your cheek gently, and leaned in, just like always—aiming for that familiar, safe spot on your cheek.

But this time, your head turned instinctively.

The moment your lips met, time did a little somersault.

Eddie’s eyes fluttered open, wide and a little startled, but there was something else in his gaze. You froze, cheeks flushed, heart thundering louder than a drumline.

He whispered, barely audible, “Well…didn’t see that coming.”

You laughed nervously, your voice barely above a breath, “Neither did I.”

But when he shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours, all the awkwardness melted away.

…

It didn’t happen all at once.

First, it was little things—his jacket over your chair, his band tee in your laundry, the scent of his shampoo faintly clinging to your pillow. Then came the louder signs: his boots by the door, his guitar leaning against the wall, that half-used can of hairspray in your bathroom that somehow multiplied instead of ran out.

You didn’t ask him to move in.

He just…kept showing up. More and more.

Until one day, he never really left. He invaded your space like a slow sunrise. Not with a bang, but with a steady warmth that filled all the cold corners. He made your mornings louder. Your evenings dumber. Your nights safer. He’d play riffs in the kitchen while you stirred soup. He’d leave scribbled “rate my performance” notes next to your toothbrush after humming into your hair while you brushed. He’d fall asleep tangled in your blanket, one sock missing, a comic book open on his chest.

And you—who once tiptoed through the world like a whisper—found yourself laughing in full volume now. The place still looked like a junkyard. But now it looked like your junkyard—to the both of you. And one quiet afternoon, while you folded laundry and he laid on the couch tossing a pillow at the ceiling like it was a game, he murmured without looking at you:

“I think I live here now.”

You didn’t even pause. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He finally looked at you—crooked smile and all. “You good with that?”

You smiled. Soft, sure. “I’ve never been better.”

He stood up and before you could comprehend what was going on, you were spun in the air. You screamed and laughed as Eddie kept spinning you around and laughing with you.

Nothing seemed wrong anymore. Only right.

…

A few days later

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet for a night Eddie was supposed to come back humming with leftover stage energy and smelling like smoke and adrenaline. You’d been waiting—half-worried, half-knowing. And when the door finally creaked open well past midnight, you didn’t need to ask. One look at him, at the slumped shoulders and uncharacteristic silence, told you everything.

He didn’t say a word. Just muttered something about being tired and disappeared into the bedroom.

You gave him space. For twenty minutes.

Then you grabbed the emergency cereal box—the one with the ridiculous cartoon mascot and way too much sugar—and crept quietly into the room. He was cocooned in your blankets, his hair a mess over your pillow, one leg sticking out like he’d given up halfway through sulking. You didn’t say anything. Just lifted the blankets and began to worm your way in beside him, dragging the box with you like it was a peace offering.

Eddie cracked one eye open. “…Is that the good kind?”

You nodded solemnly. “The forbidden marshmallow kind.”

He huffed, a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something. You settled beside him, balancing the box between you both. You didn’t ask about the show. He didn’t offer. You believed he would tell you on his own eventually. You let the silence do the comforting, broken only by the soft crunch of cereal and the rustle of blankets. At one point, his shoulder brushed yours and this time—you didn’t flinch.

Eventually, he did tell you.

“…It was a stupid gig,” he finally muttered, still not looking at you. “Crowd was dead. Half the mics didn’t work. Gareth broke a string. Again. Some asshole yelled ‘Freebird.’”

You nodded solemnly, chewing beside him. “A classic tragedy.”

“Not even the good kind,” he grumbled. “Like, at least let me go down in a blaze of glory, not…defeat by shitty performance.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, gently.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, “if it makes you feel better, most geniuses were misunderstood.”

He snorted, finally turning a little to glance at you—hair in his face, eyes tired, but the faintest tug of a smile playing at his lips.

“…Thanks, sweetheart.”

You held the box out to him again. “Cereal is love. Cereal is life.”

He grabbed another handful and sighed, letting his forehead knock lightly against yours. “I’m keeping you.”

You restrained a laugh. “A) I am the owner. B) You live here.”

He smiled. “Doesn’t make me keeping you any less true.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t need to. You just lay there, munching cereal in the quiet, sharing the warmth, letting him feel safe and seen again.

Bad show or not—he’d still end the night in bed, with you.

A month later

He didn’t know you were coming.

He was mid-rant backstage—about how the lighting sucked, and Jeff’s drum sticks had disappeared, and he couldn’t find his pick (it was in his pocket, it’s always in his pocket). He was anxious in that way he got before every gig, pacing and twitchy and talking too fast.

And then they called Corroded Coffin up.

He stomped on stage, full of bluster and sarcasm and eyeliner—like always. Grabbed the mic. Looked out at the crowd. Ready to put on a show for a room full of strangers who might or might not care.

And then he saw you.

Front row.

Wearing one of his band’s old t-shirts, one he didn’t even know you had. You didn’t wave. You didn’t shout. You just smiled—big, warm, eyes lit up like you were proud of him before he even strummed the first chord. He froze for half a second. Long enough for Gareth to glance sideways, confused. Long enough for Eddie’s heart to skip a full beat and crash land in his chest. You’d come. On your own. You didn’t have to. He hadn’t even offered you to come—knowing how you hated big crowds.

But you were still there. His Soup Girl.

For him.

He tried to recover quickly—cleared his throat and leaned into the mic, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“This one…” he said, voice a little rough, “is dedicated to someone in the front row who snuck in like a ninja and didn’t even tell me she had bought a ticket to one of our shows.”

You saw his eyes flicked to yours again. A flash of teeth in his smile. That little, stupid, boyish tilt of his head.

“This is for my Soup Girl. My sweetheart. She knows who she is.”

The crowd whooped like they knew a love story when they saw one. And as the first notes rang out, you watched Eddie light up the stage—loud and alive and utterly himself. But every time he looked your way, he played just a little harder. Smiled just a little wider. And when the show ended and he leapt off the stage straight into your arms, sweat-damp and breathless, he didn’t even wait before whispering in your ear:

“You came.”

You nodded, still smiling, and whispered back, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then buried his face in your neck like he’d explode otherwise. He never said it out loud—not that night, anyway—but that moment? That was the one where he realized something important.

He was gone for you. Completely. And so were you…

…

Later that night

“So…soup for dinner?”

The question had been casual—almost a reflex, the way he asked it. One hand on the wheel, the other draped over the gearstick, humming along to some half-forgotten tune on the radio as golden light spilled in through the windows.

You looked at him and smiled. “Not tonight.”

He blinked, then glanced over in full. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Tonight you get to choose.”

There was a beat of silence. The car kept moving, but Eddie had stopped. Not literally, but in that way people do when something settles too deep to ignore. He glanced at you. And something in his eyes changed. His smirk didn’t come, no teasing, no gasp of pure disbelief. Just…that expression. Like you’d slipped a hand inside his chest and placed something solid where he’d only had static before.

“You sure?” he asked quietly. “We might be violating some soup treaty.”

You smiled again. “I trust you.”

That was it. Just three words.

But it did something to him. He didn’t say much after that. Just nodded slowly and looked back at the road. You didn’t need to look at him to know. You felt it—the way his fingers tapped the wheel like they were holding in something big. The way he glanced at you again when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he couldn’t believe you were still sitting there—with him.

You’d told him you loved him, without saying the words. You’d given him the choice.

And when he pulled into that tiny, run-down diner he’d always been too embarrassed to suggest before—his favorite, the one that served greasy grilled cheese and chocolate milkshakes that came in metal cups—you didn’t ask any question.

You just unbuckled your seatbelt and smiled.

Eddie grinned. Wide. A little dazed. A little crooked.

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

You heard and looked back at him. And you smiled. The brightest smile he had ever seen and if he hadn’t been completely obsessed with you before, he sure as hell was now. He took your hand and you laced your fingers. The way you looked at him like he was made of something rare, like he was wanted and not just tolerated. The way your fingers fit between his like they’d been waiting for him this whole time. There was no big music swell. No flashing lights. Just the hum of the streetlamp outside the diner and the warmth of your hand in his.

Eddie stared at your joined fingers like he couldn’t believe it.

“You’re unreal, y’know that?” he asked, voice lower, gentler than usual before he grinned at you. “Like—someone should check if you actually exist.”

You chuckled. “You’re holding my hand.”

“Yeah, well,” he breathed, grinning again, “I’ve hallucinated worse.”

You tugged him towards the diner.

Inside, the place smelled like melted butter and old coffee. The waitress didn’t even blink at the sight of the two of you—just gave a tired smile and led you to a cracked booth by the window. Eddie ordered for both of you like he’d done it a hundred times in his dreams. You didn’t stop smiling. Not once.

That night, between bites of grilled cheese and the clink of milkshake cups, something settled between you. And neither of you needed soup to feel full anymore.

“You wanna know something funny?” You asked at the end of dinner.

Eddie blinked, half a strawful of chocolate milkshake still in his mouth. He slurped the rest of it up dramatically before leaning forward across the sticky table.

“Always,” he confirmed, eyes twinkling. “But only if it’s, like, ha-ha funny and not cry-in-the-shower funny.”

You smirked, playing with a napkin between your fingers.

“It’s about the soup,” you admitted.

Eddie gasped, clutching his heart. “My god. I knew this day would come. You’re leaving me for soup.”

You snorted, then rolled your eyes. “No, dork. Just…the day we met? That dumb fight over one stupid can of tomato soup?”

He grinned. “The beginning of our epic, soup-fueled saga. Yeah?”

You nodded before admitting. “I actually don’t even like that brand all that much.”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open like you’d confessed to arson.

“You’re joking. You mean I nearly sprained my wrist dueling a total stranger in a canned goods aisle over soup you didn’t even like?”

You shrugged, that playful gleam in your eyes. “It was the last can. You wanted it. I panicked. And…I dunno. Something about you made me want to get it before you did.”

Eddie stared at you, then burst out laughing. Loud, nose-crinkling, head-thrown-back laughing. A few patrons turned to look, but neither of you cared. When he finally calmed down, he reached across the table, curling his fingers lightly around yours.

“Well,” he said, voice still warm with laughter, “for the record…I’m really glad you were stubborn about that can of soup.”

You squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

The waitress came by to drop off the check, and Eddie reached for it without letting go of your hand.

“Next time,” he said, “we battle over waffles.”

“Loser does the dishes?” you offered.

Eddie’s grin went lopsided. “Deal.”